Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas (12 page)

“Read it, my friend,” encouraged Mr. Rosenberg. “It's all there. On Monday, you and the missus will listen to ‘Fibber McGee and Molly' at the Millers' home; on Tuesday, ‘The Goldbergs' and ‘Major Bowes Show' at my house; on Wednesday, ‘Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy' at the Smiths' house, and so on, until all of your favorite programs are accounted for. You and the missus won't miss one of your favorite shows if we can help it, Vincenzo.”

Papa's eyes welled with tears, but this time they were tears of joy and gratitude. Papa invited his dear friends into his house to celebrate the occasion. While Papa poured a glass of his homemade red wine for each of his friends, Grandma passed around her freshly baked biscotti.

Before going to bed that night, Papa and Grandma said a special silent prayer of thanks. Papa had lost his valuable radio on that somber day in 1941, but what he'd found in friendship on that very special Christmas Eve was truly priceless.

The great Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu wrote, “Kindness in words creates confidence, kindness in thinking creates profoundness, but kindness in sharing creates love.”

Cookie Curci

Elvis Was Wrong!

My lip quivered as I heard Elvis croon “I'll Be Home for Christmas” on the car radio. Christmas was two weeks away, and this year my husband and I would be spending it alone. In August, the military sent my daughter and her husband, along with my two grandchildren, to a Navy base in Japan to serve our country. We had always shared Christmas with them, but this year our house would be empty. No one was coming home for Christmas, and I was miserable.

This was the daughter who had made me cry when I found out I was pregnant again. I fussed, fumed, and ranted at my fate. I had just given birth three months earlier to her brother, and I didn't think I was ready for another child so soon.

Nine months later, a blonde-haired girl with blue eyes the size of saucers stole my heart. Over the years, we forged a bond tighter than Super Glue. Every year on her birthday, I thanked God for my gift.

Now, she was temporarily gone from my life. Every day was hard, and the Christmas season was excruciating.

Lights, gifts, family love—they all reminded me of my daughter. Her smile lit up a room, her gift of generosity was boundless, and her love for her family and friends was immense. I missed her so much that my heart ached.

Earlier that day, my husband had phoned me at work to make sure I was coming straight home.

“Gotta get that tree tonight. Only two weeks left,” he stated solemnly.

“Sure thing, babe.We'll go tonight,” I said, halfheartedly.

Bah, humbug!
I thought. I didn't want a tree or presents or lights or anything that reminded me I wasn't going to share Christmas with my daughter. That night after work, I pulled into our garage and trudged into the house.

“Hi, honey, I'm home!” I yelled.

There was no answer. As I walked through the hall, I noticed a glow coming from the living room. I stepped into the room to see a fully decorated Christmas tree standing in the far corner. Sitting on the floor in front of the tree was my daughter and her family.

“Merry Christmas!” they all yelled in unison. On the couch sat my husband, grinning from ear to ear, enjoying his part in pulling off the coup.

“You didn't think I'd miss Christmas with you, did you, Mom?” she said, jumping up to give me a giant hug. Those big blue eyes were bright with tears.

“This is the second best present ever,” I whispered, my voice choking with emotion. “The best gift was when you came into my life,” I said, squeezing her back.

The next moment I was engulfed in a group hug. The entire family joined in a heartwarming moment and a memory for many Christmases to come.

Sallie A. Rodman

A Christmas Moment

It was 1997. I sat at my dining-room table and wondered how I would ever get ready for Christmas. I was tired and weak, and every muscle and nerve in my body were screaming.

I looked out my window to see the sun shining and the grass still semigreen. It was already December 20, and this was Minnesota. We were wishing for snow!

Without getting up from my chair at home, I knew people all over the world were scurrying to finish their last-minute preparations for Christmas. And then there was me. I was just beginning to do what most people had already accomplished.

I decided right then that I would put my physical pain aside and treat myself to a little outing, even if I was behind in preparations. Christmas would still arrive.

After convincing my husband that his John Deere suspenders and dingy-looking cap were unacceptable at the theater, we headed to A Center for the Arts, our local art theater. We were treated to one of the finest hours of Christmas entertainment ever by Lance Johnson at the Mighty Wurlitzer.

The music swirled about me as he commanded the keys and the pedals to the sounds of trains, bells, drums, chimes, and music boxes. Memories flooded my soul as “Silent Night,” “The Birthday of a King,” and “White Christmas” were performed in all their splendor.

Shortly after we had taken our seats, an elderly gentleman with a cane sat down with some difficulty in the low and somewhat narrow theater seat ahead of us. I'd had difficulty myself. He removed his hat—like any gentleman would do—and then proceeded to eat his brown bag lunch, which he had brought with him. This was okay by me. I, too, needed a Diet Coke in my hand, even though I had gallantly resisted the powerful and tempting aroma of the theater popcorn.

His head, with a crown of white hair, began to bob in time to the beat of the music. Although I could not see his feet, I knew they were tapping also, as I saw his knee rising up and down in rhythm. I wondered about his own story. Who was this gentle old man who had come alone to treat himself to a bit of Christmas spirit? Where did he live? What were his memories? Was he married? Perhaps his wife was in a nursing home now, or perhaps she had passed away many Christmases ago. Where were his children or his grandchildren, and would they be joining him to celebrate the holidays?

I watched him eat his sandwich as he carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin, and I wondered how many miles he used to have to walk on his way to school. Did he farm or maintain a business—or perhaps he taught or preached? My thoughts danced in time to the music as I wondered if he had experienced the old-fashioned sleigh rides, or perhaps it was even his only means of getting to the small country church on Christmas Eve. I wondered if he had believed in Santa Claus as a child or had eaten hard Christmas candy and peanuts in the shell. I wondered if he had ever performed as Joseph at the manger in a Christmas play, a lowly shepherd guarding his flocks by night, or one of the wise men who were following the star and seeking the child.

