Showing posts with label christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label christmas. Show all posts
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Merry Christmas, My Friend
by Christa Holder Ocker
from Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul
"I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side, Monsieur DuPree watched his master. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, What’s he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old age home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know."
Bent over from age, the old man limped over to Monsieur DuPree and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog."
Monsieur DuPree wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. "Woof, woof, woof, woof." For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the odor of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled Monsieur Dupree close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. Monsieur DuPree wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! My name is Monsieur DuPree. For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs -- even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend."
"Woof woof! Woof woof!" Monsieur DuPree was confused and his eyes begged, What's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. Monsieur DuPree pulled back. He didn't want to go.
"Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else." The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. Monsieur DuPree stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn’t creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
Monsieur DuPree looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
"Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!"
Monsieur DuPree was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw Monsieur DuPree, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside. Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
from Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul
"I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side, Monsieur DuPree watched his master. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, What’s he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old age home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know."
Bent over from age, the old man limped over to Monsieur DuPree and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog."
Monsieur DuPree wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. "Woof, woof, woof, woof." For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the odor of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled Monsieur Dupree close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. Monsieur DuPree wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! My name is Monsieur DuPree. For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs -- even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend."
"Woof woof! Woof woof!" Monsieur DuPree was confused and his eyes begged, What's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. Monsieur DuPree pulled back. He didn't want to go.
"Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else." The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. Monsieur DuPree stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn’t creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
Monsieur DuPree looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
"Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!"
Monsieur DuPree was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw Monsieur DuPree, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside. Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
Mary's Dream
I had a dream, Joseph. I don't understand it, not really, but I think it was about a birthday celebration for our son. I think that was what it was all about. The people had been preparing for it for about six weeks. They had decorated the house and bought new clothes. They'd gone shopping many times and bought elaborate gifts.
It was peculiar, though, because the presents weren't for our son. They wrapped them in beautiful paper and tied them with lovely bows and stacked them under a tree. Yes, a tree, Joseph, right in their house. They'd decorated the tree also. The branches were full of glowing balls and sparkling ornaments. There was a figure on the top of the tree. It looked like an angel might look. Oh, it was beautiful.
Everyone was laughing and happy. They were all excited about the gifts. They gave the gifts to each other, Joseph, not to our son. I don't think they even knew him. They never mentioned his name. Doesn't it seem odd for people to go to all that trouble to celebrate someone's birthday if they don't know him? I had the strangest feeling that if our son had gone to this celebration he would have been intruding.
Everything was so beautiful, Joseph, and everyone so full of cheer, but it made me want to cry. How sad for Jesus - not to be wanted at his own birthday celebration. I'm glad it was only a dream. How terrible, Joseph, if it had been real.
It was peculiar, though, because the presents weren't for our son. They wrapped them in beautiful paper and tied them with lovely bows and stacked them under a tree. Yes, a tree, Joseph, right in their house. They'd decorated the tree also. The branches were full of glowing balls and sparkling ornaments. There was a figure on the top of the tree. It looked like an angel might look. Oh, it was beautiful.
Everyone was laughing and happy. They were all excited about the gifts. They gave the gifts to each other, Joseph, not to our son. I don't think they even knew him. They never mentioned his name. Doesn't it seem odd for people to go to all that trouble to celebrate someone's birthday if they don't know him? I had the strangest feeling that if our son had gone to this celebration he would have been intruding.
Everything was so beautiful, Joseph, and everyone so full of cheer, but it made me want to cry. How sad for Jesus - not to be wanted at his own birthday celebration. I'm glad it was only a dream. How terrible, Joseph, if it had been real.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A Special Breakfast
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Cheer
Until last year, the greatest sorrow of my life was that my wife Alice and I couldn’t have any children. To make up for this in a small way, we always invited all the children on our street to our house each Christmas morning for breakfast.
We would decorate the house with snowflakes and angels in the windows, a nativity scene and a Christmas tree in the living room, and other ornaments that we hoped would appeal to the children. When our young guests arrived—there were usually ten or fifteen of them—we said grace and served them such delicacies as orange juice garnished with a candy cane. And after the meal we gave each of the youngsters a wrapped toy or game. We used to look forward to these breakfasts with the joyful impatience of children.
But last year, about six weeks before Christmas, Alice died. I could not concentrate at work. I could not force myself to cook anything but the simplest dishes. Sometimes I would sit for hours without moving, and then suddenly find myself crying for no apparent reason.
I decided not to invite the children over for the traditional Christmas breakfast. But Kathy and Peter, my next door neighbors, asked me to join them and their three children for dinner on Christmas Eve. As soon as I arrived and had my coat off, Kathy asked me, “Do you have any milk at your house?”
“Yes,” I replied. “If you need some, I’ll go right away.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Come and sit down. The kids have been waiting for you. Just give Peter your keys.”
So I sat down, prepared for a nice chat with eight-year-old Beth and six-year-old Jimmy. (Their little sister was upstairs sleeping.) But my words wouldn’t come. What if Beth and Jimmy should ask me about my Christmas breakfast? How could I explain to them? Would they think I was just selfish or self-pitying? I began to think they would. Worse, I began to think they would be right.
But neither of them mentioned the breakfast. At first I felt relieved, but then I started to wonder if they remembered it or cared about it. As they prattled on about their toys, their friends and Christmas, I thought they would be reminded of our breakfast tradition, and yet they said nothing. This was strange, I thought, but the more we talked, the more I became convinced that they remembered the breakfast but didn’t want to embarrass Grandpa Melowski (as they called me) by bringing it up.
Dinner was soon ready and afterward we all went to late Mass. After Mass, the Zacks let me out of their car in front of my house. I thanked them and wished them all merry Christmas as I walked toward my front door. Only then did I notice that Peter had left a light on when he borrowed the milk—and that someone had decorated my windows with snowflakes and angels!
