The Book of Christmas Virtues Read Online Free Page A

cardboard logs to ignite my imagination. It was there that I spun my boyish dreams and lived my foolish fantasies.
    The years drifted on, and so did I.
    When all of us kids were grown and on our own, our parents hit the jackpot. I mean, really hit the jackpot. In a big way. They won over two million dollars in the Illinois State Lottery!
    As instant millionaires, the first thing they did was look for a new place to live. My father insisted on only two musts: an attached garage and . . . a working fireplace. My mom wanted more space. And they found it: a beautiful two-story house with four bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, a dining area, a two-car garage, a roomy basement—and a living room with a working fireplace.
    In December after their move, we all came home for our first holiday together in years. While everyone lazed and chatted by the fireside on Christmas Eve, I rose to my feet to stroll through the house on a private tour.
    Mom had decorated with recently purchased crystal ornaments and a hand-carved Santa from Germany. Embroidered holiday doilies graced new end tables, and expensive wrapping paper enveloped dozens of presents under the beautifully lit tree. From top to bottom, the place murmured, “New. Gorgeous. Tasteful.” It certainly wasn’t home as I remembered it.
    Near the stairwell, I glanced up . . . and did a double take. Perched at the top, like a forgotten old friend I might bump into on the corner, stood the raggedy cardboard fireplace. With a smile as wide as Mom’s rolling pin, I climbed the stairs and sank to the top step as a wave of boyhood memories washed over me.
    Before long, Mom found me upstairs and stood silently at my side. I looked up, waiting for her eyes to meet mine.
    â€œYou kept it, this old fireplace in your new home. Why?”
    After a long moment, she placed her hand on my shoulder and bent toward me. “Because I don’t ever want any of us to forget the simple joys of Christmas,” she whispered.
    And I nodded in understanding, pleased that I could still feel the warmth radiating from the old, cardboard fireplace.
    Jim West

Bringing Christmas
    Some of life’s events make permanent etchings on your soul.
    Like the Christmas our family spent volunteering with the people of Santisimo Sacramento. Situated in the heart of Piura, Peru, this church was the lifeblood of the thirty-three thousand citizens it served. We spent long, hot days sorting and distributing clothes, tearing down and rebuilding a house, fixing donated bikes and becoming part of the community.
    I don’t even have to close my eyes to remember endless sand dotted with scraggly trees, the truck’s horn competing with mangy, barking dogs, the smell of heat and sweat, and the gritty taste of dirt roads. And the children. Hundreds of big-eyed, bronze-skinned, dark-haired children chasing after us with the hope of youth.
    Several times a day, bouncing along sand and gravel, we all struggled to hold on to the sides of the white pickup truck, laughing so hard that our smiles petrified above our wind-dried teeth. Ginet, our driver, laid on the horn with the jubilation of Robin Hood delivering goods to the poor, while villagers ran from all corners of the surrounding pueblos.
    Our three children—Clare, Bridget and Michael— helped prepare barrels of chocolate milk and hundreds of buttered rolls for distribution in the villages and the prison.
    One afternoon, we pulled up to a small, dusty church, skirted the ever-present dogs and rearranged rickety wooden benches on the cement floor. One hundred fifty children sat patiently, each with a cup brought from home, to receive the coveted treat. Mothers remained in the doorway, watching as their children participated in prayer and songs before they were served chocolate milk and a buttered roll.
    Finally, each child received a token toy. In less than twenty minutes, their Christmas had come . . . and gone.
    We trucked through the pueblo,