Chicken Soup for the Soul the Book of Christmas Virtues

  “Why don’t they come?” I looked at the sad faces above me. “Why don’t they hurry?” I was sure they would save her life . . . unfortunately there was nothing left to save.

  My parents led me away, while, hand stretched back to my beloved pet, I called out to her for the last time, “Blackie, oh, Blackie.”

  Christmas joy extinguished as fast as the hit-and-run vehicle had skidded along the icy road. Tinsel on the tree lost its sparkle, stockings by the fireplace their promise, red and green chocolate kisses their sweetness. Without a collie curled up on the Oriental rug, gray became the holiday color.

  Mom lost interest in her baking. My cousins no longer pinned sequins on Styrofoam balls. My brother abandoned his ice skates. Worst of all, the carols on the stereo could not be heard above my relentless wail. The crying jag took on a life all its own. Even Dad’s lap, usually the solution for all problems, held no answers at this time.

  Until Grandfather got involved. “Can’t someone stop that noise?”

  Startled, I held my breath . . . not certain it was safe to sob anymore.

  My Aunt Veramina’s gentle words softened the atmosphere. “Come with me to your room, Margaret, so I can brush your hair.”

  My hand in hers, we followed the garland-wrapped banister up to the second floor of the big colonial house. She sat me down in a pink frilly chair and took my brush from the grooming set on the dresser top.

  “Now, doesn’t that feel better?” she asked as she loosened my long braids and with her competent hands, pulled the bristle brush through my thick auburn tresses.

  The spasms of crying relaxed. A sniffle sputtered out. A whimper crept away. Finally, I filled my grief-weary lungs with one long restorative breath.

  Under my aunt’s soothing strokes of kindness, my head tilted back and forth. The rhythm, much like that of a rocking chair, changed the sadness of the day into the peace of the moment.

  Sometime later, my braids and I bounced down the stairs. At my appearance in the living room, I heard a combined breath drawn. I leaned over the box of ornaments and, by coincidence, chose the large glass teardrop. This tear wasn’t sad; it was merry, very merry—shocking pink with gold embroidered trim. When I hung it on the fragrant spruce, I felt a combined sigh of relief around me.

  “Here,” said Grandfather, as he handed me his peace offering of fresh pecans. With aged fingers around a silver nutcracker and pick, he had labored to extract the meat of six unbroken pieces for his granddaughter.

  “Thanks, they’re my favorite.” I popped one into my mouth.

  It seemed like someone suddenly flipped a power switch. The stereo hummed “Winter Wonderland.” Sequins whizzed onto Styrofoam balls, powdered sugar onto cookies. And my brother zoomed toward the door, skates over his shoulder, “Anyone wanna join me at the park?”

  Funny how on that tragic day, all the season’s colorful trimmings and trappings combined had not been able to restore Christmas joy like one plain bristle brush in my aunt’s hands. To be sure, I never forgot Blackie. But within a few days, a new collie dog had curled up beside me on the Oriental rug.

  Margaret Lang

  A Slice of Life

  Jean heaved another world-weary sigh. Tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear, she frowned at the teetering tower of Christmas cards waiting to be signed. What was the point? How could she sign only one name? That was half a couple, not a whole.

  The legal separation from Don left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she could skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had cancelled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. After all, Christmas was supposed to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.

  The doorbell’s insistent ring startled her. Padding across the floor in her thick socks, Jean cracked the door open against the frigid December night. She peered into empty darkness. Instead of a friendly face—something she could use about now—she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the porch railing. From whom, she wondered, and why?

  Under the bright kitchen light, she pulled out handfuls of shredded gold tinsel, feeling for a gift. Instead, her fingers plucked an envelope from the bottom. Tucked inside was a typed letter. No, it was a . . . story?

  The little boy was new to the overpopulated orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.

  From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree to appear in the hall on Christmas Eve. Of scores of candles that would light its branches. Of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.

  The little boy’s eyes opened wide at the mere thought. The only Christmas trees he’d seen were through the fogged windows of other people’s homes. There was even more, the children insisted. More? Oh, yes! Instead of the orphanage’s regular fare of gruel, they would be served fragrant stew and crusty hot bread that special night.

  Last and best of all, the little boy learned, each of them would receive a holiday treat. He would join the line of children to get his very own . . .

  Jean turned the page. Instead of a continuation, she was startled to read: “Everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, wouldn’t you agree? Watch for Part II.” She refolded the paper while a faint smile teased the corner of her mouth.

  The next evening, Jean rushed home from work. If she hurried there was probably enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland but dropped it to race for the door when the bell rang. This time, she opened a red bag.

  . . . to get his very own orange, Jean read. An orange? That’s a treat?

  An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured him. One for each child. The boy closed his eyes against the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal. And—last and best of all—an orange of his very own.

  He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell. He’d sniffed them at the merchant’s stall in the marketplace. Once he’d even dared to rub a single finger over the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his hand still smelled of orange. But taste one, eat one?

  The story ended abruptly, yet Jean didn’t mind. She knew more would follow.

