Chicken Soup for the Soul the Book of Christmas Virtues

  Oh, how I wish both of you could see this. They’re perfect. Just perfect.

  I often send this silent message to my children’s birth mothers. I long to comfort and reassure them, to share with them the unspeakable joy their babies have brought into my life. I long to tell them their precious ones are beautiful and bright, healthy and strong.

  “. . . and he has sent me here . . .” I can almost distinguish Shyloh’s sweet voice in the choir.

  Just the other day, she asked, “Mommy, why is my hair black? Yours isn’t.”

  The answer came easily to me. “To make you look beautiful, Shyloh, just like your mother in China.” And typically Tiggerlike, she bounced away, grinning in satisfaction.

  I hope you find peace in your decision to share this happy girl with me.

  “. . . has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear . . .” I catch the eye of my Samoan daughter, Whitney, whose hair is a shining cape flung across her shoulders and whose voice rings loudest of all the angels. She’s singing with all her young heart.

  She’s adjusting, Mama. I grin through my burning eyes. Your daughter’s finally joining in. So is little Luke.

  My grateful tears plop down to bless the slumbering head of Whitney’s contented baby brother, asleep on my lap.

  What sacrifices these women made for their children, their difficult choices possible only because their powerful mother-love transcended all else. And what joy their decisions continue to bring into my life.

  Whoever you are, wherever you are and whatever your circumstances, I hope your intuition calms you and tells you all is well.

  Mother to mother, I wish I could wrap my arms around them this holiday season—those selfless birth moms— and assure them of my appreciation for these beautiful children of ours. More than anything, I wish I knew how to express the gratitude in my heart.

  “. . . I am a child of God, and so my needs are great . . .” Their angelic voices supplicate and saturate the auditorium and reach into the depths of my consciousness.

  And—with sudden, deep conviction—I do know how, the only way that makes sense: I’ll continue to love and cherish their little ones with all my being.

  That will be thanks enough.

  Annette Seaver

  Chilly Today, Hot Tamale

  “It’s my own fault.” Carl Fenter tugged his jacket closer against the abnormal bite of cold morning wind. “The rest of the family is home, where it’s warm.”

  Just another one of his brilliant ideas—a big tamale feast after tonight’s Christmas Eve service at church—and look where it landed him: waiting in a line fifty people deep.

  Who would’ve guessed that every tamale shop in the city would be sold out the day before Christmas? But they were, as Carl knew. He’d been driving all over El Paso that morning. Determined to bring home the tamales, Carl tried one last tienda, an old favorite out in Canutillo.

  When he arrived, a fresh batch was due off the steamer in forty-five minutes. Taking his place at the end of the snaking line of tamale-seekers, he watched the woman in front of him remove her jacket to drape around her shivering youngster. It wasn’t long before she, too, shuddered in the chilly wind. After only a moment’s hesitation, Carl shed his own jacket and offered it to the grateful mother.

  Together, they cheered when the line crept forward at last, and smiling people exited the shop toting steamy bags. Finally, Carl got inside the door and inched his way closer to the counter, the woman now first in line.

  “Sorry folks,” the clerk announced, “that’s the last of the tamales.”

  “No way!” Carl groaned with everyone else lined up behind him.

  “But,” stressed the man at the counter, “we’ll have a final batch ready in, oh, about two hours.”

  Defeated, Carl backed away, but the young mother grabbed his arm.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I have to,” Carl glanced at his watch. “I promised to put up luminarias at my church.”

  “I’ll get your order of tamales and bring them to your house.”

  Carl’s brow furrowed. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “But it’s the least I can do. You lent me your coat.” Her smile overrode his objections. “Just give me your address.” She and her little girl settled in for the long wait.

  And at exactly noon on Christmas Eve, they delivered four dozen fragrant tamales—along with Carl’s brown jacket—to his home.

  Ellen Fenter

  Submitted by Pat Phillips

  A Piece of Themselves

  Some see a group of women, twenty-three strong. Others see a group of twenty-three strong women. Everyone sees that their fingers are flying nearly as fast as their mouths.

