The Book of Christmas Virtues Read Online Free PDF Page A

“so I’ll know how you’re getting along.” I tossed another look at the presents and shrugged.
    The gift of your time, I heard, is the best gift of all.
    The Sunday before Christmas, our still-bare tree leaned against one corner of the living room.
    â€œWe should’ve bought a new tree stand. The tree is top heavy, and this one won’t hold it,” my husband groaned. Ignored in my holiday rush, he looked tired and lonely with his rumpled gray hair, worn jeans and untucked shirttail—this man who was as much a part of my life as my own body.
    I reached out and touched his rough cheek. “I’ll help with the tree.”
    Good, said the inner voice, you’ve remembered the love.
    Throughout the afternoon, we pruned and sawed. We got out ornaments accumulated and treasured throughout the long years of our marriage. And when the tree was trimmed, I made hot chocolate and served it in the little pot we first used so many Christmases ago.
    On Christmas day, our children arrived, and the house rocked with laughter, conversation, grandbabies and music.
    No one noticed the smears on the window where decorations hung askew or the branches missing from one side of the tree. No one cared that dinner was a potluck affair. No one commented on the lack of variety on the cookie tray.
    But when I brought out a simple cake with one glowing white candle, the room hushed. Every one of us—wide-eyed children and solemn adults—held hands while we sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus.
    A feeling of contentment welled up inside me that had nothing to do with cookies, clean windows or fancy wrappings.
    And that still, small voice said, Yes!
    Ann K. Brandt

Whittle-ed Away
    â€œConnie Ann!” Mom caught the piece of tinfoil in midair. “We might need this next time we bake potatoes. You know better than that.”
    Ashamed, Connie Ann gave a gusty, seven-year-old sigh and retreated from the kitchen. Yes, she knew better. The Whittle family creed demanded that everything, even a piece of foil, be used again . . . and again. Especially now, with the divorce and all.
    And she knew about other things, too. Like salvaging buttons and zippers from old clothes to use on the new ones her mom sewed. Like gagging on dust clouds each time someone emptied the vacuum bag instead of throwing it away. Like walking everywhere when most of her friends rode in cars. Of course, the Whittles didn’t own a car; Dad had left them the Pumpkin.
    The bronzey colored, short-bed pickup couldn’t hold all ten children at once, so the Whittle children walked. To school. To church. To get a gallon of milk. Mom said it was simpler than buying a car. Besides, they got exercise and saved on gas at the same time.
    Mom said she liked doing things the simple way. In fact, that’s how she got rid of the Christmas tree, too.
    Without Dad there to haul it out that year, she puzzled over the problem. “How will we get rid of this monstrosity?”
    She circled the tree.
    â€œIt seems like a waste to just throw it away. It should be good for something, shouldn’t it?”
    Connie Ann nodded in agreement, knowing Whittles never wasted anything.
    â€œIt still smells good.” Mom poked both arms through the brittle needles to heft its weight. “Hmmm.” Her brow furrowed a bit, and she glanced over her shoulder where coals still glowed in the fireplace.
    â€œOur gas bill has been sky high.” She scooted the tree from its nook in front of the window. “If I just push it in . . . a bit at a time . . . as it burns. . . .” She wrestled the tree to the floor.
    â€œConnie Ann, you grab that end while I drag the bottom.”
    Wincing from the pain and prickles of the browning evergreen, they struggled to get their handholds.
    â€œWhat could be simpler?” Mom half-shoved it across the floor with a grunt. “A fragrant room freshener,” she tugged at the trunk, “ and