The Book of Christmas Virtues (3 page)

Mary, endowed with a plump throw pillow, entered, leaning on Joseph's sturdy arm for support. Rejected by the insensitive innkeeper, they found a warm welcome at Bethlehem Memorial where one escort whisked Mary off to delivery and another led Joseph to the waiting room.

Joseph paced; he wrung his hands; he nodded off while shuffling through old magazines. He begged for the latest news on Mary's condition. At proper intervals, a nurse appeared with an encouraging, “It won't be long now.”

After our young thespians had milked the scene dry, unseen hands shoved the last performer onto the stage.

There stood Connie Beth, the youngest nurse-angel in the troupe. Her scrap of angel robe in disarray, her nurse cap askew, she inched toward Joseph. Having outgrown her role as babe-in-the-manger, this year—oh, joy—she had a speaking part.

Suddenly aware of her audience, Connie Beth froze. She ducked her head, lowered her eyes and studied the floor. Her tongue probed the inside of her cheek and lower lip. A tiny finger crept toward her mouth. The toe of her little tennis shoe bore into the carpet fibers.

Would stage fright be her undoing?

Offstage, a loud whisper shattered the silence. “Tell Joseph about the baby!”

Connie's head lifted. Her countenance brightened. Resolve replaced fear.

She hesitated, searching for the right words. Taking a deep breath, she stood before Joseph and quietly delivered her joyous message:

“It's a girl!”

Mary Kerr Danielson

Music to My Ears

I sat silently in the backseat as we drove home from an evening church program where I'd heard once again the wondrous story of Jesus' birth. And my heart flooded with happiness as the three of us hummed to familiar Christmas carols drifting from the car radio.

With my nose pressed against the side glass, I gawked at the department-store displays. As we passed houses with lighted Christmas trees in the windows, I imagined the gifts piled under them. Holiday cheer was everywhere.

My happiness lasted only until we came to the gravel road leading to our home. My father turned onto the dark country lane where the house sat two hundred yards back. No welcoming lights greeted us; no Christmas tree glowed in the window. Gloom seeped into my nine-year-old heart.

I couldn't help but wish for trees and presents like other children. But the year was 1939, and I was taught to be grateful for the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet, to be thankful for a home—no matter how humble—and for simple food to fill my growling belly.

More than once, I'd heard my folks say, “Christmas trees are a waste of money.”

I guessed gifts must be, too.

Although my parents had climbed out of the car and gone into the house, I lingered outside and sank down on the porch steps—dreading to lose the holiday joy I'd felt in town, wishing for Christmas at
my
house. When the late-night chill finally cut through my thin dress and sweater, I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself in a hug. Even the hot tears streaking down my cheeks couldn't warm me.

And then I heard it. Music. And singing.

I listened and looked up at the stars crowding the sky, shining more brightly than I'd ever seen them. The singing surrounded me, uplifting me. After a time, I headed inside to listen to the radio where it was warm.

But the living room was dark and still. How odd.

I walked back out and listened again to the singing. Where was it coming from? Maybe the neighbor's radio? I padded down the long road, glorious music accompanying me all the way. But the neighbor's car was gone, and their house was quiet. Even their Christmas tree stood dark.

The glorious music, however, was as loud as ever, following me and echoing around me. Could it be coming from the other neighbor's house? Even at this distance, I could plainly see no one was there. Still, I covered the three hundred yards separating their house and ours.

But there was nothing and no one.

Yet to my ears the singing rang clear and pure. To my eyes the night stars shone with such radiance that I wasn't afraid to walk home alone. Once I reached my house, I sat again on the porch steps and pondered this miracle. And it
was
a miracle. For I knew in my young heart and soul I was being serenaded by the angels.

I was no longer cold and sad. Now I felt warm and happy, inside and out. As I gazed upward into eternity, surrounded by the praise of heavenly hosts, I knew I had received a joyous Christmas gift after all—a gift straight from God.

The gift of love.

The shining star.

And an everlasting Christmas.

Margaret Middleton

I Wonder

I wonder if that precious babe

were born somewhere today,

Would he recline on Bubble-Pak
^®

instead of straw or hay?

Would the message of the angel

be broadcast on TV—

Just one more televangelist

ignored by you and me?

Would the anthems of that heavenly choir

hit Nashville from the start?

With concerts, tapes and CDs,

no doubt they'd climb the charts.

Would we confuse that glowing star

with satellites in space,

Or think it just a UFO

from a distant, cosmic place?

The “Jesus news” would travel fast

in this Information Age—

By phone, by fax, by e-mail,

perhaps his own Web page.

Would we gladly leave our tasks behind

and travel far and wide,

Not hesitating in our quest

to worship at his side?

The answer lies within each soul.

Each year we get to choose

How we will celebrate his birth

and greet the wondrous news.

He comes! He comes! (though not a babe)

so softly none can hear,

And creeps into your life and mine

this joyous time of year.

And listen. Oh, just listen,

his sounds are all around—

The choir's song, the call of friends,

snow crunching on the ground.

The laughter of the children,

the ringing of each bell,

The stories and the carols

we've learned to love so well.

So pause amid the craziness,

embrace each mem'ry dear.

Let tastes and smells and sights and sounds

delight nose, eyes and ears.

