Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas (6 page)

I opened both of the ice-cream cups, unwrapped a wooden spoon, and passed them to her.

We talked while she ate.

That was almost fifty Christmases ago, but I can still picture those sparkling blue eyes and recall the wonderful feeling that came from giving another the priceless gift of my time.

Carol (Pearce) Forrest as told to John Forrest

The Nativity Story

We stumbled upon the manger scene one December night. It was a live nativity scene in front of a small church. I was on the way home from a Christmas party with my two children, nine and six, who had jumped and played and eaten too much pizza, cake, and candy canes.

The excitement of the season had reached an almost unbearable climax as they discussed what Santa might bring this year.

While driving, I pointed out, “Oh, look a live nativity scene!” My six-year-old exclaimed, “A donkey! Let's go see.” The traffic was heavy with Christmas shoppers, and it would take a few maneuvers and more patience than I had after two hours in a Jumping Party Zone with thirty-plus children giddy on holiday snacks, but I nevertheless decided to add this wonderful, unanticipated reminder of the season to our agenda. I made a U-turn and waited for traffic to clear.

Only a few cars were there when we finally turned into the parking lot of the small church. I guess many others' mental flipping of the coin had landed the other way, and they had decided to keep driving and stick to the to-do list they had so close to Christmas.

We walked toward the scene. It was sweet and not elaborate, what one would expect of a small church production. There were no words, other than those from the audience milling about, sipping hot cocoa, and talking quietly. We were welcomed by a woman with smiling eyes, and I commented, “We were just driving by and had
to stop.”

“That's the point,” the woman said kindly. “We're glad you did. The kids can feed the donkey and the goats if they'd like.”

If they'd like?
I thought.
Are you kidding me?
The feeding of livestock was the point of our stopping. They were not able to see baby Jesus from the busy street, after all.

The kids moseyed toward the goats first and petted them, but the donkey was the main attraction. They measured food into their hands and offered it to the animal. The donkey did not seem very interested, but he did try to take a nibble at my son's elbow. Both of the kids giggled.

After the donkey incident, I watched my daughter, Shelby, as she walked toward the manger scene. It had taken a while for her to turn her full attention to it as the distractions of the animals had kept her busy. But now I could see in her face the slow recognition of the scene in front of her. She walked sideways, tentatively and slowly gazing at the little stable scene, lit by a bright spotlight. The cast included Mary, Joseph, and several toddlers dressed as angels, complete with golden garland looping their small heads.

I witnessed a most striking image that burned into my memory forever—my nine-year-old daughter walking in front of that spotlight.With clarity on her face, she realized that she had wandered into the light that was meant for Jesus. She humbly walked to the side, joining the audience of witnesses.

I was tearful nearly the whole way home. In-between admonishing the kids not to touch each other with their livestock-contaminated hands, I played the moment with Shelby's viewing over and over in my mind.

The moments we had just shared were a perfect metaphor for the season. The busy traffic and parties had nearly kept us away from the story of Jesus. I had come inches from not stopping, from not taking the time and energy.

I thought of my children kneeling at the side of that pen, their intensity focused on ensuring that the goats were full and happy. And I remembered,most of all, the light cast on the baby Jesus, illuminating him and my children's images.

This Christmas I pray for a child's humble eyes to see the meaning I witnessed. I pray that, not just at Christmas, but during all the days of this life, I am able to follow the light of what's truly important, to follow the to-do list placed before me by the Holy Spirit and not placed on me by the distractions of this world. As I drove home that dark evening, I recounted what I had said when we stopped. “We were just driving by and had to stop.” And then the prophetic words spoken straight from God, I now believe, “That's the point.” To notice the light and stop.

Amy Breitmann

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

2
THROUGH
THE EYES OF
A CHILD

I
f you can't accept anything on faith, you
are doomed to a life dominated by doubt.

Kris Kringle,
Miracle on 34th Street

Once a Year

T
he only gift is a portion of thyself.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Lindy,” the young boy whispered. His eager tug continued at her sleeve until his little sister's curly head
turned on her pillow.

“Lindy, wake up. It's Christmas.” The words were like cold water to the six-year-old's eyes, wakening her from a deep sleep. Sitting up, she blinked and peered around. It was still dark, but it was an unspoken rule that once you woke up after falling asleep, no matter the time, it was officially Christmas morning. So she pushed her blankets aside and let her other older brother take her by the hand and lead her to the staircase.

Although Lindy was the youngest of five children, this time with her brothers and sister was a secret delight of her own. For it was on this special day of the year that she was willingly included in their adventure. She smiled inwardly, her heart picking up its pace as anticipation set in. Each child would gasp when his or her name was on a particularly large present. With eager fingers, they would tear the many tiny packages their mother had painstakingly wrapped to fill their stockings.

The two middle boys giggled as they took turns sliding down the long, wooden banister.

“Shh,” the oldest sister warned with a wide smile.

“You're going to wake up Mom and Dad.” She turned to Lindy, taking her other hand. “Come on, Lin.”