When I opened the door, I saw that the whole house had been transformed with a Christmas tree, a nativity scene, candles and all the other decorations of the season. On the dining room table was Alice’s green Christmas tablecloth and her pinecone centerpiece. What a kind gesture! At that moment, I wished that I could still put on the breakfast, but I had made no preparations.
Early the next morning, a five-year-old with a package of sweet rolls rang my bell. Before I could ask him what was going on, he was joined by two of his friends, one with a pound of bacon, the other with a pitcher of orange juice. Within fifteen minutes, my house was alive with all the children on my street, and I had all the food I needed for the usual festive breakfast. I was tremendously pleased, although in the back of my mind I still feared that I would disappoint my guests. I knew my spur-of-the-moment party was missing one important ingredient.
At about nine-thirty, though, I had another surprise. Kathy Zack came to my back door.
“How’s the breakfast?” she asked.
“I’m having the time of my life,” I answered.
“I brought something for you,” she said, setting a shopping bag on the counter.
“More food?”
“No,” she said. “Take a look.”
Inside the bag were individually wrapped packages, each bearing the name of one of the children and signed, “Merry Christmas from Grandpa Melowski.”
My happiness was complete. It was more than just knowing that the children would receive their customary gifts and wouldn’t be disappointed; it was the feeling that everyone cared.
I like to think it’s significant that I received a gift of love on the same day that the world received a sign of God’s love two thousand years ago in Bethlehem. I never found out who to thank for my Christmas present. I said my “Thank you” in my prayers that night—and that spoke of my gratitude more than anything I could ever say to my neighbors.
Until last year, the greatest sorrow of my life was that my wife Alice and I couldn’t have any children. To make up for this in a small way, we always invited all the children on our street to our house each Christmas morning for breakfast.
We would decorate the house with snowflakes and angels in the windows, a nativity scene and a Christmas tree in the living room, and other ornaments that we hoped would appeal to the children. When our young guests arrived—there were usually ten or fifteen of them—we said grace and served them such delicacies as orange juice garnished with a candy cane. And after the meal we gave each of the youngsters a wrapped toy or game. We used to look forward to these breakfasts with the joyful impatience of children.
But last year, about six weeks before Christmas, Alice died. I could not concentrate at work. I could not force myself to cook anything but the simplest dishes. Sometimes I would sit for hours without moving, and then suddenly find myself crying for no apparent reason.
I decided not to invite the children over for the traditional Christmas breakfast. But Kathy and Peter, my next door neighbors, asked me to join them and their three children for dinner on Christmas Eve. As soon as I arrived and had my coat off, Kathy asked me, “Do you have any milk at your house?”
“Yes,” I replied. “If you need some, I’ll go right away.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Come and sit down. The kids have been waiting for you. Just give Peter your keys.”
So I sat down, prepared for a nice chat with eight-year-old Beth and six-year-old Jimmy. (Their little sister was upstairs sleeping.) But my words wouldn’t come. What if Beth and Jimmy should ask me about my Christmas breakfast? How could I explain to them? Would they think I was just selfish or self-pitying? I began to think they would. Worse, I began to think they would be right.
But neither of them mentioned the breakfast. At first I felt relieved, but then I started to wonder if they remembered it or cared about it. As they prattled on about their toys, their friends and Christmas, I thought they would be reminded of our breakfast tradition, and yet they said nothing. This was strange, I thought, but the more we talked, the more I became convinced that they remembered the breakfast but didn’t want to embarrass Grandpa Melowski (as they called me) by bringing it up.
Dinner was soon ready and afterward we all went to late Mass. After Mass, the Zacks let me out of their car in front of my house. I thanked them and wished them all merry Christmas as I walked toward my front door. Only then did I notice that Peter had left a light on when he borrowed the milk—and that someone had decorated my windows with snowflakes and angels!
When I opened the door, I saw that the whole house had been transformed with a Christmas tree, a nativity scene, candles and all the other decorations of the season. On the dining room table was Alice’s green Christmas tablecloth and her pinecone centerpiece. What a kind gesture! At that moment, I wished that I could still put on the breakfast, but I had made no preparations.
Early the next morning, a five-year-old with a package of sweet rolls rang my bell. Before I could ask him what was going on, he was joined by two of his friends, one with a pound of bacon, the other with a pitcher of orange juice. Within fifteen minutes, my house was alive with all the children on my street, and I had all the food I needed for the usual festive breakfast. I was tremendously pleased, although in the back of my mind I still feared that I would disappoint my guests. I knew my spur-of-the-moment party was missing one important ingredient.
At about nine-thirty, though, I had another surprise. Kathy Zack came to my back door.
“How’s the breakfast?” she asked.
“I’m having the time of my life,” I answered.
“I brought something for you,” she said, setting a shopping bag on the counter.
“More food?”
“No,” she said. “Take a look.”
Inside the bag were individually wrapped packages, each bearing the name of one of the children and signed, “Merry Christmas from Grandpa Melowski.”
My happiness was complete. It was more than just knowing that the children would receive their customary gifts and wouldn’t be disappointed; it was the feeling that everyone cared.
I like to think it’s significant that I received a gift of love on the same day that the world received a sign of God’s love two thousand years ago in Bethlehem. I never found out who to thank for my Christmas present. I said my “Thank you” in my prayers that night—and that spoke of my gratitude more than anything I could ever say to my neighbors.
Friday, December 26, 2008
A Christmas Dinner
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Cheer
My work calls for me to venture to the farthest reaches of the world, but one of my most memorable encounters occurred while traveling close to home.
A few years ago, a group of my far-flung friends decided to gather in Connecticut to celebrate Christmas. I was to buy all the soft drinks, champagne and wine, and a doctor friend would get the turkey and trimmings.
