The Book of Christmas Virtues by Jack Canfield Page B

treasures tucked inside each package: the Dallas Cowboys jacket for Brandon, the Fisher Price castle for Jared, the Victorian dollhouse for Brittany . . .
    Basking in the glow of twinkling lights and my own thoughts, I barely noticed Jared sneak into the room. My normal reaction would be to jump up and rush him back to bed. Languidly curious this time, I chose to sit still and watch, hoping he wouldn’t notice my presence.
    I needn’t have worried.
    Jared was a five-year-old with a mission. The glimmering tree illuminated his small figure as he made his way straight to the nativity beneath it. Sinking to his knees, he held out a paper and whispered, “See, Jesus, I drew this picture for you.”
    Not wanting to miss a word, I held my breath and leaned forward.
    â€œOn the left side, that’s me.” Jared’s finger traced a path across the page. “On the right side, that’s you.” He pointed. “In the middle is my heart.” He smiled sweetly. “I’m giving it to you.”
    With tenderness, Jared placed the picture beneath the tree.
    â€œMerry Christmas, Jesus,” he said and scurried back to bed.
    My throat tightened, and my eyes filled. All the sparkling decorations and all the shiny wrappings in the room suddenly dulled in comparison to Jared’s innocent crayon drawing. It took my small child’s gift of love to remind me that only Jesus can make Christmas wonderful this year. And he always does.
    Vickie Ryan Koehler

Let’s Get Real
    For years and years, our family celebrated Christmas with an artificial tree. The tradition caught on during the seventies when we were living in Australia and it was hotter’n all get-out during the month of December. While the Aussies smothered themselves with zinc cream as they sunbaked on the beach, our family held tenaciously to its American customs, insisting on a traditional sit-down Christmas dinner and, of course, a real-looking tree.
    Unfortunately, the heat was too extreme to trust an evergreen, and those who did were soon sorry. Fearing a not-so-festive display of bare branches or, worse yet, a house fire, we opted for the artificial. White plastic, to be exact.
    â€œIt looks gross,” my kids whined.
    And try as we might to cover it with handmade or imported ornaments, it somehow never made the grade. Meanwhile, year after year, we piled our gifts underneath the fake tree—never even noticing that, with age, it had slowly turned yellow.
    Our first yuletide back in America was electric. Dallas, Texas, was never billed as Christmas-in-Vermont, but the possibilities were everywhere. Nurseries from Plano to Waco showcased a winter wonderland of snow-flocked, bushy Scotch pines. Roadside stands, advertised solely by a single strand of swinging lightbulbs, beckoned at dusk for highway travelers to stop and shop in a forest of firs. And supermarkets all around the city did their bit by offering a variety of spruce and cedars to their customers.
    Once again, we considered the possibility of buying a real tree. Having discarded our white plastic tradition on a friend’s doorstep when we left Australia, our kids had high hopes that America could make all their dreams come true. But eventually, dreams gave way to budget, and we hauled home yet another inexpensive imitation.
    â€œAt least this one is green,” I told them, “and besides, we won’t have the repeated cost of buying a freshly cut tree every Christmas.”
    So, for the next fifteen years, we piled our gifts beneath the branches of a manufactured pine—never even noticing that, with age, it had slowly lost its beauty.
    This year, however, something magical took place. It happened one night as I approached the electronic doors of our neighborhood grocery store. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a breathtakingly beautiful, real-live Christmas tree, leaning near the entrance. It was there with all the others, yet standing apart.