  The next evening, her pile of unaddressed Christmas cards was shrinking when the doorbell rang. Jean wasn’t disappointed. However, the embossed gold bag was heavier than the others had been. She tore into the envelope resting on top of the tissue paper.

  Christmas Eve was all—and more—than the children had promised. The piney scent of fir competed with the aroma of lamb stew and homey yeast bread. Scores of candles diffused the room with golden haloes. The timid boy, at the very back of the line, watched in amazement as each child in turn eagerly claimed an orange and politely said, “Thank you.”

  The line moved quickly, and he found himself in front of the towering tree and the equally imposing headmaster. “Too bad, young man, too bad. The head count was in before you arrived. It seems there are nomore oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive an orange.” Brokenhearted, the empty-handed orphan raced up the stairs to bury both his face and his tears beneath his pillow.

  Wait! This wasn’t how she wanted the story to go. Jean felt the boy’s pain, his aloneness.

  The boy felt a gentle tap on his back. He tried to still his sobs. The tap was more insistent until, at last, he pulled his head from under the pillow. He smelled it before he saw it. A cloth napkin rested on the mattress. Tucked inside was a peeled orange, tangy sweet. It was made of segments saved—last and best of all—from the others. A slice donated from each of his new friends. Together the pieces made one whole, complete fruit.

  An orange of his very own.

  Jean swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. From the bottom of the gift bag she pulled out an orange— a foil-covered, chocolate orange—already separated into segments. And, for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Really smiled.

  She set about making copie
s of the story, segmenting and wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. After all, she had visits to make. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in fifty-eight years. There was Melanie down the block, facing her second round of radiation. Her running partner, Jan, single-parenting a difficult teen. Lonely Mr. Bradford losing his eyesight, and Sue, sole caregiver to an aging mother . . .

  Perhaps, just perhaps, a piece from her might help make one whole.

  Carol McAdoo Rehme

  Sealed with a Kiss

  Christmas is a wonderful time to share a favorite treat with a friend. Whip this up in triple batches and give them with a smile.

  Kiss Kringles

  ¾ cup sugar

  2 sticks softened butter

  2 cups sifted flour

  1 cup finely chopped pecans

  8-ounce bag of chocolate candy kisses powdered sugar for dusting

  Cream together sugar and butter until smooth. Stir in flour; fold in pecans. Seal dough in plastic wrap and chill at least 30 minutes.

  Remove foil from chocolate kisses. Completely cover each chocolate with enough dough to make a 1-inch ball. Place on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for about 12 minutes at 350°, until lightly firm.

  Sift powdered sugar over tops while still warm. Makes 2½ dozen cookies.

  Be extra kind: Package your cookies in decorator tins, on holiday trays, or in napkin-lined sewing baskets, small ice buckets, or cheery pottery bowls.

  Gratitude

  Steeped in Gratitude

  You can make it quick: Plug in a single-serve, electric hot pot and dip a tissued teabag.

  You can make it simple: Zap a stoneware mug of prebrewed in the microwave.

  You can make it on-the-run: Propel your car into the nearest drive-through, place a quick order and pay at the window.

  To get a cup of tea, you can do any of those things, and you probably have. But at what cost? Perhaps you’re forfeiting a pleasure in the act itself.

  Taking time to plan a proper cup of tea allows you to pause in the routine of daily life, to elevate yourself to a higher plane. Pull out a favored teakettle—well-worn and coppered, or plump and patinaed, maybe full-bellied and Dumbo-eared—and fill it with freshly drawn water. Wait for it to whistle.

  And while you’re waiting, attend to the details.

  You might discover that preparing the tea tray brings its own peculiar pleasure. Gather those special items guaranteed to please: a whimsical cloth napkin, your grandmother’s chipped, bone-china teapot,a quaintly mismatched cup and saucer,and a delicate silver spoon. Add your personal selection of sugar cubes, clovered honey, heavy cream or serrated lemon slices.

  Then select your favorite flavor of loose tea. What will it be today? Traditional oolong, Ceylon or sage? Exotic jasmine, lingonberry or licorice? Or what about something Christmasy, maybe cinnamon-apple, peppermint or orange-tangerine?

  And keep an ear cocked toward the kettle. First, you’ll hear humming and hissing. Next, a full-throated gurgling, just before the kettle bursts into full song, whistling for your attention.

  Serve your tea with the ceremony it deserves. Swill a bit of boiling water in Grandma’s teapot, empty it out and add those flavor-filled leaves. Flood with burbling water. Cover. Simmer. Steep. Let the fragrant tendrils of steam seep from the spout to tempt and tickle your senses. Inhale, deeply.

  Mind-mellowing,muscle-melting . . .

  And when you’ve waited as long as you can, pour yourself a cup. Right to the brim.

  Swizzle the lemon or dollop the cream.

  Drizzle some honey or swirl a sugar cube. One lump? Two?

  Now allow yourself the serenity to savor the full-bodied drink. Position your face to catch the last rays of the winter sun. Or prop your toes in front of a toasty fire. Puff away the steam . . .and take a test sip. Then another. And another. Ahhhhhhhh. Let its warmth seep through your limbs, thaw your tummy and soothe your soul.