On our way from New York City to Connecticut, my friend and I stopped in for a Christmas Eve party in upstate New York. As we left, I ran into the doctor and casually asked him what size bird he had bought. His eyes widened with surprise—he had bought all the drinks.
So here we were on a snowy Christmas Eve, with sufficient drinks to serve a cruise ship but not one piece of food for twelve hungry people! We searched around, but every supermarket was closed. Finally, just before midnight, we found ourselves at a gas station quick-food shop.
The manager was willing to sell us cold sandwiches. Other than potato chips, cheese and crackers, he didn’t have much else. I was very agitated and disappointed. It was going to be a rather miserable Christmas dinner. The only bright spot was that he did have two cans of cranberry jelly!
In the midst of my panic, an elderly lady stepped from behind one of the aisles.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your dilemma,” she said, “If you follow me home, I would happily give you our dinner. We have plenty of turkey, potatoes, yams, pumpkins and vegetables.”
“Oh no, we couldn’t do that!” I replied.
“But you see, we no longer need it,” she explained, “Earlier today we managed to get a flight to Jamaica—to see our family down there, for the holidays.”
We couldn’t say no to such kindness. We thanked her and followed her car. The journey seemed endless as we meandered through back roads and dimly lit streets. Eventually, we reached this kind woman’s house.
We followed her in and, sure enough, she removed a turkey and all the trimmings from the fridge. Despite our attempt to reimburse her for her generosity, she refused our money.
“This is just meant to be,” she said. “I don’t need it anymore—and you do.”
So we accepted her gift, asked her for her name and address, and went on our way.
The next day we impressed and surprised our friends by presenting them with a complete feast and telling them our amazing story about the old lady’s help. Despite the last-minute scramble, Christmas dinner turned out to be a great success.
Before we left Connecticut, we went to a department store, picked out a gift and drove to the lady’s home to leave our small token of appreciation.
We searched and searched but we couldn’t find her place. We couldn’t find the street address on any maps. The name she had given us wasn’t listed anywhere. Baffled, we questioned several local store owners, yet no one knew of the elderly lady. Even the gas station manager told us that he had never seen her before. Every effort we made to locate our Christmas angel failed.
As I returned home, I pondered our bizarre encounter with this beneficent woman. Who was this lady who had appeared just in time to help out two desperate strangers, only to disappear with the night?
Years later, when I look back upon that particular holiday season, I recall the joy of gathering with friends from across the world and an amazing little old lady whose generosity embodied the very meaning of the Christmas spirit.
My work calls for me to venture to the farthest reaches of the world, but one of my most memorable encounters occurred while traveling close to home.
A few years ago, a group of my far-flung friends decided to gather in Connecticut to celebrate Christmas. I was to buy all the soft drinks, champagne and wine, and a doctor friend would get the turkey and trimmings.
On our way from New York City to Connecticut, my friend and I stopped in for a Christmas Eve party in upstate New York. As we left, I ran into the doctor and casually asked him what size bird he had bought. His eyes widened with surprise—he had bought all the drinks.
So here we were on a snowy Christmas Eve, with sufficient drinks to serve a cruise ship but not one piece of food for twelve hungry people! We searched around, but every supermarket was closed. Finally, just before midnight, we found ourselves at a gas station quick-food shop.
The manager was willing to sell us cold sandwiches. Other than potato chips, cheese and crackers, he didn’t have much else. I was very agitated and disappointed. It was going to be a rather miserable Christmas dinner. The only bright spot was that he did have two cans of cranberry jelly!
In the midst of my panic, an elderly lady stepped from behind one of the aisles.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your dilemma,” she said, “If you follow me home, I would happily give you our dinner. We have plenty of turkey, potatoes, yams, pumpkins and vegetables.”
“Oh no, we couldn’t do that!” I replied.
“But you see, we no longer need it,” she explained, “Earlier today we managed to get a flight to Jamaica—to see our family down there, for the holidays.”
We couldn’t say no to such kindness. We thanked her and followed her car. The journey seemed endless as we meandered through back roads and dimly lit streets. Eventually, we reached this kind woman’s house.
We followed her in and, sure enough, she removed a turkey and all the trimmings from the fridge. Despite our attempt to reimburse her for her generosity, she refused our money.
“This is just meant to be,” she said. “I don’t need it anymore—and you do.”
So we accepted her gift, asked her for her name and address, and went on our way.
The next day we impressed and surprised our friends by presenting them with a complete feast and telling them our amazing story about the old lady’s help. Despite the last-minute scramble, Christmas dinner turned out to be a great success.
Before we left Connecticut, we went to a department store, picked out a gift and drove to the lady’s home to leave our small token of appreciation.
We searched and searched but we couldn’t find her place. We couldn’t find the street address on any maps. The name she had given us wasn’t listed anywhere. Baffled, we questioned several local store owners, yet no one knew of the elderly lady. Even the gas station manager told us that he had never seen her before. Every effort we made to locate our Christmas angel failed.
As I returned home, I pondered our bizarre encounter with this beneficent woman. Who was this lady who had appeared just in time to help out two desperate strangers, only to disappear with the night?
Years later, when I look back upon that particular holiday season, I recall the joy of gathering with friends from across the world and an amazing little old lady whose generosity embodied the very meaning of the Christmas spirit.
A Christmas Gift
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Cheer
It was a half-hour before midnight on December 24th. I was a ticket-counter supervisor for a major airline and was looking forward to the end of my shift at Stapleton International Airport in Denver, Colorado. My wife was waiting up for me so we could exchange gifts, as was our tradition on Christmas Eve.
A very frantic and worried gentleman approached me. He asked how he could get home to Cheyenne, Wyoming. He had just arrived from Philadelphia and missed his connecting flight. I pointed him to the ground transportation area. There he could either hire a limousine or rent a car from the various agencies.
