Read Online Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online

doll” I requested.
    Before creeping back upstairs, I glanced into the living room at the tree, bright with color, and festooned with an abundance of presents that had materialized since I’d kissed everyone good night and gone to bed.
    I quickly got under the covers and told my brother what I’d seen. Apparently, our parents did help Santa provide the bounty of Christmas morning, but I decided to watch for his coming anyway, just to see what he’d bring.
    I dozed off and on in excitement, waking throughout the night to peer out the window at the stars, hoping to see Santa Claus streak across the sky. I never saw him, nor did I hear the sleigh bells jingle his arrival, but sleep overcame my desire to stay awake, and so I missed him.
    We woke early on Christmas morning and eventually gathered together around the tree, under which more gifts had been added to indicate Santa had indeed come. When I first entered the living room, however, I only had eyes for the beautiful doll adorned in wedding finery, sitting serenely in a chair, a queen on a throne. She was the same one from the kitchen table, only transformed by her gown and veil.
    I was told the doll had been given to my mother when she was a young girl in the years following her birth in 1910. Instructed to handle her carefully, I knew that meant I was to love her with gentle hands.
    A doll was under the tree every Christmas after that, until in time I had acquired an enviable collection: a red-haired Ginny doll, a brunette Jill doll, Tiny Tears, and assorted dolls with wardrobes made by my mother.
    December 1954 gave me an enlightened understanding of Santa Claus. The true generosity of the real St. Nicholas was aided by my grandmother, my parents, and the individuals who gave themselves to help children and others experience a blessed Christmas. His legendary spirit was alive and active in my parents throughout their lifetime, blessing our family with memories fine and dear. They made wonderful Santa’s helpers!
    Ann Greenleaf Wirtz
    Ann As previously appeared in the Times News, December 2006.

The Christmas Gift
    A child’s love is like a whisper,
given in little ways we do not hear. . . .
It is never ending
A blessing from above
Listen to the whispers of a child’s love.
    Sue Ellen Chandler
    On Christmas Eve, I would be the only one in our home stirring, always the last to get to bed. I needed to stay up late to help Santa with his customary night’s work.
    Gifts that we could afford were wrapped and placed beneath an evergreen tree decorated for the most part with handmade ornaments. Our tree was tiny, but once decorated with our personal touch, it always seemed to have a peaceful, natural glow.
    We had long tucked our little ones into their beds with their dreams of Christmas morning still dancing in their heads. (At least, I thought they were all fast asleep in their beds.) When I turned off the last of the living-room lights, I noticed one still on at the far end of the hall.
    Quite surprised, I slipped silently down the hall toward the light, careful not to make a sound in hopes of seeing just what was going on in my wee lassie’s room at this late-night hour. Her door was not quite shut, so I peeked in. I could see our sweet bonnie lass sitting alone on the floor of her room, struggling to wrap an old, tattered shoe box. She appeared to have all the right gear, only lacking the skill that would come in a few short years.
    â€œLittle one,” I softly said, “what are you doing up so late and out of your bed? Santa may not come if you’re still awake.”
    She replied, “Daddy, I wanted to give Santa a gift.”
    â€œBut, sweetheart,” I replied, “we left him shortbread and milk. He always likes that.”
    She sighed deeply as if to say that I just did not understand and then continued, “But, Daddy, this one is more special than that.”
    I sat down beside her and asked her to show me