Free For the Love of Christmas by Jeanne Bice

caressed the red paint. He sucked in a big breath of air, held it, and swallowed, then turned and smiled at his mom. “Okay, Mom,” his voice quivered, “we can go now.”
    His mother slipped an arm around her son and hugged him to her.
    Suddenly, someone called out. The voice sounded so familiar to me, and I quickly realized—it was my own.
    â€œSon, would you like to have that bike?” I heard myself say. But the words didn’t sound like mine; they sounded more like my father’s. “Would you like that bike for your very own? Well, you’ve got it, son. It’s yours. Merry Christmas!” I put my hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just remember, when you’re older and able, buy some other kid a bike.”
    I signaled the floor salesman to prepare the bike. After I paid for it, I walked away and out the door. My own emotions felt visible, like I was ­wearing them on the outside. After all, I had just had an encounter with my own father; I’d found him within myself.
    â€œThanks, Dad,” I whispered, “for showing me exactly what to do. And thanks again, too, for my own red bike.”

Drawn to the Warmth
    By Carol McAdoo Rehme
    M y longtime friend and neighbor Lois is eighty-five. Eighty-five years young, that is. And she’s always busy. Painting the interior of her house, weeding her garden, crocheting gifts for her large, extended family—and quilting.
    â€œWell, not really quilting,” she says. “I search tag sales all summer long for yard goods and scrap batting and skeins of yarn. Then I cut them to size, bind the edges, and tie them in time for Christmas.”
    But, as she’s quick to point out, they aren’t even really quilts. She’s selected a smaller version to make. “Lap robes” Lois calls them.
    â€œBig enough to warm arthritic limbs, small enough not to tangle in the spokes of wheelchairs.” Lois smiles as she hands me this week’s supply. “They’re the perfect size for the old folks in the nursing homes.”
    That’s who this spry octogenarian sews for, the old folks.
    â€œWhat, only ten this time?” I tease as I admire the cheery patterns. “Are you slowing down or just getting lazy?”
    â€œOh, but I’ve got four dozen cut out and ready to put together,” she twinkles back. “They need to be done and delivered by Christmas. I’ll have more for you on Monday.”
    And I know she will; she always does.
    Smiling, I remind her that the staff members will want to know her name so they can send her thank-you notes.
    â€œNo.” Lois shakes her head in firm rejection of the idea. “This is just between me and God.” She points at one of the gift tags she always secures to a bound edge with a strand of bright yarn. Today’s card is a picture of Christ in flowing robes, with his hands outstretched. “Just between me and God, to bring a little warmth.”
    I take the fleece lap robes and my bag of piano music to the holiday sing-along. This one is at the Berthoud Living Center, only ten miles away.
    â€œMore quilts,” I chant to the activity director. She reaches for them with an eagerness I’ve come to expect: each area facility admires Lois’s handiwork and contributions and disperses them where they are most needed.
    â€œLet’s take this one to Lucille.” The activity director pulls one from the middle, printed with dainty holly berries and slender candy canes. Lois had tied the fabric with cheery red yarn. “I hope this helps.”
    â€œIs Lucille a new resident?”
    â€œGoing on two weeks now. She arrived worrying and complaining—and hasn’t stopped since. According to her, the expense is ‘bothersome’ and it’s too cold here, ‘always too cold.’ Lucille just can’t seem to get warm.” She gives a mighty sigh and her voice softens. “I just wish we