He told me that it was extremely important for him to be in Cheyenne for Christmas. I wished him well, and he went on his way. I called my wife to let her know I would be home shortly.
About fifteen minutes later, the same gentleman returned and informed me that all the buses were full and there were no cars or limousines available. Again he asked if I had any suggestions. The most logical option was to offer him a room in a hotel for the night and get him on the first flight to Cheyenne in the morning. When I suggested this, tears starting running down his cheeks.
He explained that his son was seventeen years old and weighed forty pounds. He had spina bifida and was not expected to live another year. He expected that this would likely be the last Christmas with his son and the thought that he would not be there to greet him on Christmas morning was unbearable.
“What’s your name, Sir?” I asked.
“Harris, Tom Harris,” he replied, his face filled with desperation.
I contacted all of the ground transportation providers and the car rental agencies. Nothing. What was I to do? There was no other choice.
I told Tom to go to the claim area, collect his luggage and wait for me. I called my wife Kathy and told her not to wait up for me. I was driving to Cheyenne, and I would explain everything in the morning. Something had come up that was more important than our exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve.
The drive to Cheyenne was quiet, thoughtful. Tom offered to compensate me for my time and the fuel. I appreciated his gesture, but it wasn’t necessary.
We arrived at the airport in Cheyenne around 2:30 A.M. I helped Tom unload his luggage and wished him a Merry Christmas. His wife was meeting him and had not yet arrived.
We shook hands. As I got into my car, I looked back at him. He was the only customer in the airport. I noticed how peaceful and quiet this was compared to the hectic, crowded airport in Denver. Pulling away, I waved goodbye and he waved back. He looked tired and relieved. I wondered how long he would have to wait for his wife to pick him up. She was driving quite a distance.
Kathy was waiting up for me. Before we went to bed, we traded gifts and then our conversation concerned Tom. We imagined his family on Christmas morning as Tom and his wife watched their son open his last Christmas presents. For Kathy and me, there was no question that driving Tom to Cheyenne was the only option. She would have done the same thing.
A couple of days later, I received a Christmas card with a picture of Tom and his family. In it, Tom thanked me for the special gift he had received that holiday season, but I knew the best gift was mine.
It was a half-hour before midnight on December 24th. I was a ticket-counter supervisor for a major airline and was looking forward to the end of my shift at Stapleton International Airport in Denver, Colorado. My wife was waiting up for me so we could exchange gifts, as was our tradition on Christmas Eve.
A very frantic and worried gentleman approached me. He asked how he could get home to Cheyenne, Wyoming. He had just arrived from Philadelphia and missed his connecting flight. I pointed him to the ground transportation area. There he could either hire a limousine or rent a car from the various agencies.
He told me that it was extremely important for him to be in Cheyenne for Christmas. I wished him well, and he went on his way. I called my wife to let her know I would be home shortly.
About fifteen minutes later, the same gentleman returned and informed me that all the buses were full and there were no cars or limousines available. Again he asked if I had any suggestions. The most logical option was to offer him a room in a hotel for the night and get him on the first flight to Cheyenne in the morning. When I suggested this, tears starting running down his cheeks.
He explained that his son was seventeen years old and weighed forty pounds. He had spina bifida and was not expected to live another year. He expected that this would likely be the last Christmas with his son and the thought that he would not be there to greet him on Christmas morning was unbearable.
“What’s your name, Sir?” I asked.
“Harris, Tom Harris,” he replied, his face filled with desperation.
I contacted all of the ground transportation providers and the car rental agencies. Nothing. What was I to do? There was no other choice.
I told Tom to go to the claim area, collect his luggage and wait for me. I called my wife Kathy and told her not to wait up for me. I was driving to Cheyenne, and I would explain everything in the morning. Something had come up that was more important than our exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve.
The drive to Cheyenne was quiet, thoughtful. Tom offered to compensate me for my time and the fuel. I appreciated his gesture, but it wasn’t necessary.
We arrived at the airport in Cheyenne around 2:30 A.M. I helped Tom unload his luggage and wished him a Merry Christmas. His wife was meeting him and had not yet arrived.
We shook hands. As I got into my car, I looked back at him. He was the only customer in the airport. I noticed how peaceful and quiet this was compared to the hectic, crowded airport in Denver. Pulling away, I waved goodbye and he waved back. He looked tired and relieved. I wondered how long he would have to wait for his wife to pick him up. She was driving quite a distance.
Kathy was waiting up for me. Before we went to bed, we traded gifts and then our conversation concerned Tom. We imagined his family on Christmas morning as Tom and his wife watched their son open his last Christmas presents. For Kathy and me, there was no question that driving Tom to Cheyenne was the only option. She would have done the same thing.
A couple of days later, I received a Christmas card with a picture of Tom and his family. In it, Tom thanked me for the special gift he had received that holiday season, but I knew the best gift was mine.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Small White Envelope
A Christmas Story
by Nancy Gavin
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it... overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma - the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember Christ, and "give" in a Christ-like manner. After all, he is the reason for the season, and the true "Christmas spirit" this year and always.
by Nancy Gavin
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it... overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma - the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember Christ, and "give" in a Christ-like manner. After all, he is the reason for the season, and the true "Christmas spirit" this year and always.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Christmas Is Coming
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Cheer
I sat on the floor near Jeremy, my three-year-old, and handed him assorted ornaments to put on the Christmas tree. He stood on a holiday popcorn can to reach the middle section of the tree, which was as high as he could reach. He giggled with a child’s pure delight every time I said, “Christmas is coming!” Although I had tried many times to explain Christmas to him, Jeremy believed that Christmas was a person. “Christmas is coming!” he would giggle. “And all of these presents are for Christmas when she comes!”