  Going to Pieces, the quilting guild at the Fort Drum, New York, army base, is at it again: their monthly sewing spree. It’s a time each woman anticipates. A time to share patterns and platitudes. A time to trade ideas and intimacies. A time to join quilt blocks—and lives.

  With many of their husbands deployed to the Middle East, the women seek relief in this regular gathering. Finding strength in numbers, they learn to emphasize life over loss, joy over loneliness and victory over defeat. In part, they achieve this closeness by telling stories— mostly about their children. They laugh over the latest toddler’s antics, cringe over an adolescent’s angst, roll their eyes over an update on teen fads and fashion. And the telling and sharing bind them into a sort of extended military family.

  Even while war’s dark cloud hovers over them, they choose to meet and mingle—especially with the holidays creeping nearer.

  But tonight’s mood is somber.

  Something is obviously absent: There are no Christmas patterns in sight. No button-eyed snowmen, beaded holly or smiling nutcracker appliqués in hoops. No splashes of seasonal snowflakes, gingerbread men or angel prints on tables.

  There’s no casual chatter about old favorites like Log Cabin, Irish Chair or Tumbling Blocks. Neither do any of the women introduce new patterns, show a quilt they’ve recently completed or suggest working on a sampler.

  Tonight a reverence blankets the room. Rather than creating individual blocks to join, they know this particular quilt requires more—a personal piece of each of them to make the whole. The project they’ve chosen echoes that faraway place always so near in their minds: Iraq.

  The pieces they cut with such precision come from a young man’s clothes. His desert-sand camouflage— fatigues and battle dress uniforms that will never be worn again, never be needed again. The template they pick is Lover’s Knot—the pattern they see as most symbolic of the quilt’s purpose, as well as their own feelings. The pieces will fit together like a complex jigsaw puzzle.

  And the women wish they could as easily fit together the fragments of their compassion, their unspoken grief, their empathetic heartbreak.

  Each snip and stitch is done with the knowledge that this quilt will go to one of their own. The family of the oh-too-young soldier who paid the ultimate sacrifice for his country.

  When memories dim—until there is nothing more than a feeling, a taste, a smell to remind him of the Daddy he’ll never know—it will wrap a lonely child.

  When night presses in—to remind her of the husband whose death left a jagged hole in the fabric of her life—it will swaddle a sobbing widow.

  With this purpose in mind, these stoic women hold in tears of their own to cut and piece, quilt and bind. And, when their work is completed, they will bestow the quilt with love rather than pomp . . . with gratitude rather than ceremony.

  Why?

  Because these sorrowful sisters, above all others, understand the sacrifice involved, and this is how they choose to express their appreciation.

  Carol McAdoo Rehme

  Angels and Angst

  Another dull church meeting. I muffled my third yawn. The old geezer was still droning on about church involvement. Same-old same-old. I was taking notes, substituting for my mom, the group secreta
ry. But I had other things to do. Important, sixteen-year-old stuff. I doodled on the edges of the pad.

  Deep in daydreams, I nearly missed the good-lookin’ guy who walked in late and sat across from me. Tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear, I straightened in my chair and cocked a suddenly interested, furrowed brow toward Gramps, but sneaked a look from the corner of my eye when Mr. Cute raised his hand and took the floor.

  I flashed him my most intelligent smile.

  “I think more young people should be teaching in our Sunday schools,” he was saying. “Don’t you?”

  I nodded wholeheartedly.

  He continued, “It would be a good way for teens to feel like they’re part of the church. All we’d need are volunteers.”

  Suddenly, with no direct input from me, mine was the first hand to shoot into the air. I hoped he noticed. A second-grade Sunday school class was assigned to me. On the spot.

  Oops.

  For endless months of Sundays, I forfeited sleeping late to serve my “term” with a rambunctious bunch of seven-year-olds. Term, I decided, was synonymous with serving a sentence.

