The Book of Christmas Virtues Read online

  Nancy B. Gibbs

  Decking the Halls with

  Balls of Jolly

  A number of years ago, NBA All-Star Cedric Ceballos hosted a free basketball clinic for a couple hundred youngsters. At the end of the event, Ceballos—then playing for the Los Angeles Lakers—handed out half a dozen autographed basketballs.

  One lucky recipient, a boy about eleven years old, hugged Ceballos and then hugged the ball. But what really touched me was this: As I left the gym, I saw the boy outside shooting baskets on one of the blacktop courts . . . using his autographed ball.

  While the other handful of lucky kids surely went home and put theirs in places of honor, this boy had already dribbled, shot and worn off Ceballos’s valuable signature.

  Curious, I asked the boy why he hadn’t taken the ball straight home.

  “I’ve never had my own ball to shoot with before,” he explained happily.

  It made me wonder about similar kids—kids who don’t have their own basketballs to shoot, their own soccer balls to kick, their own footballs to throw or their own baseballs to play catch. And so it was that I began using my regular sports column to ask readers to step up to the plate. I started an annual ball drive for underprivileged children.

  Great gifts, with no batteries required and no breakable parts.

  The first year, about one hundred were donated. That just got the ball rolling, so to speak. The next year’s total was 363, then 764 and 877.

  Which brings us to this past Christmas. And Briana.

  After reading my Thanksgiving Day column announcing “Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive,” Briana responded like an All-Star point guard. The nine-year-old dished out assists like a mini–Magic Johnson. In notes attached to her generous gifts for other kids, she wrote, in neat printing that would make her teacher proud, a message that should make her parents even prouder:

  I saw your wish list in the paper and I wanted to help. I know how important it is to help others. So this year I saved money by collecting recycables (sic). So here I give to you: 5 basketballs, 2 footballs, 2 soccer balls, 1 volleyball, 1 bag of baseballs, 1 bag of softballs. I hope this helps.

  Happy holidays,

  Briana Aoki

  Her generosity kicked off a heartwarming campaign of kids helping kids in need.

  As a result, ten-year-old Sarah and eight-year-old Mitch emptied “The Jar.” Kept on the family’s fireplace hearth, it collected pocket change, some chore money and even coins found in the laundry. Sarah chose a soccer ball and Mitch selected a football to buy and share.

  Professional tennis players Mike and Bob Bryan, identical twins, served up a donation of twenty-five footballs and one hundred top-of-the-line basketballs. Others stepped forward, too.

  The life lesson here is this: A lot of great kids find joy in giving and joy in sharing—loose change in a jar, wages for chores, allowance money, coins from recycling—just to make a difference. A big difference. A difference of . . .

  397 basketballs

  218 footballs

  178 playground balls

  161 soccer balls

  104 baseballs

  29 softballs

  26 cans of tennis balls

  14 volleyballs

  GRAND TOTAL: 1,127 balls—and smiles

  —for kids in need this

  Christmas morning.

  Woody Woodburn

  The Debut

  “Mom, where’s the roll of butcher paper?” JoAnn asked as she rummaged in the kitchen drawer for scissors and tape. Off she trotted down the hall, clasping the items.

  Gathered for our family Christmas party, all three generations had finished eating. Now, the little cousins eagerly left parents and grandparents behind to begin preparations for the annual nativity pageant. Sequestered in the far recesses of the house, the youngsters plotted behind closed doors.

  Grateful for peace and quiet, we adults basked in the festive glow of the fire, nibbled remnants of our delicious dinner and continued chatting. We felt no need to hurry our budding geniuses, tickled that they found delight in planning this project together.

  An occasional burst of dialogue erupted through the open door as first one then another child was dispatched on a crucial errand. A jar of craft paint, then a wide paintbrush disappeared into their inner sanctum. Intense forays commenced throughout the house as armloads of towels, bathrobes, scarves, bed sheets, belts and jewelry joined their stash. Giggles and whispers intensified as their conspiracy continued.

  We knew the project must be coming together when they mounted an intense search for bobby pins, large safety pins, paper clips, even clothespins—anything to hold costumes and props in place. Everyone’s anticipation heightened as the cast and crew finished their preparations.

  When the designated spokesperson called for our attention, a hush fell over the room.

  Two stagehands wrestled a long, butcher-paper poster and, with copious lengths of tape, secured it to the wall. Emblazoned in bright paint it read:

  Bethlehem Memorial Hospital

  The makeshift stage became a busy reception area of the hospital. One bossy cousin greeted newcomers, summoned aides and kept employees scurrying. Instead of halos, “nurse-angels” wore folded-paper caps with red painted crosses. They assessed each case, wielding their make-believe stethoscopes and thermometers before sending patients off to imaginary treatments.

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

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

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

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

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

  Would stage fright be her undoing?

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

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

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

  “It’s a girl!”

  Mary Kerr Danielson

  Music to My Ears

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

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

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

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

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

  I guessed gifts must be, too.

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

  And then I heard it. Music. And singing.

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

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

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

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

  But there was nothing and no one.

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

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

  The gift of love.

  The shining star.

  And an everlasting Christmas.

  Margaret Middleton

  I Wonder

  I wonder if that precious babe

  were born somewhere today,

  Would he recline on Bubble-Pak®

  instead of straw or hay?

  Would the message of the angel

  be broadcast on TV—

  Just one more televangelist

  ignored by you and me?

  Would the anthems of that heavenly choir

  hit Nashville from the start?

  With concerts, tapes and CDs,

  no doubt they’d climb the charts.

  Would we confuse that glowing star

  with satellites in space,

  Or think it just a UFO

  from a distant, cosmic place?

  The “Jesus news” would travel fast

  in this Information Age—

  By phone, by fax, by e-mail,

  perhaps his own Web page.

  Would we gladly leave our tasks behind

  and travel far and wide,

  Not hesitating in our quest

  to worship at his side?

  The answer lies within each soul.

  Each year we get to choose

  How we will celebrate his birth

  and greet the wondrous news.

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

  so softly none can hear,

  And creeps into your life and mine

  this joyous time of year.

  And listen. Oh, just listen,

  his sounds are all around—

  The choir’s song, the call of friends,

  snow crunching on the ground.

  The laughter of the children,

  the ringing of each bell,

  The stories and the carols

  we’ve learned to love so well.

  So pause amid the craziness,

  embrace each mem’ry dear.

  Let tastes and smells and sights and sounds

  delight nose, eyes and ears.

  And welcome him this holiday

  with laughter and with joy,

  His gift of hope, his gift of life,

  That blessed, holy boy.

  Mary Kerr Danielson

  Gone Logo

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

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

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

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

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

  Simplicity

  Simply So

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

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

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

  Signed.

  Sealed.

  Delivered.

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

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

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

  What makes your children groan?

  What makes you groan?

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Tending the Home Fires

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

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

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

  And she always delegated one duty to me.

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

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