I was sitting back, watching him smiling to himself as he carefully placed each ornament on the tree. Surely he can’t know enough about Christmas to love it this much, I thought.
We lived in a small apartment in San Francisco. Although the weather was usually mild, this Christmas season it was chilly enough for us to need a fire. On Christmas Eve I threw in a starter log and watched my son sliding around the apartment, sock-footed on hardwood floors. He was anxiously awaiting Christmas. Soon he couldn’t stand it any longer and began jumping up and down. “When will she be here, Mommy? I can’t wait to give her all these presents!”
Again I tried to explain it to him. “You know, Jeremy, Christmas is a time of year, not a person, and it will be here sooner than you know. At twelve o’clock, Christmas will be here but you will probably be sleeping, so when you wake up in the morning it will be Christmas.”
He laughed as if I was telling a silly joke. “Mommy,” he said, “will Christmas eat breakfast with us?” He spread out his arms over the gifts under the tree. “All of these presents are for Christmas! All of them!”
I tickled his belly and laughed with him. “Yes,” I said. “They are all for Christmas!”
He scampered about the apartment until fatigue slowed him down and he lay on the rug by the tree. I curled up next to him and when he finally fell asleep I carried him into his bed.
I decided on a hot chocolate before bed and as I drank it I sat near the window looking down on the decorated streets of San Francisco. It was a beautiful scene. But there was one thing that disturbed me. Directly outside our apartment, in the spot where I usually left the garbage, was what looked like a crumpled heap of old clothes. But I soon realized what the heap really was. It was an old homeless woman who usually hung out near the corner store down the street. She was a familiar sight in the neighborhood, and I had tossed a few coins into her bag a few times after shopping at the grocery. She never asked for money, but I think she got quite a few handouts from passersby because she looked so helpless.
As I looked out on this Christmas Eve, I wondered about this poor old woman. Who was she? What was her story? She should be with family, not sleeping in the cold street at this special time of year.
I felt a sinking feeling inside. Here I was, with a beautiful child sleeping in the next room. I had often felt sorry for myself as a single mom, but at least I wasn’t alone and living on the streets. How hopeless and sad that would be for anyone, let alone a woman who must be about eighty years old.
I went to my front door and walked down the steps to the street. I asked the old woman if she would like to come inside. At first, she hardly acknowledged me. I tried to coax her; she said she didn’t want my help. But when I said I could use a little company, she relented and agreed to spend Christmas with Jeremy and me.
I arranged for her to sleep in the living room on our foldout couch. The next morning, I was awakened by Jeremy yelling at the top of his lungs. “Christmas is here! Christmas is here, Mommy!”
I quickly pulled on my robe and hurried to the living room, where I found a very excited little boy presenting a very surprised “Christmas” with gifts from under the tree. “We’ve been waiting for you!” he shouted joyfully. He giggled and danced around as she opened the presents he had given her.
I don’t think “Christmas” had known a Christmas like this for a very long time. And neither had I. I also knew that it would have taken more than just one special day to lift the burden from that old lady’s weary heart, but I was thrilled when she promised to come back the following year. I hope she will. And Jeremy knows she will.
I sat on the floor near Jeremy, my three-year-old, and handed him assorted ornaments to put on the Christmas tree. He stood on a holiday popcorn can to reach the middle section of the tree, which was as high as he could reach. He giggled with a child’s pure delight every time I said, “Christmas is coming!” Although I had tried many times to explain Christmas to him, Jeremy believed that Christmas was a person. “Christmas is coming!” he would giggle. “And all of these presents are for Christmas when she comes!”
I was sitting back, watching him smiling to himself as he carefully placed each ornament on the tree. Surely he can’t know enough about Christmas to love it this much, I thought.
We lived in a small apartment in San Francisco. Although the weather was usually mild, this Christmas season it was chilly enough for us to need a fire. On Christmas Eve I threw in a starter log and watched my son sliding around the apartment, sock-footed on hardwood floors. He was anxiously awaiting Christmas. Soon he couldn’t stand it any longer and began jumping up and down. “When will she be here, Mommy? I can’t wait to give her all these presents!”
Again I tried to explain it to him. “You know, Jeremy, Christmas is a time of year, not a person, and it will be here sooner than you know. At twelve o’clock, Christmas will be here but you will probably be sleeping, so when you wake up in the morning it will be Christmas.”
He laughed as if I was telling a silly joke. “Mommy,” he said, “will Christmas eat breakfast with us?” He spread out his arms over the gifts under the tree. “All of these presents are for Christmas! All of them!”
I tickled his belly and laughed with him. “Yes,” I said. “They are all for Christmas!”
He scampered about the apartment until fatigue slowed him down and he lay on the rug by the tree. I curled up next to him and when he finally fell asleep I carried him into his bed.
I decided on a hot chocolate before bed and as I drank it I sat near the window looking down on the decorated streets of San Francisco. It was a beautiful scene. But there was one thing that disturbed me. Directly outside our apartment, in the spot where I usually left the garbage, was what looked like a crumpled heap of old clothes. But I soon realized what the heap really was. It was an old homeless woman who usually hung out near the corner store down the street. She was a familiar sight in the neighborhood, and I had tossed a few coins into her bag a few times after shopping at the grocery. She never asked for money, but I think she got quite a few handouts from passersby because she looked so helpless.
As I looked out on this Christmas Eve, I wondered about this poor old woman. Who was she? What was her story? She should be with family, not sleeping in the cold street at this special time of year.
I felt a sinking feeling inside. Here I was, with a beautiful child sleeping in the next room. I had often felt sorry for myself as a single mom, but at least I wasn’t alone and living on the streets. How hopeless and sad that would be for anyone, let alone a woman who must be about eighty years old.