The warm fuzzies in Lindy's stomach grew to near exploding. Willingly, she let her sister and brother take her down the orange carpeted stairs.
If they only knew,
she thought to herself, but she knew she would never tell them. Taken by the hand, escorted into their plans with excitement and such gentle care, was Lindy's best Christmas gift ever.

Lindy B. Dolan

Christmas in the Heart of a Child

E
very child comes with a message that
God is not yet discouraged of man.

Rabindranth Tagore

It was my turn at church to serve communion to the elderly people who can't make it to the church services. Kallie went with me, clinging to her Beanie Baby. She loved that doll more than anything!

We went to serve the first person on our list at a local nursing home. He was a kindly old gentleman named George. I had visited him before. He was pleasant and physically spry for his age. He seemed happy to see us. My daughter communicates well with the elderly. She immediately gave him a big hug (Beanie Baby and all). The smile on his face seemed to grow from the depths of his heart. There is nothing like the love of a little child to brighten one's day.

I asked George if he had any family around, and he said no. I asked him how he had been doing, to which he replied, “Not very well.” He said he just wasn't having a good day. However, George maintained a great attitude about his health, and he knew that God was in control. As

I glanced over at my daughter, I could see the sympathy in her eyes. It was the kind that only a child can feel in her somewhat limited understanding of an adult world, but a pure kind of sympathy that knows no age boundaries.

After I had served communion, we started saying our good-byes, but as he did the last time I visited him, George got up and said he would walk us out. He said it was good for him to get up and walk from time to time.

When we exited the building, he kept on walking through the courtyard with us, right to the gate out by the street. I shook his hand and thanked him for walking us out. He seemed grateful to have had visitors and thanked us.

Then it happened—my daughter really caught me off guard. As she went to hug George good-bye, she held up her Beanie Baby and said, “You can have him.” I found myself wanting to leap forward and say, “No, you don't have to . . .” but I was frozen in my tracks. George bent down and took it from her with a smile and a hug. I was stunned. My mind was trying to comprehend what I had just witnessed. My eight-year-old daughter had just shown me Christ in action. Her love and compassion were a natural and immediate manifestation of her love and obedience. What self-sacrifice! I could only hope and pray to love and give so willingly.

As we made our way to my truck, I turned and looked back at George. Burned into my mind forever would be the memory of a bent-over old man, who had just been touched by God through the heart of a little child, shuffling back to his confinement and clutching a little smiley-faced Beanie Baby.

My vision was blurred from watery eyes as I told my daughter how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. “You just made God smile!”

Lane Clayton as told to Joan Clayton

A Little Angel's Big Prayer

W
hile we try to teach our children all about
life, our children teach us what life is all about.

Unknown

When I heard my father's voice on our answering machine that day six years ago, I knew instantly why he was calling. He is far too deaf to use a phone anymore. It had to mean that my mother had died.

And she had, quite suddenly. The demands of organizing the funeral pushed us through the next days, held up by a chain of prayer with links all over the world. Her recent illness meant that, despite the pain of our loss, this really was her Lord's reprieve. My sister and I both felt this, which made my mother feel very close to us.

But my father seemed encased in a mountain of ice, moving through the hours in sad-faced silence. Her near-constant companion for sixty years, he couldn't visualize life without her—and didn't seem to want to try.

I was relieved when he accepted my offer to stay on with him for a week after every one else had left. But, eventually, I had to return home, too. He lasted six days on his own, then collapsed. My sister brought him back to her new home, midway between his Florida one and mine in New Hampshire. He was admitted to a nearby hospital for surgery, and for the second time in three weeks, I boarded a plane on short notice.

I was appalled when I saw him. My sister and I knew that, regardless of his illness, he was really fighting to find the will to live—and might not succeed. My prayers begged God to sustain him, to help him feel God's love, as well as ours. But as Dad became increasingly unresponsive, my heart sank more heavily than ever.

On Christmas Eve, I asked God to help me do what I could, surrender to him what I couldn't, and trust that he held Dad in his loving hands, whatever the outcome.

I forced myself to go to the hospital the next morning, where I was astonished to see Dad sitting up. Though he'd been immobile in bed for nearly two weeks, he had taken not one, but two walks that morning, the nurse told me.

His eyes were very bright when I arrived. “Hon, I've got to get out of here,” he said. “Your mother sent a little angel last night, who told me that's what God wants me to do— get up and go on with my life.”

As if to test his sincerity, circumstances prevented his discharge on the holiday, which meant I had a chance to learn more about that “little angel” when a friend called to wish me a happy Christmas.

A treasured prayer companion, she has an admirable godmother's relationship with her five-year-old nephew.

She takes her duty to champion his spiritual life very seriously, and they talk together about God all the time.

“Tristan was here Sunday,” she said. “We found a scraggly branch, stuck it in the snow, and made a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. As we decorated it, he looked at me and asked, ‘Auntie Di, are you okay?'”