  A home-brewed cup of tea. Simple and satisfying. Perhaps all the more so because of the thought, the ritual and the repetition that created the experience itself.

  Like brewing tea, gratitude is an art to be practiced, a virtue worth perfecting.

  When was the last time you considered life’s abundance? Felt appreciation for the small things? December’s first snowfall, a thick comforter on a winter night, an empty bus seat when you’re loaded with holiday packages. Or counted your larger blessings? A secure job,well-behaved teenagers and forgiveness from a mate.

  Next, think about those who have touched your life. Has someone soothed an ache? Filled a void? Maybe you’ve been the recipient of a kind deed or an act of compassion. When you were torn, did someone mend you? When you were down, did someone lift you up? When you were tired, did someone carry you?

  And, above all, did you remember to express your gratitude?

  It’s never too late to show your appreciation to others.

  You could make it quick, simple,on-the-run. Or you can indulge in the full-bodied experience of expressing gratitude until the repetition itself becomes a ritual as natural and rhythmic as brewing tea.

  Pause and plan a way to do it: How can you best acknowledge a thoughtful favor? What can you do to instill delight?

  Take pleasure in the preparation: Give of yourself, your time, your emotions, your energy. Never rush an act of appreciation. Enjoy the process.

  Serve it with a bit of ceremony: Use your best stationery and a fine-tipped pen, or pick the tightest buds from your prized rosebush.

  By elevating gratitude to a virtue, you might discover your own heart warms in the process. So brew a satisfying cup of appreciation and fully savor the serenity . . . sip by tiny sip.

  St. Nick’s Note

  As the weatherman promised, the temperature climbs to ninety-eight by midafternoon. I waste no time retrieving the mail from our box.

  “Whew! The humidity must be 102.” I collapse into a kitchen chair.

  “You know it!” My husband agrees. He sits with both hands wrapped around a large glass of iced tea, still sweating after mowing the lawn.

  “It’s only July. Aren’t you rushing the season a bit, Santa?” I tease.

  “Are you referring to my red nose and cheeks?” He wiggles his bushy eyebrows. “Just getting a headstart on Christmas this year.”

  My jolly old St. Nick delights hundreds of children—of all ages—each December. Whether he’s appearing at schools or in parades, he spreads his special Santa brand of love and kindness.

  “Anything important?” He points at the mail on the table.

  Fanning the pile, I hand him a farming magazine, a soil-and-water conservation newsletter and this month’s electric bill. Toward the bottom of the stack, I pause to inspect a small white envelope.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” I turn the letter toward Alan. “It’s addressed to Santa Claus.”

  “Well, maybe I’m not so early after all,” he chuckles. But instead of a wish list, he pulls out a hand-decorated card. “Thank You” is scrawled across the front. A trace of moisture washes his eyes.

  “Remember these little guys, Mrs. Claus?” He hands me the card.

  Oh, yes, I remember.

  Each year I help Santa make “special deliveries”—for organizations, church groups or even concerned individuals— to single-parent families, the newly widowed, recently divorced, unemployed or those whose income barely covers essentials. These anonymous deliveries from Santa mean more than gifts under their trees or dinner on their tables: These deliveries express love and concern.

  And this card comes from one of those single parents.

  A month before last Christmas, this young mother found herself single and the sole provider for her seven-year-old twins. When she’d escaped her abusive situation, she was forced to leave behind most personal items, including her sons’ bikes. According to a caring counselor at the “safe house,” the distressed woman dreaded explaining to her sons that Santa co
uldn’t bring new bikes this year. She’d accepted all the help she felt she was entitled to and wouldn’t ask for more. Besides, bikes were a luxury.

  Her friends didn’t agree.

  Because of those friends, Santa and Mrs. Claus delivered quite a load of groceries, gaily wrapped presents— and two new bikes to the grateful mother. Identical blue-eyed, freckle-nosed faces burst into jack-o’lantern smiles a mile wide as they peeked around her skirt.

  “Oh, my goodness . . . we can’t . . . who are you?” she stammered.

  “Santa, of course! And this is Mrs. Claus,” my husband boomed with a wink at the boys. “You made a very special list this year, and we wanted to deliver these early.”

  Santa’s parting, “Ho, ho, ho,” still echoed on the porch when a small, excited voice reached us, “Mama, I told you Santa would find us, even if we have to hide from Daddy.”

  Opening the card that jolted my memory, I read aloud to Santa. “It took me seven long months to discover how to reach you. I was so surprised that morning you came, I’m not sure I remembered to thank you. You helped the healing process begin and gave us back faith and hope.”

  Twin smiley faces followed the mother’s signature at the bottom.

  They were identical to our own.

  Pamela Bumpus

  Mother to Mother

  I sit in the audience with the other parents, beaming at our children filing into their seats. My little ones’ black hair and sienna skin make exclamation points among the other, pastel angels forming the pageant choir.

  The chorister raises her arm, and the pianist comes in with the downbeat. So do some of the kids—a bit early. In cherubic fervor, their words spill out, “I am a child of God . . .”