Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

  Christmas day became Christmas night and I walked out onto the front deck. I was alone as I inhaled the crisp mountain air and admired the glistening blanket of snow. I was alone as I lovingly thought of and prayed for protection and safety for my family. I was alone as I whispered to the stars my thanksgiving for the birth of our heavenly King. And I was alone as I humbly and graciously received God’s precious gift—His divine peace about the fact that I may be alone this Christmas, but with Him I will never be truly lonely.

  ~Kristen Clark

  A Garbage Can Christmas

  Could we change our attitude, we should not only see life differently, but life itself would come to be different.

  ~Katherine Mansfield

  From the very beginning Matt didn’t want a divorce. “What about the children?” My husband reasoned. “They need us both.”

  For me however, there was no reasoning. I definitely wanted out. We’d already given Matt’s construction business over a year and he still wasn’t making any money. I knew it wasn’t his fault but it seemed as if every dime he made went for tools or costly repairs on our dilapidated pick-up truck. So it was my job as a waitress at Steve’s Bakery that was keeping us going.

  Resentful and tired, I found myself growing bitter and critical toward Matt. Soon arguments with no apologies became commonplace between us and I, in particular, said some very unkind things to my husband of eleven years. However it was my last cruel and cutting display that sent Matt to sleep in a makeshift bedroom in our basement, and shortly after that was when I made up my mind to file for divorce. However since Christmas was less than six weeks away, I decided it would be best for our children if I waited until after the Christmas holidays to officially file.

  The next few weeks were hard. Matt and I seldom saw one another and barely spoke when we did. The children soon picked up on our tension and it wasn’t long until we were all sniping and grousing at each other. Our entire family was under stress and perhaps that’s why I came down with the flu the very day my mother-in-law was to come for a Christmas visit.

  “What am I going to do?” I wailed from my sickbed to Matt. “We don’t even have the tree up yet and what if I get fired? This is the bakery’s busiest week.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything,” my husband reassured me. “I’ll call Steve and explain. He’ll understand.” He looked at me lying exhausted in our bed and somehow found his boyish smile. “You just try to get all the sleep you can.”

  Too sick to snarl or be sarcastic, I did sleep. In fact, I was in bed for three days. In the meantime, my mother-in-law arrived and while Matt went to work, she and the children went about decorating the Christmas tree, cooking, cleaning and working on a surprise gift for Matt and me. In fact, it was Tara who let the cat out of the bag when she poked her little towhead in the bedroom door and quietly giggled, “We made a surprise for you and Daddy but I can’t tell, ’cause I promised!”

  By late afternoon Christmas Eve I had begun to feel human again as I awoke to the comforting smells of dinner cooking. So as not to wake me, I could hear the children attempting to muffle their squeals of excitement. Lying there in our darkened bedroom and feeling so much better, I couldn’t help but enjoy my temporary contentment. Only Christmas could weave such special magic into our household right now, I thought.

  We had a family favorite that evening, pot roast, and while huddling around our thrift shop dining room table that Matt had recently refinished, the children announced they had a special gift for us but they didn’t want to wait until Christmas morning for us to open it. Bursting with excitement, they begged for us to “open it now.”

  Of course we agreed and my mother-in-law quickly ushered both Matt and me into the living room “to wait a bit.” We heard the back door slam and there were a series of thuds and giggles, and then more thuds and some whispers, and more thuds until one by one our children trooped in. Their smiles could not have been wider and their excitement could not have been greater. It was my mother-in-law who explained that our special gift had arrived; however, we had to close our eyes because some very special angels were delivering it. I guess the excitement was contagious because Matt and I began giggling too.

  It was Travis who insisted, “Keep your eyes closed.”

  The children were now all talking at once.

  Another thud, the sound of something sliding, a chorus of more giggles, then the announcement, “You can open your eyes now!”

  For a second there were no sounds. In front of us stood a large bulky “thing” covered in a torn sheet from my ragbag.

  “You can open it when we say,” said Tara with great anticipation.

  “Should we all count to three before Mom and I pull the sheet off?” Matt suggested.

  “Yes. Yes.” We were all squealing with excitement by now. “Everybody. One, two, three!”

  So the two of us pulled together which was something we hadn’t done in a long time.

  And there it was. Dazzling in the soft twinkling lights of the Christmas tree: our gift... a chair; and no ordinary chair either.

  “Mommy,” it was Tara. “It’s a Christmas chair! We made it! We found it in the garbage.”

  “It is beautiful, honey,” was all I could manage to choke out.

  My mother-in-law confessed they’d spied it in the neighbor’s trash along the street. So they dragged it home. Since Matt was at work and I was sick, they were able to paint it, with her artistic direction, in the garage without either of us knowing. Using old paint stashed on the shelf and paintbrushes from their paint boxes, they created a work of pure love. Different colors adorned each leg and various rungs and turns. They painted polka dots and squiggles, hearts and flowers. And there were three painted faces looking up from the seat. “Your three angels” was written in script beneath them along with each of the children’s names.

  There was a hushed, near sacred silence that followed this explanation.

