Read Online For the Love of Christmas by Jeanne Bice - Free Book Online Page B

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    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œWhy didn’t anyone wish Jesus happy birthday?”
    â€œWould you like to do that?” Dad asked.
    Andy nodded and leaned toward the crèche. “Happy birthday,” he called out.
    Before anyone could comment, he looked at me and frowned a second time. “What’s wrong, now?” I asked.
    â€œWhy didn’t the choir sing the birthday song?”
    â€œWell,” his dad questioned, “would you like to do that, too?”
    Andy nodded and sang “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you” as loud as his young voice could project. When he finished, his smile widened in total satisfaction. Andy beamed at the sudden spurt of applause from those who had gathered around the manger scene, drawn by his sincere performance.
    Obviously pleased with the attention—and just as obviously uninhibited—free-spirited Andy turned to the growing crowd at the altar. He opened his arms, extended palm up, praise-fashion, and asked, “Why don’t we all sing the birthday song?”
    Who could refuse an invitation like that on Christmas Day?
    Enthusiastic voices soon filled St. Peter’s Church, lifted in a jubilant rendition of the familiar children’s song. By the pure joy on Andy’s face, I knew my young son did, indeed, understand the true meaning of the occasion. And, with innocent simplicity, he managed to remind us all as we celebrated that Christmas Day.
    â€œHappy birthday, Baby Jesus. Happy birthday to you.”

The Red Bike
    By J. Vincent Dugas
    I t was a typical Christmas Eve afternoon. Lines of traffic jammed the mall parking lots, cars vying for spaces close to the building. I had finished all my family shopping and it was still early. I decided to wander the huge toy department and enjoy the childhood memories I always found there.
    After browsing aisles, making mental judgments on how toys in my day seemed so much better and more exciting than modern plastic ones, I found myself amid an array of bicycles. I slowed my pace.
    There were bikes of all sizes, colors, and types. Some had conventional pedals, some had derailleurs, and others had even more sophisticated gearing devices. As I ran my fingers along the shiny painted surfaces of those magic vehicles, my thoughts skidded to the memory of my first bike.
    I smiled a bit, thinking back to the day when my dad walked the little red bike across the road from the bicycle shop where he’d gone to use a phone. Dad had tricked me; he hadn’t needed a phone. He went in to buy the bike—a twenty-four-incher with an electric horn. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.
    I remembered how the horn battery dislodged from its clip every time I hit a bump and laughed out loud as I thought of my adventures on that magic little bike. It was a long time ago, but I recalled how hard my dad worked for the twenty-two dollars needed to buy the two-wheeler.
    I stopped to examine one that looked just like mine. Red and shiny, it had balloon tires and an electric horn. Wow! I thought. I could buy this bike now and take it home just for the pleasure of looking at it. I bent down to read the price tag: ninety-nine dollars. Not a bad price even sixty-five years later!
    Laughing to myself, I turned to continue my stroll through the store and nearly bumped into a little kid. The boy’s huge brown eyes ogled the red bike. I paused when I saw something else in his eyes, something that told another story. They held more than a child’s desire for a new possession. They held the knowledge he’d never have a bike like that, but that it surely couldn’t hurt to look,
to . . . imagine. And in that young boy’s imagination was a world of wonder.
    My eyes shifted to the mother who stood behind the boy. She looked at her son, her moist eyes apologetic. I knew she could not afford to buy him the bike, and she knew he would not ask for it.
    The boy reached out and