The last song heralded from the Mighty Wurlitzer as it disappeared into the stage. The old man clapped his hands with appreciation of the performance, as we all did. Our hearts were filled with great joy!

The lights came on, and I watched him struggle to get out of the low, small theater seat. I struggled from the seat behind him and gently, but firmly took a hold of his arm and lifted as he rose to his feet. He turned to my husband, who was already standing in the aisle, and said, “Thank you.”

It occurred to me that he didn't know that the little boost had come from me. And that's the joy of Christmas— doing something for someone and not needing acknowledgment for it or expecting something in return. Christmas truly arrived to the old man and me in that moment. The cards and the baking and the hurry-scurry melted into oblivion. The beauty, magic, and joy of the season were captured instead. I was now ready for Christmas. And I was five days early!

Glorianne Swenson

Christmas Lost—and Found

C
hristmas waves a magic wand over this world,
and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.

Norman Vincent Peale

I remember standing alone in the darkness and humidity on the rear balcony of our fourth-floor apartment, leaning on the railing. The faint odor of curry and jasmine drifted up as I gazed over the gently rustling palm trees toward the blackness of the Arabian Sea beyond. It was Christmas Eve 1960, and I was in Bombay, India, where my foreign-service family was stationed.

My two younger sisters and brother were excited—it was Christmas after all! But I was fifteen, and to me nothing was right. Christmas was my favorite holiday, but as much as I tried, I just couldn't get into the spirit.

I brushed my sweaty hair from my forehead and looked around. Most people in Bombay did not celebrate Christmas. There were no outdoor displays in the neighborhood. No windows glowed with trees covered in multicolored lights. The downtown maze of narrow streets, bicycles, and people contained no department stores, and the crowded, one-room shops run by local merchants were never decorated. From the radio came only wavering Indian music, not the well-known songs of Christmas. And as for the heartwarming, happy-ending Christmas stories we now enjoy on television each year, well, television had not yet come to Bombay.

Turning around, I saw our “tree” in the living room behind me. We had one of the few artificial trees sold in Bombay. It was a skinny thing, its wire branches barely covered with shredded green cellophane. Even the decorations we had brought from the States couldn't fill it out. It was a tree Charlie Brown would surely have appreciated.

I sighed. I was homesick and felt more than a little sorry for myself. I longed for the cold, the smell of pine, and the magic of Christmases past.

Then, as a warm breeze drifted through the open windows, I thought I heard music. I held my breath and listened more closely. It sounded like Christmas carols.

But here in India?

The music grew louder as I rushed through the apartment to the front balcony. In the courtyard below, lit by the splashing fountain and surrounded by flowers, a dozen people were singing carols. They wore colorful cotton saris and sandals instead of woolen coats and boots. They probably had never felt the chill of a bitter, winter wind and, even more likely, had probably never seen snow. But their voices rose in harmony to where I stood, filling the air with the comfort of the familiar songs of “Silent Night,” “Jingle Bells,” and finally, “I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas.”

I never found out where they came from, and I doubt they ever knew the difference their singing made, but on that hot December night, they brought a special gift— they returned Christmas to a lonely fifteen-year-old far away from home.

Michele Ivy Davis

The Doll in Burgundy Twill

W
hat is Christmas? It is tenderness
for the past, courage for the present, hope
for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup
may overflow, with blessings rich and eternal,
and that every path may lead to peace.

Agnes M. Pharo

We had a tree that year—smaller than usual, from the back of the tree lot. But it was our Christmas tree. My three younger sisters and I helped Mom lug it home through the snow-crusted streets of our south Philadelphia neighborhood.

Even though I was mature for a ten-year-old, I had no idea of the reality of our situation. School was out for Christmas vacation—two weeks of pure childhood pleasure: baking sugar cookies, playing in the snow, starry-eyed daydreaming of Christmas presents, and the New Year's celebration at Grandmom's house.

We hadn't seen or heard from Daddy in months. After three years of being in and out of our lives, he'd finally left for good. At ten, you don't realize how big the hole in your heart is from abandonment. But you do feel the emptiness even though the house is inhabited by four chatty, arguing, giggling little girls and their devoted mother.

Mom stood the tree in its stand and set out the boxes of ornaments.

“I want a Betsy Wetsy doll,” Tootsie, my three-year-old
sister, said.

“I want roller skates,” six-year-old Diane piped up.

“A bike,” Rosanne said. She would turn eight in just a month.

“You know the city isn't a good place for bike riding,”

Mom said. “It's too dangerous. Here. Hang this gold ball, honey.”

“What do you want, Mom?” I asked, hoping she would say Evening in Paris cologne. I'd saved up the dimes I had earned helping Aunt Rosie with chores and bought the blue-bottled set of talc and cologne at Sun Ray Drugs a week earlier. I couldn't wait for Mom to open it.

“I have everything I want,” Mom smiled. “I have four beautiful daughters.”

The tree turned out to be as lovely as we had hoped.

The bubble lights, sparkling glass balls, and silver tinsel filled in the empty spaces between branches. On Christmas Eve, we hopped into bed, anxious for morning to come. Toots and Diane listened for hooves on the rooftop of our three-story brick row home. Eventually, we all talked ourselves to sleep.

“Get up! Get up! It's Christmas!” Diane shook us and ran into Mom's room while the first rays of winter sunshine still slept below the horizon.