  It’s strange, I know, but in that moment I was reminded of another gift of love someone gave two thousand years ago and how it changed the world. Life wasn’t so perfect for that little family either, I’ll bet, but they still honored their commitments to one another. I gulped hard once again.

  I looked at Matt, my hard-working, devoted husband, eyes brimming with tears, moved by love and appreciation for his family, and doing the very best he could for us. I saw our three beautiful children loving us both and my mental list of gratitude exploded as I realized how much I loved my husband and family.

  Maybe we didn’t live the life I’d secretly dreamed, but by shifting my attitude and outlook even just a little bit I instantly began to see what we had, instead of what we didn’t have. And what we needed and what we didn’t need. And we sure didn’t need a divorce. Why? Well, I’m not totally certain but I think it had to do with the magic of three “little angels” and the love they poured into a garbage can Christmas chair.

  ~Sue Smith as told to Linda LaRocque

  Love Fills My Shopping Cart

  Oh, my friend, it’s not what they take away from you that counts. It’s what you do with what you have left.

  ~Hubert Humphrey

  My friend’s excitement blasted through the phone line. “I’m going to the mall. There’s a fifty percent off sale, just in time for Christmas. You want to come with me?”

  That chance to get a bargain would usually spark in me a quick “yes.” Before she’d have finished the sentence, I would have been grabbing my purse, but not anymore. Not now. Shopping was erased from the list of things I enjoyed. So much I missed, so much I needed to do, to accomplish, to live for. All vanished. All wiped away by the retinal disease that had robbed me of my remaining eyesight just a few months before.

  Tears flowed with each step of my painful adjustment.

  “Mommy, can I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” my five-year-old asked.

  A simple task, but now, groping to find the pantry and the items in it wasn’t that
easy. Trying to distinguish jars or cans from one another increased my frustration. Anxiety cramped my stomach as I feared I couldn’t be a “normal” mommy to my three-, five-, and seven-year old sons.

  It was the Christmas season now, and my tasks multiplied. I had to try harder to squelch my fear. While following my routine, I fumbled with apparent resignation, but inside I still longed to have even a tiny bit of eyesight.

  I would have been satisfied even with the miniscule amount of sight I’d had just the Christmas before. It had allowed me to distinguish the boys’ facial expressions and the sparkle in their eyes when they opened their gifts.

  But this Christmas season, I saw a gray nothing—no red or green, no colors, no shadows; nothing.

  Although reluctant, I accompanied my husband, Gene, on shopping trips. I held onto the shopping cart and he pulled it through crowded aisles.

  “Look at that,” he said. “Jeff would love that.”

  I smiled and looked in his direction.

  “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Hey, I forget too.”

  But I never forgot. The truth was that time and time again, out of habit, I glanced in the direction of the object, but with no retina function, my brain didn’t register anything. That part of my life was painfully empty... as empty as the shopping cart seemed to me.

  Then, one cold morning in December, I inhaled a long breath and vowed that this upcoming Christmas season would be the one where I would conquer my emotions and follow through with the usual holiday tasks. I lined up all the boxes holding decorations against the wall.

  “Okay, guys, who wants to watch a movie?” Gene rounded up our sons, giving me the time to arrange the decorations.

  “You go with Daddy,” I said, “and maybe I’ll have some cookies for you later.”

  Months of practice made baking easier, the burning episodes less frequent, and mistakes like using flour for powdered sugar were also a thing of the past. I navigated through the kitchen with relative ease. Even doing laundry and cleaning became simpler each time I did them. Barefoot, I could tell which spots I’d missed while sweeping the kitchen floor.

  I reached into the storage boxes filled with Christmas treasures, and the moment my fingers touched an item, the shape and texture told me what it was. Since I’d seen it while sighted, memories of its color painted the item in my mind. I decorated each area of the house, leaving the tree decoration as a task for our sons and leaving Gene the job of placing the star atop the Christmas tree.

  I raised the volume of “Silent Night” on the stereo and relaxed on the sofa. My darkness suddenly had a soothing melody.

  Christmas morning came quickly, and I heard the high-pitched voices of our sons outside our bedroom door. They came in and rushed to our bed. “Guys, get up, we want to open presents.”

  Each voice had a distinct sound and I could tell their mood by the inflection and tone. They jumped, giggled, and teased each other as we wiped the sleep from our eyes.

  I reached for my robe and held out my hand, “C’mon, let’s see what Santa brought.”

  Leading me by the hand was normal for them. But this time, they rushed out the door and headed toward the Christmas tree in our family room.

  I followed the familiar path to the couch. A fresh pine scent wafted through, and bells on the tree chimed as they lifted packages to find theirs.

  “Let’s take turns,” their daddy said. “And don’t forget to tell Mommy what you got.”

  I sighed inwardly. My husband’s thoughtfulness warmed my heart, but following that instruction would be difficult in the midst of their excitement.

  “Look what I got.” Joe ripped wrapping paper and placed it on my lap.

  I reached out my hand. “Show your mommy.”

