The Book of Christmas Virtues Read Online Free Page B

distributing more toys. One tiny girl ran after us for a good two hundred yards. When she finally reached the driver’s side door, she was ecstatic to receive a small toy. As we drove on, an older girl grabbed the gift and left her sobbing among the crowd.
    Distressed, at the next stop we explained what had happened and asked Ginet to drive back and search the village. At last, Clare and Bridget spotted the child outside her shack, still crying. When we replaced the toy, her smile was jubilant.
    Naturally, questions haunted us during our stay:
    How should we handle Christmas with our own children?
    Would they expect gifts on Christmas morning?
    Surrounded by such poverty, could we justify our giving and receiving?
    As Steve and I pondered the situation and faced our choices, we couldn’t help making comparisons between these different cultural traditions.
    We saw Christmas in Peru celebrated so simply—with Las Posadas to commemorate the journey of Mary and Joseph, bonfires, panettone (Italian bread) and leche de chocolate (hot cocoa). There were no Christmas trees, no gifts exchanged and no Santa Claus. The only reason for the season was the Holy Family and Christ’s birth. The focus was clearly on people, relationships and doing for others.
    What greater gift could we give our own children?
    In the end, we presented each with a tiny finger harp from Kenya and a small token from Santa. As a family, we spent Christmas morning writing down what we hoped for each other. Those scraps of paper and their thoughtful words remain priceless to this day, and our children still revel in the memory of that humble celebration.
    We had gone to volunteer and bring Christmas to the poor. Instead, the villagers of Piura brought a richer, deeper sense of Christmas to us —Christmas without the trappings.
    Toby Abraham-Rhine

A Hush in the Rush
    I always began December with Big Plans: baking ten kinds of cookies, decorating the house creatively and entertaining lavishly.
    One bright morning in early December, while butter softened for the press cookies and yeast grew in sugar and water, the telephone rang. My recently widowed friend needed to talk. An hour passed. The butter melted; the yeast spilled over the bowl. And the clock was ticking. We chatted a bit longer, and her mood lightened as we made plans to meet.
    A voice inside reminded me, Christmas is, after all, about generosity.
    Our lunch the next day lasted longer than I anticipated, and snail-paced traffic slowed my trip home. When a car cut into my lane, a flash of anger almost kept me from seeing the old man waiting to cross the street. I braked to a stop and motioned him on.
    Patience, whispered the inner voice, allow time for kindness.
    While I rushed to wash my front windows before decorating them, an elderly neighbor threw a sweater over her shoulders and came over to pass the time. It got lonely, she confided, with her son and his wife at work all day. Reluctantly, I set aside the spray cleaner and the rags.
    â€œWould you like to come in for a cup of tea?” I heard myself asking.
    Ah, I heard the voice say, you’re getting the idea.
    Armed with a lengthy master list, I hurried off on the grim task of shopping. After an exhausting battle with crowds in overheated stores, I emerged triumphant and smug. Outside the mall, bell ringers shivered in the blowing snow, and I felt compelled to pull out my last bill for their plump kettle.
    â€œThank you, ma’am! Merry Christmas!”
    I see you’re learning sacrifice, too, the voice praised.
    Later in the week, my daughter called long-distance, desperate for a heart-to-heart talk. I glanced at the unwrapped presents strewn across the floor. I looked at my watch. And back at the piles. Then I remembered the loneliness and isolation and frustration of young motherhood— and settled in the overstuffed chair for a long, leisurely chat.
    â€œCheck back with me again this afternoon,” I said,