I went to my front door and walked down the steps to the street. I asked the old woman if she would like to come inside. At first, she hardly acknowledged me. I tried to coax her; she said she didn’t want my help. But when I said I could use a little company, she relented and agreed to spend Christmas with Jeremy and me.
I arranged for her to sleep in the living room on our foldout couch. The next morning, I was awakened by Jeremy yelling at the top of his lungs. “Christmas is here! Christmas is here, Mommy!”
I quickly pulled on my robe and hurried to the living room, where I found a very excited little boy presenting a very surprised “Christmas” with gifts from under the tree. “We’ve been waiting for you!” he shouted joyfully. He giggled and danced around as she opened the presents he had given her.
I don’t think “Christmas” had known a Christmas like this for a very long time. And neither had I. I also knew that it would have taken more than just one special day to lift the burden from that old lady’s weary heart, but I was thrilled when she promised to come back the following year. I hope she will. And Jeremy knows she will.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
My Best Christmas
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Cheer
By Jill Roberts
The holidays are heading my way this year with the usual frenetic rush. There’s so much to celebrate that I can’t help pausing every now and then and pinching myself to make sure it’s all real.
I’ve been promoted in my job at a Portland, Oregon, apartment complex. My twin daughters, Deirdre and Caitlin, both have happy memories and challenging careers. And Caitlin and her husband, Matt, have settled close to my home, which is a joy. Combine this with the recent arrival of my first grandchild, and it’s going to be an especially blissful Christmas.
Yet no matter how wonderful our holiday is, there’s no way it can possibly top my best Christmas ever. Paradoxically, that came during the worst year of my life—a year that taught me some profound lessons about giving and receiving and realizing what I already had.
It happened when I was struggling through the financial and emotional morass that follows a very difficult divorce. I had the girls, thank goodness. But I also had a car that wouldn’t run, a house that was in danger of being repossessed, and a marginal job that wasn’t keeping up with the bills. Because of the house and the car and my job, I was told I was ineligible for food stamps. We were in serious trouble.
By December, we didn’t have much money left, and the power company was threatening to shut off service. I had nothing to spend on the girls for the holidays. I do have a flair for handcrafting things, so I made a few whimsical gifts from scraps we had around the house. But there would be no new clothes or bicycles or any of the popular toys my children had seen advertised on TV appearing under our tree. There would certainly be no special treats, no holiday feast with all the trimmings. I found myself staring at the worst Christmas of our lives.
My large extended family had helped a little—and could have helped a lot more, if they’d known the extent of our plight. But the divorce had left me feeling like a failure, and I was too humiliated to let anyone know just how desperate things had become.
Soon, my bank account and credit completely dried up. With no food and no money, I swallowed my pride and asked the girls’ elementary school principal for help. The kindly woman put Deirdre and Caitlin, then ten years old and in fourth grade, on the government-subsidized lunch program. She even arranged it so the children could go to the school’s office each day to pick up their lunch tickets, which looked just like everyone else’s. My daughters never knew.
I thought things couldn’t get any worse, but about a week before Christmas, my employer, a painting contractor, stunned me by shutting down operations for the holidays and telling me I was laid off. The girls left for school, and I stayed home to battle my despair in the private gloom of a dark, snowy day.
That afternoon, a car pulled into the driveway. It was the school principal—the same woman who had helped me put Deirdre and Caitlin on the lunch program. In the car, she had a giant foil-wrapped gift box for us. She was so respectful of my feelings. “Now, Jill, I want you to know that every person who signs up for the lunch program automatically gets one of these around the holidays,” she said. “It’s just something the school district does.”
As soon as she left, I set the box on my dining room table and discovered that it contained all we needed for a fine holiday meal. There were also two bright pink boxes, each containing a Barbie doll.
I was hiding the dolls in a closet when Deirdre and Caitlin came home from school. Through the window, they saw the big box on the table and came racing in the door squealing gleefully and jumping up and down.
Together, the excited girls went through the box, admiring everything. There was fresh fruit, canned vegetables, candies, nuts, cookies, chocolates, a large canned ham and much more. I felt so elated, as if all my burdens had been lifted—or at least the stress over how we were going to make it through the holidays had been. Then Deirdre asked where the box had come from.
As I gently explained that it had come from the school district, Deirdre’s whole demeanor quickly changed. She stepped back and looked down. “Oh, Mom,” she finally said after a prolonged silence. “This is so nice, but they’ve made a terrible mistake. They meant to give this to a poor family.”
Rather awkwardly, I tried to tell her that the three of us, at least temporarily, were indeed poor. But Caitlin chimed in with Deirdre. “No, they must have meant this for someone who really needs it. Someone needy.”
A sinking feeling swept over me as the girls began to ponder the dilemma of whom to give the box to. I didn’t stand in their way, but a touch of despair came creeping back. Selfishly, I thought, what am I going to do? I have almost nothing to give them for Christmas.
The girls finally settled on giving the box to an elderly neighbor named Juanita, who worked in a nearby laundry and lived alone in a dilapidated old house down the street. Its wood-burning stove—her only source of heat—had broken down, and Juanita had been ill lately. Even her dog was sick.
Deirdre and Caitlin repacked the gift box and hefted it out to the garage. There, beside the broken-down Volvo, they put the cargo on Deirdre’s red wagon.
I watched through the kitchen window as my two girls, clad in coats and scarves and smiles from earmuff to earmuff, pulled the heavy wagon toward Juanita’s house. Suddenly, the snowy street began to sparkle, and a little sunlight broke through that dark sky. I stood there with goosebumps and began to realize the beauty and meaning of what was happening, and it changed everything.
I began to feel joy. Today, fifteen Christmases later, I still treasure the warm blessing the girls and I received in a note from Juanita. And now, as Deirdre and Caitlin—two college-educated, successful, grown women—start families of their own, I finally feel ready to share my story and tell them some things they didn’t know about that year of the big gift box.