  It wasn’t really the gift I wanted to see, but the expressions of delight that matched their words. I longed to see the sparkle in their eyes when they opened what they had asked for all year long.

  That’s when I realized that dwelling on what I couldn’t see threatened to erase the Christmas joy. I fought the temptation to sink into self-pity, and swallowed hard to keep the tears inside.

  My husband appeared behind me on the couch and whispered in my ear, “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be back.”

  I rose from the couch and groped my way to the bedroom. I sat on the bed and chided myself for being unable to handle this time with my family.

  I had been so strong, had faced tough moments with courage, but now... why the sadness, the anguish and impatience?

  I couldn’t understand. With a tissue, I pressed my eyes and sobs poured out.

  My husband slid beside me on the bed. “What can I do for you?”

  His sweetness and warmth further emphasized my sorrow. I was disappointing him, causing an added burden for him. With emotional distress, I’d failed in my role as a wife to him and a mom to my sons.

  And when anguish nearly overwhelmed me, I suppressed one last sob and looked up. “God, help me to have the courage and strength I need.”

  “This is the best present yet!” one of our sons cried out.

  I held my breath and paused for a few moments. My son’s words brought a sobering truth that opened the eyes of my heart. His gift delighted him. But I had missed mine, overlooking and disregarding my greatest present—the one that filled the emptiness of my dark world. It was in the family room—it sang to me with little voices, with little arms that hugged me, and with the sweetest melody of each “I love you, Mommy.”

  I stuffed the wrinkled tissue in my pocket and reached for Gene’s hand. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss a minute of this.”

  I had asked God to help me cope. But rather than just coping, He taught me to enjoy what lies beyond physical sight, what the warmth of love offers and what truly holds meaning and purpose.

  Years have passed, and I now do a better kind of shopping. Walking through the aisles of life, I find the bargains of a lifetime. I put in my cart a large package of appreciation for what I still have, followed by boxes of creativity to tackle all the tasks of being a mom and wife, a good supply of courage to defeat thoughts of gloom, and even add a few jars labeled “sense of humor.”

  Equipped to care for my family, I wait with anticipation for each Christmas, when the gift of their love delights the eyes of my heart.

  ~Janet Perez Eckles

  Love Squared

  It’s such a grand thing to be a father of a father—that’s why the world calls him grandfather.

  ~Author Unknown

  We had our own miracle last Christmas Eve. Like the first Christmas miracle, ours was a miracle of birth. Only our miracle didn’t take place in a stable; it happened in a modern, state-of-the-art hospital. Instead of a manger filled with straw, our Christmas baby lay down her sweet head in a comfortably warm, carefully sterilized bassinet. And while there were no cattle or shepherds to attend the birth of our precious little one, there were plenty of nurses, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

  Not to mention the wise man/doctor occasionally poking his head in. From the east, as I recall.

  Now, I know there are tens of thousands of births every day on this planet, and there was nothing that made our experience any more “miraculous” than any other. But for me, it was a magical moment of transformation. Before my very eyes, my son became a father, my wife became a grandmother, my daughters became aunts, my youngest son became an uncle and that basketball in my daughter-in-law’s tummy became The World’s Most Adorable Granddaughter.

  Miraculously.

  There were some extraordinary moments during that long and... well, almost sacred Christmas Eve. No, we didn’t have herald angels harking in the heavens, or a new star overhead to light the way to baby Becky. But we did have eight-year-old Jon, excitedly telling everyone, “I’m an uncle! I’m an uncle!” We had two grandmothers—one a veteran, one a first-timer—taking turns monitoring the hospital staff to make sure
they were taking proper care of “their” granddaughter. And we had two families coming together at the nursery window to “ooh” and “ahh” at the little dark-haired bundle who represented their confluence.

  For me, however, the most profound moments involved my son: the joy in his eyes as he held up his daughter for all the family to see; the tender concern etched on his face as he oversaw the poking and probing and assorted testing of little Becky; and the peaceful contentment that emanated from him as he sat in a hospital rocking chair holding his sweet, slumbering child.

  I had gone to get him some food—hey, a guy’s gotta eat, even on Christmas Eve—and I took it to the hospital room where the new little family was headquartered. New Mama Jenny was resting comfortably after her ordeal, and Joe was holding Becky. For a moment, I stood silently and watched my son gently cradle his baby in his long, powerful arms. At first, all I could see was the top of Joe’s head, as he bent to her, examining her, studying her, kissing her little hands and cheeks. Then he looked up at me, and I could see the tears that were streaming down his face.

  “You were right,” he said as a tear dripped off his cheek and fell softly on Becky’s hand.

  I hesitated. I had lectured Joe about so many things through the years; I wasn’t exactly sure which thing I had been right about. “I was?” I asked.

  He glanced down at Becky, then back at me. “This... this... feeling,” he said. “It’s overwhelming. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s like... love... squared. To the Nth degree.”

  I understood. I was feeling that same feeling for my child—and my grandchild. And it made me think that perhaps that is truly the essence of Christmas. It’s not just about a child, and it’s not just about parents—heavenly or otherwise. It’s about love.

  Squared.