Free The Book of Christmas Virtues by Jack Canfield Page B

banister up to the second floor of the big colonial house. She sat me down in a pink frilly chair and took my brush from the grooming set on the dresser top.
    â€œNow, doesn’t that feel better?” she asked as she loosened my long braids and with her competent hands, pulled the bristle brush through my thick auburn tresses.
    The spasms of crying relaxed. A sniffle sputtered out. A whimper crept away. Finally, I filled my grief-weary lungs with one long restorative breath.
    Under my aunt’s soothing strokes of kindness, my head tilted back and forth. The rhythm, much like that of a rocking chair, changed the sadness of the day into the peace of the moment.
    Sometime later, my braids and I bounced down the stairs. At my appearance in the living room, I heard a combined breath drawn. I leaned over the box of ornaments and, by coincidence, chose the large glass teardrop. This tear wasn’t sad; it was merry, very merry—shocking pink with gold embroidered trim. When I hung it on the fragrant spruce, I felt a combined sigh of relief around me.
    â€œHere,” said Grandfather, as he handed me his peace offering of fresh pecans. With aged fingers around a silver nutcracker and pick, he had labored to extract the meat of six unbroken pieces for his granddaughter.
    â€œThanks, they’re my favorite.” I popped one into my mouth.
    It seemed like someone suddenly flipped a power switch. The stereo hummed “Winter Wonderland.” Sequins whizzed onto Styrofoam balls, powdered sugar onto cookies. And my brother zoomed toward the door, skates over his shoulder, “Anyone wanna join me at the park?”
    Funny how on that tragic day, all the season’s colorful trimmings and trappings combined had not been able to restore Christmas joy like one plain bristle brush in my aunt’s hands. To be sure, I never forgot Blackie. But within a few days, a new collie dog had curled up beside me on the Oriental rug.
    Margaret Lang

A Slice of Life
    Jean heaved another world-weary sigh. Tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear, she frowned at the teetering tower of Christmas cards waiting to be signed. What was the point? How could she sign only one name? That was half a couple, not a whole.
    The legal separation from Don left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she could skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had cancelled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. After all, Christmas was supposed to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.
    The doorbell’s insistent ring startled her. Padding across the floor in her thick socks, Jean cracked the door open against the frigid December night. She peered into empty darkness. Instead of a friendly face—something she could use about now—she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the porch railing. From whom, she wondered, and why?
    Under the bright kitchen light, she pulled out handfuls of shredded gold tinsel, feeling for a gift. Instead, her fingers plucked an envelope from the bottom. Tucked inside was a typed letter. No, it was a . . . story?
    The little boy was new to the overpopulated orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.
    From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree to appear in the hall on Christmas Eve. Of scores of candles that would light its branches. Of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.
    The little boy’s eyes opened wide at the mere thought. The only Christmas trees he’d seen were through the fogged windows of other people’s homes. There was even more, the children insisted. More? Oh, yes! Instead of the orphanage’s regular fare of gruel, they would be served fragrant stew and crusty hot bread that special night.
    Last and best of all, the little boy learned, each of them would