The truth is, it was a great Christmas. Thanks to them, it was the best of my life.
By Jill Roberts
The holidays are heading my way this year with the usual frenetic rush. There’s so much to celebrate that I can’t help pausing every now and then and pinching myself to make sure it’s all real.
I’ve been promoted in my job at a Portland, Oregon, apartment complex. My twin daughters, Deirdre and Caitlin, both have happy memories and challenging careers. And Caitlin and her husband, Matt, have settled close to my home, which is a joy. Combine this with the recent arrival of my first grandchild, and it’s going to be an especially blissful Christmas.
Yet no matter how wonderful our holiday is, there’s no way it can possibly top my best Christmas ever. Paradoxically, that came during the worst year of my life—a year that taught me some profound lessons about giving and receiving and realizing what I already had.
It happened when I was struggling through the financial and emotional morass that follows a very difficult divorce. I had the girls, thank goodness. But I also had a car that wouldn’t run, a house that was in danger of being repossessed, and a marginal job that wasn’t keeping up with the bills. Because of the house and the car and my job, I was told I was ineligible for food stamps. We were in serious trouble.
By December, we didn’t have much money left, and the power company was threatening to shut off service. I had nothing to spend on the girls for the holidays. I do have a flair for handcrafting things, so I made a few whimsical gifts from scraps we had around the house. But there would be no new clothes or bicycles or any of the popular toys my children had seen advertised on TV appearing under our tree. There would certainly be no special treats, no holiday feast with all the trimmings. I found myself staring at the worst Christmas of our lives.
My large extended family had helped a little—and could have helped a lot more, if they’d known the extent of our plight. But the divorce had left me feeling like a failure, and I was too humiliated to let anyone know just how desperate things had become.
Soon, my bank account and credit completely dried up. With no food and no money, I swallowed my pride and asked the girls’ elementary school principal for help. The kindly woman put Deirdre and Caitlin, then ten years old and in fourth grade, on the government-subsidized lunch program. She even arranged it so the children could go to the school’s office each day to pick up their lunch tickets, which looked just like everyone else’s. My daughters never knew.
I thought things couldn’t get any worse, but about a week before Christmas, my employer, a painting contractor, stunned me by shutting down operations for the holidays and telling me I was laid off. The girls left for school, and I stayed home to battle my despair in the private gloom of a dark, snowy day.
That afternoon, a car pulled into the driveway. It was the school principal—the same woman who had helped me put Deirdre and Caitlin on the lunch program. In the car, she had a giant foil-wrapped gift box for us. She was so respectful of my feelings. “Now, Jill, I want you to know that every person who signs up for the lunch program automatically gets one of these around the holidays,” she said. “It’s just something the school district does.”
As soon as she left, I set the box on my dining room table and discovered that it contained all we needed for a fine holiday meal. There were also two bright pink boxes, each containing a Barbie doll.
I was hiding the dolls in a closet when Deirdre and Caitlin came home from school. Through the window, they saw the big box on the table and came racing in the door squealing gleefully and jumping up and down.
Together, the excited girls went through the box, admiring everything. There was fresh fruit, canned vegetables, candies, nuts, cookies, chocolates, a large canned ham and much more. I felt so elated, as if all my burdens had been lifted—or at least the stress over how we were going to make it through the holidays had been. Then Deirdre asked where the box had come from.
As I gently explained that it had come from the school district, Deirdre’s whole demeanor quickly changed. She stepped back and looked down. “Oh, Mom,” she finally said after a prolonged silence. “This is so nice, but they’ve made a terrible mistake. They meant to give this to a poor family.”
Rather awkwardly, I tried to tell her that the three of us, at least temporarily, were indeed poor. But Caitlin chimed in with Deirdre. “No, they must have meant this for someone who really needs it. Someone needy.”
A sinking feeling swept over me as the girls began to ponder the dilemma of whom to give the box to. I didn’t stand in their way, but a touch of despair came creeping back. Selfishly, I thought, what am I going to do? I have almost nothing to give them for Christmas.
The girls finally settled on giving the box to an elderly neighbor named Juanita, who worked in a nearby laundry and lived alone in a dilapidated old house down the street. Its wood-burning stove—her only source of heat—had broken down, and Juanita had been ill lately. Even her dog was sick.
Deirdre and Caitlin repacked the gift box and hefted it out to the garage. There, beside the broken-down Volvo, they put the cargo on Deirdre’s red wagon.
I watched through the kitchen window as my two girls, clad in coats and scarves and smiles from earmuff to earmuff, pulled the heavy wagon toward Juanita’s house. Suddenly, the snowy street began to sparkle, and a little sunlight broke through that dark sky. I stood there with goosebumps and began to realize the beauty and meaning of what was happening, and it changed everything.
I began to feel joy. Today, fifteen Christmases later, I still treasure the warm blessing the girls and I received in a note from Juanita. And now, as Deirdre and Caitlin—two college-educated, successful, grown women—start families of their own, I finally feel ready to share my story and tell them some things they didn’t know about that year of the big gift box.
The truth is, it was a great Christmas. Thanks to them, it was the best of my life.
Friday, December 05, 2008
The Best Gift
In 1994, two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Department of Education to teach morals and ethics (based on biblical principles) in the public schools. They were invited to teach at prisons, businesses, the fire and police departments and a large orphanage. About 100 boys and girls who had been abandoned, abused, and left in the care of a government-run program were in the orphanage. They relate the following story in their own words:
It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear, for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the inn, the couple went to a stable, where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger. Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened. Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word.
Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger. Each child was given a small paper square, cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me. No colored paper was available in the city. Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw. Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she left Russia, were used for the baby's blanket. A doll-like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.
