A Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas Page 6

  Ann Greenleaf Wirtz

  Ann As previously appeared in the Times News, December 2006.

  The Christmas Gift

  A child’s love is like a whisper,

  given in little ways we do not hear. . . .

  It is never ending

  A blessing from above

  Listen to the whispers of a child’s love.

  Sue Ellen Chandler

  On Christmas Eve, I would be the only one in our home stirring, always the last to get to bed. I needed to stay up late to help Santa with his customary night’s work.

  Gifts that we could afford were wrapped and placed beneath an evergreen tree decorated for the most part with handmade ornaments. Our tree was tiny, but once decorated with our personal touch, it always seemed to have a peaceful, natural glow.

  We had long tucked our little ones into their beds with their dreams of Christmas morning still dancing in their heads. (At least, I thought they were all fast asleep in their beds.) When I turned off the last of the living-room lights, I noticed one still on at the far end of the hall.

  Quite surprised, I slipped silently down the hall toward the light, careful not to make a sound in hopes of seeing just what was going on in my wee lassie’s room at this late-night hour. Her door was not quite shut, so I peeked in. I could see our sweet bonnie lass sitting alone on the floor of her room, struggling to wrap an old, tattered shoe box. She appeared to have all the right gear, only lacking the skill that would come in a few short years.

  “Little one,” I softly said, “what are you doing up so late and out of your bed? Santa may not come if you’re still awake.”

  She replied, “Daddy, I wanted to give Santa a gift.”

  “But, sweetheart,” I replied, “we left him shortbread and milk. He always likes that.”

  She sighed deeply as if to say that I just did not understand and then continued, “But, Daddy, this one is more special than that.”

  I sat down beside her and asked her to show me what made it so. One by one, she took from the box and laid before me all the special things never meant for me to see.

  One was a candy cane, half–eaten, that had once hung on our tree. She said, “This is so Santa will know the sweetness of Christmas shared with a friend.”

  Next was a child’s game set of ball and jacks, one of her favorite games to play. My daughter explained, “This is so Santa knows the joy of playing and sharing my favorite toy.” Then came a picture of the manger scene, one she had colored in Sunday school and went on to say, “This is a picture of baby Jesus with his mom and dad, so Santa can see the very first and best Christmas gift ever given to us all.”

  My heart began to melt. Raising my hand to my face, I wiped the tears that had welled up in my eyes.

  Then, from the bottom of the box, she pulled out a red velvet hair ribbon, one she only wore for her Sunday best, and said, “And this is only so Santa knows that it’s all from me. He will know because he first gave this ribbon to me.”

  A tear rolled down my cheek. Seeing and hearing of these gifts, so simple but dear, made it hard for me to speak, but I cleared the lump in my throat and spoke as best as I could. “Sweetheart, you are ever so right. These are much more special than cookies and milk. Let me help you finish your gift, and I’ll put it under the tree right out front so Santa will be sure to see it first.”

  Smiling, she looked up at me and saw a tear still hanging on my cheek. She said, “Daddy, don’t cry. Mommy and me already put your present under the tree.”

  We finished the wrapping and topped it with a golden bow. Satisfied the job had been done just right, she climbed into her bed, and I bid my little lassie a good night with a kiss on her sweet head.

  I carried out her gift and knelt before the tree, placing it right out front as I had said I would, pausing for a moment to say a wee prayer of thanksgiving for the special gift of a child sent from above.

  Santa did indeed receive the gift he had needed—and he will always treasure it—but even dearer to us is the gift of a child. For all the Christmases to come, and even when she is grown and out on her own, I know that in a special place is a gift of unselfish love and joy meant for Santa to open over and over again.

  Raymond L. Morehead

  Christmas at Six

  At Christmas play, and make good cheer,

  For Christmas comes but once a year.

  Thomas Tusser

  “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,” played on the stereo three nights before Christmas while the fire crackled. My older sister was missing her two front teeth.

  Always a showoff, she danced around the room, acting out the song for the family. Everyone roared with laugher while the pine tree glowed and the tinsel shimmered. I was full of the Christmas spirit and hope that my Santa wish would come true.

  Just after Thanksgiving, the Christmas catalogs appeared on the coffee table. Slowly turning the pages of the toy section, I selected all the things I wanted for Christmas in my mind. The list was growing when a picture of a log cabin filled the page—a real log cabin. I ran with the catalog to my mom and begged her to read the description: “Be the first to have your very own genuine log cabin made from real cedar logs.”

  I became obsessed with the log cabin, and thought about it day and night. It would be my own place. I’d put up curtains, have a slumber party with my friends, and be the happiest girl in the world. Around that time, my dad asked my brother and sisters if we had made out our wish lists. I was the youngest child and still needed help from my parents or sisters. My list was written in red and green crayon. Copying my sisters, it was bordered with blue stars, Christmas trees, and gingerbread men. Number one on the list, I wrote in red, with my best penmanship—“log cabin.” That was it.