And welcome him this holiday

with laughter and with joy,

His gift of hope, his gift of life,

That blessed, holy boy.

Mary Kerr Danielson

Gone Logo

Customize Christmas by proclaiming your personal “joy to the world.”

Purchase a rubber stamp that reads “Joy,” along with colored inkpads, from a stationery or scrapbook supply store—or have one custom designed at a local printing firm.

Stamp butcher paper, tissue paper or brown paper for gift wrap. Embellish plain white or colored gift bags. And don't forget to create coordinating gift tags.

Use the stamp to personalize your holiday cards, stationery, envelopes, thank-you notes and address labels. What about decorating paper napkins, tablecloths, place cards and nametags? And don't forget to stamp each bill you pay!

Make “joy” your logo this year, and spread it freely.

Simplicity

Simply So

Too often, December arrives shrink-wrapped in good intentions. Big plans, high hopes—and wishful thinking.

We envision a Norman Rockwell holiday that crackles with the toe-melting warmth of an old-fashioned, wood-burning fire. Or a Martha Stewart holiday that sparkles with fine crystal, heirloom china and polished silver reflecting the romantic glow of gilded candlelight. Or a Lawrence Welk holiday that rings with the eager excitement of mittened children, the familiar laughter of old friends and the lilting songs of muffler-wrapped carolers.

We envision a holiday that simmers the flavors of mulled cider, clove-studded oranges, hand-dipped chocolates and homey yeast breads. That glitters with the charm of wreathed doors, bulb-frosted eaves and tinseled trees. A Christmas piled high with parcels, packages and presents—handpicked, handmade, hand wrapped.

Signed.

Sealed.

Delivered.

We expect to achieve it all—all at one time, all in one month, all in one breath—often at the expense of the people and things we hold even more dear. And we rarely allow ourselves time to smell the poinsettias.

But there is an alternative. A simpler Christmas, a more novel Noel. We can scale back in order to really “savor the season.” Instead of trying to do so much, what if we focus on the traditions we value and eliminate the rest?

Consider making a personal list of your typical holiday activities. Include everything from addressing greeting cards to sewing matching red pajamas to unpacking crates of decorations. Think about each item.

What makes your children groan?

What makes
you
groan?

Are there any particular activities your family has
out
grown? What could be done during another season instead? (Perhaps opting to decorate sugar cookies for Valentine's Day or waiting to mail annual newsletters as a New Year's Day event.)

How can some activities be simplified? (Maybe donating to charities in lieu of gift giving, shopping via the Internet to avoid the mall throngs or entertaining in the post-Christmas lull rather than at the height of the season.)

Now, make a second list of holiday activities you
wish
you could do. It might mention things like romping in a new snow or curling up to reread the old, familiar Christmas story—straight from the Bible. Participating in the community's resounding rendition of Handel's “Hallelujah Chorus” or leisurely lunching with a dear friend. Playing the role of robed shepherd in a live nativity or sipping nutmeg-freckled eggnog in front of the fire. Watching
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
with the whole family or taking a solitary walk under a star-studded sky. Attending a local charity event with your spouse or stringing popcorn and cranberries with the grandkids.

Prioritize the items you've
chosen
to keep with those you've decided to
add
. Be certain there is a healthy balance between self, family and others. Above all, see to it that your list is short. Compact. Simple.

Now, slow down and enjoy each event. Savor it to the fullest. Linger over it. Then—learn to linger longer.

And tuck this among the gifts you give yourself and your loved ones this year:
simplicity.

Tending the Home Fires

Our hardworking parents always did their best to provide memorable holidays for their family of seven.

Weeks before Christmas, my father pulled double and even triple shifts at the cement mill to make sure there would be presents under the tree. Coated in ashes and soot, he'd drag into the house each night, bone-weary from cleaning out smokestacks. Besides one full-time job as city clerk and another one mothering us, Mom did all the things necessary back in the 1960s to make our budget stretch: sewing clothing into the wee hours of the morning, mending hand-me-downs, packing school lunches and laundering cloth diapers.

Even so, my parents emphasized the memory-making moments: designing elaborate macaroni ornaments to decorate the tree, hanging dozens of cheery greeting cards from loved ones around our bedroom doorframes, and singing carols as we hauled aging boxes of decorations from the basement to the living room. In mid-December, Mom gathered her baking sheets, her huge wooden rolling pin and her kids to spend an entire day in the cramped kitchen baking and decorating sugar cookies.

And she always delegated one duty to me.

Because our scant living room had no fireplace to hang stockings, we used a cardboard-kit substitute. It was my job to assemble it each year, that special place where Santa would soon leave his few presents for us.

Against one wall, I unfolded the fireplace front. Then I placed and balanced the black cardboard mantle that bore wounds from dozens of punctures where we'd thumb-tacked our stockings during holidays past. After I inserted a red lightbulb into the hole near the metal spinner, I plugged in the cord so the logs would “burn.”

Satisfied at last, I settled to the floor in my favorite nook across from the fireplace—directly in front of a furnace vent. I knew the warm air blew from the basement, but in my mind, the heat spread from the cardboard logs to ignite my imagination. It was there that I spun my boyish dreams and lived my foolish fantasies.

The years drifted on, and so did I.