The orphans were busy assembling their manger as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where little Misha sat. He looked to be about 6 years old and had finished his project.
As I looked at the little boy's manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger. Quickly, I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger. Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at this completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately-until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the manger. Then Misha started to ad-lib.
He made up his own ending to the story as he said, "And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked me if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mamma and I have no papa, so I don't have any place to stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told him I couldn't, because I didn't have a gift to give him like everybody else did. But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought maybe if I kept him warm, that would be a good gift. So I asked Jesus, "If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?" And Jesus told me, "If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift Anybody ever gave me." So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I could stay with him---for always."
As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his little cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed. The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who would stay with him - FOR ALWAYS.
It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear, for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the inn, the couple went to a stable, where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger. Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened. Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word.
Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger. Each child was given a small paper square, cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me. No colored paper was available in the city. Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw. Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she left Russia, were used for the baby's blanket. A doll-like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.
The orphans were busy assembling their manger as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where little Misha sat. He looked to be about 6 years old and had finished his project.
As I looked at the little boy's manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger. Quickly, I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger. Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at this completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately-until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the manger. Then Misha started to ad-lib.
He made up his own ending to the story as he said, "And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked me if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mamma and I have no papa, so I don't have any place to stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told him I couldn't, because I didn't have a gift to give him like everybody else did. But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought maybe if I kept him warm, that would be a good gift. So I asked Jesus, "If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?" And Jesus told me, "If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift Anybody ever gave me." So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I could stay with him---for always."
As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his little cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed. The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who would stay with him - FOR ALWAYS.
Friday, November 28, 2008
An Elf's Tale
By Tyree Dillingham
It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before; on Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!
I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.
I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers, and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.
Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.
I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.
I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.
On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?
I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.
As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”
She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”
I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.
The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.
I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.
As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”
“Yes,” I said.
By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.
But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!
When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”
“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.
All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.
I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.
That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.
When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.
She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.
Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.
At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.
I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”
“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”
“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”
Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”
I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.
Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.
It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before; on Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!
I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.
I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers, and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.
Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.
I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.
I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.
On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?
I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.
As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”
She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”
I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.
The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.
I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.
As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”
“Yes,” I said.
By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.
But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!
When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”
“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.
All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.
I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.
That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.
When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.
She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.
Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.
At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.
I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”
“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”
“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”
Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”
I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.
Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.
A Slice of Life
By Carol McAdoo Rehme
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? A "couple" required two people, and she was just one.
The legal separation from Don had left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she would skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had canceled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. Christmas was to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.
The doorbell's insistent ring startled her. Padding to the door in her thick socks, Jean cracked it open against the frigid December night. She peered into the empty darkness of the porch. Instead of a friendly face -- something she could use about now -- she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the 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. It was a...story?
The little boy was new to the Denmark orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Already caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.
From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree that would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve and of the scores of candles that would light its branches. He heard stories of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.
The little boy's eyes opened wide at the mere thought of all that splendor. The only Christmas tree he had ever seen was 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 day was so busy that Jean forgot all about the story. That evening, she rushed home from work. If she hurried, she'd probably have enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland, only to drop it when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she found herself looking at a red gift bag. She reached for it eagerly and pulled out the piece of paper.
...to get his very own orange, Jean read. An orange? That's a treat? she thought incredulously.
An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured him. There would be one apiece. The boy closed his eyes against the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal. And an orange of his very own.
He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell. He had sniffed oranges at the merchant's stall in the marketplace. Once he had even dared to rub a single finger over the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his hand still smelled of orange. But to taste one, to eat one? Heaven.
The story ended abruptly, but Jean didn't mind. She knew more would follow.
The next evening, Jean waited anxiously for the sound of the doorbell. She wasn't disappointed. This time, though, 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 the children had been 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 halos. The boy 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. But the count was in before you arrived. It seems there are no more oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive an orange."
Brokenhearted, the orphan raced up the stairs empty-handed 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 became 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 from the others. A slice donated from each child. Together they added up to make 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 copies of the story, wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in 58 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 care-giver to an aging mother....
A piece from her might help make one whole.
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? A "couple" required two people, and she was just one.
The legal separation from Don had left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she would skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had canceled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. Christmas was to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.
The doorbell's insistent ring startled her. Padding to the door in her thick socks, Jean cracked it open against the frigid December night. She peered into the empty darkness of the porch. Instead of a friendly face -- something she could use about now -- she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the 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. It was a...story?
The little boy was new to the Denmark orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Already caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.
From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree that would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve and of the scores of candles that would light its branches. He heard stories of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.
The little boy's eyes opened wide at the mere thought of all that splendor. The only Christmas tree he had ever seen was 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 day was so busy that Jean forgot all about the story. That evening, she rushed home from work. If she hurried, she'd probably have enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland, only to drop it when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she found herself looking at a red gift bag. She reached for it eagerly and pulled out the piece of paper.
...to get his very own orange, Jean read. An orange? That's a treat? she thought incredulously.
An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured him. There would be one apiece. The boy closed his eyes against the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal. And an orange of his very own.
He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell. He had sniffed oranges at the merchant's stall in the marketplace. Once he had even dared to rub a single finger over the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his hand still smelled of orange. But to taste one, to eat one? Heaven.
The story ended abruptly, but Jean didn't mind. She knew more would follow.
The next evening, Jean waited anxiously for the sound of the doorbell. She wasn't disappointed. This time, though, 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 the children had been 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 halos. The boy 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. But the count was in before you arrived. It seems there are no more oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive an orange."
Brokenhearted, the orphan raced up the stairs empty-handed 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 became 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 from the others. A slice donated from each child. Together they added up to make 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 copies of the story, wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in 58 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 care-giver to an aging mother....
A piece from her might help make one whole.