  Skimping lesson preparation, I taught my way. I marched them around the room tooting pretend trumpets until the walls of Jericho collapsed—thankfully, just before I did. I awarded tiny gold stars for memorized Bible verses. I celebrated birthdays by counting out a penny per year to give to the poor. But, mostly, I got headaches from their unbridled enthusiasm and off-key renditions of “Jesus Loves Me.”

  The weeks plodded on, and so did I.

  “Miss Whitley,” the minister asked, “would you direct the Christmas program this year?”

  I would, I agreed. It would be my final sacrifice. Then— quite firmly—I would quit. Hand in my resignation. I’d be outta there.

  On Saturday morning, mothers deposited angels, wise men, shepherds and donkeys. The dress rehearsal went poorly. The donkey girl got a sliver in her knee, an angel wept over a broken halo, and the shepherds engaged in an unholy brawl. I popped two more aspirin and shouted directions across the noisy room.

  That night, my stomach churned. From backstage I spotted . . . him . . . the cute guy, in the front row. And I . . . very deliberately . . . stuck out my tongue. He didn’t see me—but the minister did.

  The minute the curtain opened, my seven-year-olds were magically transformed. Shepherds, heads swathed in terry towels, stood ramrod straight. Mary and Joseph knelt; angels heralded; wise men worshipped; donkeys . . . well, everything couldn’t be perfect.

  Except, maybe their voices.

  “Si-i-lent night,” the little ones serenaded.

  “Ho-o-ly night,” their sweet voices floated and filled the room.

  “All is calm . . .” Sweeping the stage with a glance, I nodded in agreement. All was calm. And perfect.

  Just like them.

  By the end of the performance, I figured the gigantic lump in my throat might disfigure me for life. But, hey, I would learn to deal with it.

  “Miss Whitley! Miss Whitley!” Matthew held onto his lopsided crown with one hand and a shoebox with the other. “My mom and dad came to see me! Both of them!”

  “Both of them?” I marveled. I knew a neighbor brought lonely little Matthew to Sunday school each week. His divorced parents didn’t have time.

  “Miss Whitley,” he tugged my arm for attention, “can I be in your class again next year?”

  Ahhh, what a cute little fella.

  And I agreed. On the spot.

  “And, uh . . . Miss Whitley . . . thanks.” He shoved the shoebox toward me. “For you.” He ran to join his parents while I lifted the lid.

  Oops.

  But even as I stared at the ugly gift inside—aren’t all grasshoppers ugly?—I recognized the love in a little boy’s gratitude.

  Someone walked near me and whispered, “God bless you, Miss Whitley, and thank you.”

  I glanced up at Mr. Cute and shot him a foolish smile.

  “Thank you,” I said. And meant it.

  Sharon Whitley Larsen

  It’s in the Mail

  Spend some quiet time recalling the people who have impacted your life. Consider your first boss, your last roommate, Little League coaches and the high school janitor. Give some thought to religious leaders, best friends, over-the-fence neighbors, reliable garbage collectors, elderly aunts, music instructors, college professors and old classmates. Think outside the holiday box!

  Next, choose four—one person per week—to acknowledge during December.

  Under each of their names, list how they affected your life. Did she alter your course? Did he set a fine example? Did they help you through a crisis?

  Now, send handwritten notes of appreciation—long ones. Be specific. Tell them why they matter and, above all, remember to say,“Thank you.”

  Faith

  By Leaps and Mounds

  You’ve heard it said; we all have. The odds are good that you’ve even said it yourself at one time or another: “Seeing is believing.”

  In the movie, The Santa Clause, Elf Judy put it another way: “Seeing isn’t believing; believing is seeing.”

  And, of course, the Bible repeats the theme in renowned poetic perfection: “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

  The world runs on faith. Wispy, yet tenacious. Universal, but personal. Effortless and, sometimes, arduous. Incorporating this virtue into our lives draws us into a larger, divine order.

