Free The Book of Christmas Virtues by Jack Canfield Page A

The project evolved into a group effort involving dozens, each contributing thirty identical items.
    â€œThis year’s bags are worth seventy dollars each.” Carmen bobs her head in delight. “And they’re stuffed so full that next Christmas I’ll need even bigger ones!”
    I wonder about the men at Shalom House and decide to visit the shelter after Christmas. It sits at the end of an empty lot, as abandoned as a beat-up toy. The inside is clean and homey, but unexpectedly quiet this time of morning; the men left early, hoping to find work.
    But Carmen’s friend, diminutive Mary Kay, is here. Resident mother and grandmother of Shalom House, she tends its day-to-day operations with stoic perseverance— as she has for seventeen years now.
    â€œBy the time they arrive here, the men have no place left to go,” she says. “Shalom House represents hope— clean clothes, a hot meal, a bed and a family atmosphere. At least for a few days.”
    When I admire the well-adorned Christmas tree in the corner of the dining room, Mary Kay invites me on a tour.
    The back room is lined with fifteen metal-framed bunk beds. A stuffed panda swings from a red ribbon over bunk #14. Shirts hang from the rafters because there is no room for dressers or lockers. A large closet is full of clean shirts, pants, underwear and socks.
    â€œMost of the men arrive with just the clothes on their backs,” she explains.
    â€œWhat about Carmen’s goodie bags?” I ask.
    â€œThose sacks are the only present many of the men receive.” Mary Kay points to a bunk bed, and I recognize the unmistakable evidence of Carmen’s trademark taped above it: a shiny red Christmas card embossed with the picture of gift-bearing wise men.
    â€œAnd do the men enjoy the gifts?” I wonder, still worried that it’s too little, too . . . insignificant.
    But Mary Kay rolls her eyes. “They love them. Why, the men immediately sit on their bunks, pour out the contents and start bartering. They get as excited as little boys trading baseball cards!”
    Back in my car, I sit for a minute and start brainstorming about what I can contribute to Carmen’s project next year. Umbrellas would be nice. Woolly stocking caps could be good. Or maybe some hand warmers?
    Sheila Myers

Stroke by Stroke
    I pushed through the crowd huddled in winter coats. There lay Blackie in the snowy street. I fell at my collie’s feet and spread my arms around her as if to protect her from further injury. Not a car stirred that cold Sunday morning—nothing moved at all except her soft tricolor fur and my tears.
    â€œWhy don’t they come?” I looked at the sad faces above me. “Why don’t they hurry?” I was sure they would save her life . . . unfortunately there was nothing left to save.
    My parents led me away, while, hand stretched back to my beloved pet, I called out to her for the last time, “Blackie, oh, Blackie.”
    Christmas joy extinguished as fast as the hit-and-run vehicle had skidded along the icy road. Tinsel on the tree lost its sparkle, stockings by the fireplace their promise, red and green chocolate kisses their sweetness. Without a collie curled up on the Oriental rug, gray became the holiday color.
    Mom lost interest in her baking. My cousins no longer pinned sequins on Styrofoam balls. My brother abandoned his ice skates. Worst of all, the carols on the stereo could not be heard above my relentless wail. The crying jag took on a life all its own. Even Dad’s lap, usually the solution for all problems, held no answers at this time.
    Until Grandfather got involved. “Can’t someone stop that noise?”
    Startled, I held my breath . . . not certain it was safe to sob anymore.
    My Aunt Veramina’s gentle words softened the atmosphere. “Come with me to your room, Margaret, so I can brush your hair.”
    My hand in hers, we followed the garland-wrapped