The Book of Christmas Virtues by Jack Canfield Page A

scooted up the ladder, raced the length of the board and belly flopped into a splash that surprised even Daddy. Diane held back while her younger sister climbed the ladder and, with only a bit of coaxing, took hesitant steps to the edge. Wanda gave one half-hearted bounce, flung her arms upward in complete abandon and practically threw herself into Daddy’s open arms.
    â€œYour turn, punkin’.”
    Diane counted the five steps on the ladder. Twice. Once going up—and again scurrying down.
    â€œDon’t be afraid,” Daddy called.
    Even though her knees buckled, Diane made it up the ladder at last. She sidled the length of the diving board and curled her toes in a death grip over the edge. Wet and shivering, lips quivering, teeth chattering, she looked down, down . . . down to where Daddy treaded.
    â€œI’ll catch you,” Daddy reassured her.
    And Diane trusted. She leapt. Right into his arms.
    Sometimes we must dare our souls to go further than is comfortable, further—at times—than we can see. That’s how we practice faith; we actually create more faith—stronger faith—by trusting. In Daddy. In ourselves. In God. And to trust is, of course, to triumph.
    And so it is that catchphrases abound, reminding us to build our faith:
    Keep the faith.
    Feed your faith.
    Have faith.
    Faith moves mountains.
    As we exercise our faith, our lives grow stronger. We build our faith into muscle. And it becomes progressively easier to exercise trust and to believe. To realize dreams, achieve goals and fulfill ambitions.
    Until, somewhere along the journey, we learn that an all-encompassing faith is our passport to joy.

Everybody Loves Santa
    One Christmas season I helped Santa Claus by filling in for him at a small shopping mall. Instead of the usual assembly line of children, I enjoyed spontaneous visits with little tots bearing lists of toys, as well as the occasional surprise visits with teenagers and adults.
    A bright, happy and chatty three-and-a-half-year-old sat on my lap, asking questions and answering mine. Finally, looking me in the eye, she said, “I thought you were fake. You’re real!” Her doubts removed, I’m sure she had a magical Christmas.
    A pair of fifteen-year-old boys ran up, hugged me lovingly and, grinning, asked, “Will you bring us each a motor-cycle?” After a brief chat, they walked away chuckling.
    A young father paid the elf photographer for a single picture. “I don’t have custody of my children,” he explained, “and I want to show them a picture of you and me shaking hands.” He received the finished photo, mouthed “thank you” and left.
    Three teenage girls skipped and twirled over. Giggling, one teased, “I want a sports car.”
    The second one topped her. “I want a mansion.”
    The last girl whispered in my ear, “I’d like a job for my dad.”
    As they walked away, her friends probed, “What did you ask for?”
    â€œThat’s between me and Santa,” she sighed.
    Substitute Santa swallowed hard and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. I truly believe the girl’s father found a job becuse, you see, that night Santa prayed he would.
    Robert H. Bickmeyer

Presence and Accounted For
    Every gift had been wrapped, each recipe prepared, and all the ornaments hung. I had seen to every detail; I knew I hadn’t overlooked a thing. And now, with my three anxious children tucked in bed at last, I leaned back in my favorite recliner—satisfied—to survey our perfect, shimmering tree.
    I admired the gay packages arranged meticulously underneath. Thanks to my early planning and a little extra money this year, Christmas was going to be wonderful. I couldn’t wait to see my children’s faces when they tore into their presents the next morning, discovering all of the new clothes and great toys I had bought for them.
    I began a mental accounting of the