  Defined as “believing” and “trusting,” faith is—above all else— an action, of a crystal mountain lake. one we practice nearly every moment of our lives. Our belief or trust is automatic on the most basic human level. In a secular sense, we live by faith every day—from the magnificent to the mundane—by relying on the goodness of mankind, the principle of gravity, the diagnoses of physicians, even the descriptions in an encyclopedia.

  On a more spiritual level, faith means taking chances. And nowhere is that more obvious than watching a child. Any child. Because that’s where faith shines brightest—in a childlike heart.

  Like Diane’s.

  After bouts of friendly water warfare, showing off their underwater handstands and playing shark, the kids were excited that their dad offered to take them to the other end of the swimming pool. The water there was so deep even Daddy couldn’t touch the bottom.

  “Let’s try out the diving board,” he urged.

  Eight-year-old Kent scooted up the ladder, raced the length of the board and belly flopped into a splash that surprised even Daddy. Diane held back while her younger sister climbed the ladder and, with only a bit of coaxing, took hesitant steps to the edge. Wanda gave one half-hearted bounce, flung her arms upward in complete abandon and practically threw herself into Daddy’s open arms.

  “Your turn, punkin’.”

  Diane counted the five steps on the ladder. Twice. Once going up—and again scurrying down.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Daddy called.

  Even though her knees buckled, Diane made it up the ladder at last. She sidled the length of the diving board and curled her toes in a death grip over the edge. Wet and shivering, lips quivering, teeth chattering, she looked down, down . . . down to where Daddy treaded.

  “I’ll catch you,” Daddy reassured her.

  And Diane trusted. She leapt. Right into his arms.

  Sometimes we must dare our souls to go further than is comfortable, further—at times—than we can see. That’s how we practice faith; we actually create more faith—stronger faith—by trusting. In Daddy. In ourselves. In God. And to trust is, of course, to triumph.

  And so it is that catchphrases abound, reminding us to build our faith:

  Keep the faith.

  Feed your faith.

  Have faith.

  Faith moves mountains.

  As we exercise our faith, our lives grow stronger. We build our faith into muscle. And it becomes progressively easier to exercise trust and to believe. To realize dream
s, achieve goals and fulfill ambitions.

  Until, somewhere along the journey, we learn that an all-encompassing faith is our passport to joy.

  Everybody Loves Santa

  One Christmas season I helped Santa Claus by filling in for him at a small shopping mall. Instead of the usual assembly line of children, I enjoyed spontaneous visits with little tots bearing lists of toys, as well as the occasional surprise visits with teenagers and adults.

  A bright, happy and chatty three-and-a-half-year-old sat on my lap, asking questions and answering mine. Finally, looking me in the eye, she said, “I thought you were fake. You’re real!” Her doubts removed, I’m sure she had a magical Christmas.

  A pair of fifteen-year-old boys ran up, hugged me lovingly and, grinning, asked, “Will you bring us each a motor-cycle?” After a brief chat, they walked away chuckling.

  A young father paid the elf photographer for a single picture. “I don’t have custody of my children,” he explained, “and I want to show them a picture of you and me shaking hands.” He received the finished photo, mouthed “thank you” and left.

  Three teenage girls skipped and twirled over. Giggling, one teased, “I want a sports car.”

  The second one topped her. “I want a mansion.”

  The last girl whispered in my ear, “I’d like a job for my dad.”

  As they walked away, her friends probed, “What did you ask for?”

  “That’s between me and Santa,” she sighed.

  Substitute Santa swallowed hard and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. I truly believe the girl’s father found a job becuse, you see, that night Santa prayed he would.

  Robert H. Bickmeyer

  Presence and Accounted For

  Every gift had been wrapped, each recipe prepared, and all the ornaments hung. I had seen to every detail; I knew I hadn’t overlooked a thing. And now, with my three anxious children tucked in bed at last, I leaned back in my favorite recliner—satisfied—to survey our perfect, shimmering tree.