Free For the Love of Christmas by Jeanne Bice Page A

could make the transition easier for her, help her settle in. It’s hard for her, being away from home at Christmastime.” She turns briskly into the hallway. “Maybe this will help.”
    We walk toward a room halfway down the west-wing corridor.
    â€œLucille. Lucille?” We raise our voices and rap firmly at her open door to announce our presence. “Look what we have for you.”
    The ninety-six-year-old perches in her ­wheelchair like a tiny wren. She turns her head away and refuses to acknowledge us. “It’s cold in here,” she complains to the wall. “It’s cold in here and I can’t get warm.”
    â€œLucille, just look. We brought something special.” I spread the small lap robe on the bed near her side. “It’s a quilt. For you.”
    â€œFor . . . me?” Her voice is as wrinkled as her face.
    â€œYes, for you.” I grin into her eyes. “Merry ­Christmas!”
    After a lengthy, doubtful pause, she looks up and asks peevishly, “How much will it cost me?”
    â€œNothing,” I assure her. “It’s free, a gift. A woman named Lois made it just for you. For Christmas.”
    â€œA gift? You’re sure it’s not going to cost?” Lucille stretches a trembling palm to brush across the yarn’s fluff and eyes me uncertainly. “For . . . me?” I nod. And, with a tenderness belying her querulous attitude, she runs a bent finger across the small card Lois had attached to the quilt.
    Her ridged, yellowed fingernail inches along. First, Lucille traces Christ’s white robe, next his gentle face, and, at last, his outstretched arms. The full length of one, then the entire length of the other.
    And she sighs from the depths of her heart as she draws the soft Christmas quilt to her cheek. “Now, I’m warm. For the first time since coming here, I finally feel warm.”
    Thanks to Lois and her pact with God.

Yuletide in the Tropics
    By Connie Alexander Huddleston
    â€œI t’s a shame we don’t know someone else to help eat this food,” I said to my husband, as I attempted to squeeze a tropical fruit salad into the overflowing refrigerator.
    In a little more than an hour, we would share our Christmas Eve dinner with a family that worked with us at Hogar Misionero, a school for missionaries’ children in Panama. Another missionary family that lived in the Darien jungle and worked with the Kuna tribe would join us, too.
    But our neighbors had their own celebrations planned, and the rest of the school staff had gone interior to celebrate with mission families staying at their jungle stations during the holidays.
    â€œIt would be nice to have more guests for dinner,” my husband agreed, “but I don’t know who else we could invite on such short notice. I’m just glad the Simmons and Horvats can come.”
    â€œSo am I. Between our three families, we’ll have enough youngsters to act out the Christmas story tonight.”
    With the food preparation done, I began decorating the dining table. I used artificial evergreen branches paired with fresh red hibiscus from our yard. Like many parts of our celebration since we had come to Panama, the centerpiece was a mixture of the traditional and the tropical.
    An artificial tree we brought from the United States stood in front of an open window through which the warm breezes of the dry season blew. The tree was festooned in glass bulbs and plastic snowflakes, but its branches also held straw stars woven by the women of the Choco tribe and appliquéd fish and birds that were needlework creations of the Kunas.
    As I placed the last flower in the arrangement, I heard someone calling at the gate.
    â€œHello, Brian, you’re early,” I greeted. “Where’s the rest of your family?”
    â€œOh, I’m here to let you know we can’t make it tonight,” Brian said. “A family from our Kuna