  As the big day neared, my evening ritual was to recline on the carpet in the living room, stare up at the lights on the tree, and imagine how the log cabin would look sitting beside it with a big red bow. I would cut the red ribbon and enter the door to see an Easy Bake Oven in the corner.

  Christmas Eve came, and my sisters and I sat on the couch as we did every year, and waited for Santa’s sleigh and reindeer to come flying up the street and onto the roof. My eyes grew heavy as the neighborhood lights went out one by one. Dad told my sisters it was time to turn in as he picked me up and carried me to bed.

  The rule for Christmas morning was that no one was allowed into the living room until the music played.

  Pacing in our room for an hour drove us crazy with excitement. In that time, I imagined the log cabin in every possible position in the living room. At last, “Joy to the World” sang out, and my sisters blasted out ahead of me. My brother came thundering down the hall, swooped me up, and flew me into the living room like an airplane—sound effects and all. “ZZOOOOMMMM!”

  “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” I shouted.

  While hugging Mom and Dad, I scanned the room for the log cabin. It was nowhere in sight.

  “Here’s something from Santa,” yelled my sister.

  She ripped off the shiny paper and screamed with delight.

  “It was on my list!”

  For the next forty-five minutes, my family opened presents with the same delight—except me. I did my best to fool everyone that I, too, was happy.

  “Look, sweetheart,” said Mom, “here’s something from Grandma.”

  I ripped open the present and found new pajamas.

  “These are pretty,” I said.

  “Just what you needed,” said Mom. I smiled and held them close—a real Academy Award performance.

  “Go ahead and put them on.” As I walked down the hall, I thought maybe the cabin would be in the bathroom—a glimmer of hope that quickly faded upon entering. In pretty pink floral pajamas, I continued pretending to love every gift I opened until I could take no more and burst into tears. Everyone stopped looking over their gifts and started laughing, which made me cry even more.

  “Oh, what’s this about?” asked Dad, pic
king me up. “I loved the clay coffee mug you made me.” I sniffled and tried to say something.

  “Wait a minute,” said Dad. “I almost forgot there was a special delivery—something for you outside by the swing set.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, hugging him around the neck.

  He put me down, and I ran out in the frosty air through the back yard and to the swing set where it sat—a genuine cedar log cabin.

  It was even bigger in real life. I opened the door, entered, and gazed up at the ceiling. The smell of cedar filled the space. I stuck my head out the window and said, “It even smells good.” I spent the rest of the morning playing inside and out of the cabin. My sisters teased me, while my brother complimented me on my acting skills. Mom and Dad sat on the swings, sipping their coffee and watching us all. I felt so special and was at that moment the happiest girl in the world. As for the Easy Bake Oven, I worked on that for the following year.

  To this day, whenever my family gets together, we still have a good laugh about my “log cabin Christmas.”

  Kerry Germain

  “I’ll worry about the future later,

  right now I’m really enjoying the present.”

  Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. © 2007 Jonny Hawkins.

  Here Comes Santa Claus

  This year I had planned to start early—before Thanksgiving. I would take advantage of the extra time my special-needs son would need to “get acquainted” with Santa when there were no waiting lines. When my daughter was small, we would go to the mall to see Santa Claus. It was quite an ordeal. I would begin by selecting the perfect dress. Of course, accessories were carefully coordinated— socks, hair bows, shoes, etc. I would stand by as she sat with Santa, checking for a strand of hair across her face, a wrinkle in her dress, or some other detail that might make the picture less than perfect.

  When my second child—a son—arrived, there was equal emphasis placed on his outfits, which had to be coordinated with my daughter in both color and style. Hats and caps became as important as hair bows and matching lace socks. Somehow, each time, I would leave the mall with picture in hand, knowing that despite the stress, I had captured the moment. How proud I was of these two little Christmas angels!

  My third child, a little boy with autism, had an aversion to Santa pictures from the very beginning. My first Santa picture with the three of them was only a glimpse of

  “Christmas Future.” Though he was less than eight months old at the time, and significantly behind in physical developmental milestones, he had managed (despite Santa’s best efforts to hold him) to avoid having his face in the picture. In the middle of a screaming rage, he had arched his back in such a way that his head was behind his body, and he was visible only from the waist down. I left the mall that day with a picture of Santa and two-and-a-half children.

  Things only went downhill from there. For the next several years, attempts were made to photograph Santa and my youngest son, but to no avail. He would have no part of it. Each year, I dressed him in adorable outfits and continued to try. The child in me would not give up on capturing some of that magic of the season for him. We were on our way home from a neurotherapy appointment on a cold November day, and here I was again, in front of the mall, looking at that “window of opportunity.” My older children were now too old for Santa pictures. I had a few minutes to spare. I looked at Paul in the backseat— evidence of lunch and snacks dominating what had started the day as a nice outfit. No matter, he always had spare clothes in his backpack.

  In the parking lot, in the biting wind, we stripped off the soiled shirt. When I reached into the backpack for the spare, I pulled out an orange T-shirt—not exactly Christmas picture attire. I quickly dismissed this as a problem. Orange is a nice bright color and, hey, the shirt was clean. As I slid the shirt over my son’s head, between the wind and the excitement of getting dressed in the parking lot, he had decided to be ticklish. He laughed, thrashed about, and resisted my every attempt to put on the shirt, stretching the neck of the shirt significantly before it was finally in place. Determined not to give up on the opportunity, we headed in to find Santa. Paul was excited about seeing Santa, actually requesting it, and I was not going to break the momentum. He resisted sitting on Santa’s lap, but Santa and his helpers were patient. A small line began to form behind us as he circled around Santa, maintaining at least a three-foot distance. “We have to go,” I said to him sadly. We had used up our time, and others were waiting.

  “Take all the time you need,” said Santa’s helper. When Santa offered to read him a story, my son could no longer resist, and he settled into the chair beside Santa. He looked up in his orange T-shirt with the stretched-out neck, glasses crooked on his nose, and smiled broadly as the picture was snapped. “Would this picture be okay?” the assistant inquired as she let me take a look.

  “Yes, it is perfect,” I beamed.

  What a lesson I have learned in this journey from perfection to reality. Yes, my life is more difficult and complicated having a special-needs child. Yes, there are times I am self-conscious, frustrated, and overwhelmed. But as I proudly carried my hard-earned Santa picture to the car, hand in hand with my little one, I realized that perfection is in the eyes of the beholder. And I have learned that through the eyes of a mother, all three of my children are absolutely perfect!

  Carol Sue Hahn

  Dear Santa

  Santa, can you bring me a long forgotten smile?

  Santa, can you bring me the happiness of a child?

  Santa, can you just hold my hand

  and walk with me awhile?

  Down memory lane we’ll wander,

  while Christmas dreams do rush,

  Past our empty-nested homes,

  we’ll whisper in a hush.

  Please help me to remember those years of tinsel past,

  When our homes were filled with happy cheers,

  We always thought would last.

  When getting wakened early on Christmas morn,

  Brought them peeking ’round the stairs,

  And the pitter patter of little feet

  was something we once shared.

  Santa, can you make a snowflake fall gently upon my nose?

  Can you bundle me up so warm,

  in all my winter clothes?

  Can you take me sledding

  down the hill at North Side park?

  Santa, can you please bring back

  just a tiny Christmas spark?

  Can we unwrap some laughter and some extra fuzzy hugs?

  I’ll help you warm the cocoa in some extra jumbo mugs!

  If you could help me bring back some forgotten memories,

  I made a promise to the Christ child

  I’d drop down to my knees.

  I’ll say a prayer for Christmas peace

  and lend a helping hand,

  And ride around the globe with you tonight

  with a message for this land.

  Cherish each day as it happens,

  put anger and sadness aside,

  with the Christ child in the manger,

  is where happiness resides.

  Santa, I want to say thank you

  for bringing me Christmas cheer.

  Jesus, I want to say thank you for calming all my fears.

  E.M.Hector

  Skinny Santa

  I heard a rumor recently—no doubt it has evolved as only rumors do, increasing and changing in its passing— and I feel compelled to do my part in its progression, so I’m passing it along to you.

  Someone, somewhere has started a petition to put Santa Claus on a diet.

  Can you believe it? His image has faltered. He is no longer deemed a good role model for the youth of today.

  He is overweight. His unselfish generosity has been overshadowed by his own mass.

  If the facts were known, it would come to light that the very people signing the petition are the ones to blame for his current predicament. What parent has not p
rompted starry-eyed children to race to the kitchen before bed on Christmas Eve and produce a delightful treat for the year’s most anticipated visitor? We are the ones who left the cookies and the milk where he was obligated to acknowledge our hospitality by leaving only crumbs and a water ring on the coffee table.

  What is the world coming to? The fact that Jolly Old Saint Nick is now considered weight-challenged will shed an entirely new light on the whole Christmas season.

  The Night Before Christmas will never be the same:

  He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

  But now he’s taboo, in spite of himself!

  The happy old man in the bright red suit has become a bad influence. Not only does he not eat right, but he obviously doesn’t get enough exercise. To make matters worse, he is portrayed as smoking a pipe!

  If we’re going to town on the old boy, I’d like to call attention to the fact that he’s dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. What self-respecting person, elf or not, would make a fashion statement like that? This should be added to the petition. As well, it is probably inhumane to keep reindeer up all night pulling a heavy, gift-laden sleigh.

  Santa needs a new image. He has to get with the program, say the makers of petitions, the guardians of what is right and good.

  There is a little child somewhere inside me quivering right now. Wide-eyed, it’s watching as the powers-that-be muck with the magic of my favorite time of year. Santa has never been the true meaning of Christmas. He is merely a tool in its delivery. He is the spirit of giving—of secret giving. The faith of children in something they can’t fathom.

  The thanks they give to something unseen.