Cheerful Christmas Quotes

A little smile, a word of cheer, A bit of love from someone near, A little gift from one held dear, Best wishes for the coming year. These make a merry christmas!

The light of the Christmas star to you. The warmth of home and hearth to you. The cheer and goodwill of friends to you. The hope of a child-like heart to you. The joy of a thousand angels to you. The love of the Son and God's peace to you.

At Christmas play and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year.

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.

There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

On Christmas morning, Dustin knocked on my door. “Miss Winters,” he said cheerfully. “Breakfast.” I didn’t move. My parents were dead. My boyfriend was dead. My grandfather had a mysterious hidden room that had books about the walking dead—which is what I knew I would feel like if I attempted to stand up. “I don’t feel well,” I said meekly, and rolled over.

. . to cook well and with imagination you have to be in a cheerful and contented frame of mind, and thus inclined to be generous.

Christmastime was always my favorite time of year. It did something to me. It made me softer. More kindhearted. Not an affliction I fall prey to lately. But back then I loved the days leading up to Christmas almost as much as I loved the day itself.

It seems there's confusion at this time of year regarding the reason for Christmas. From shopping for presents to spreading good cheer, the world makes an overly huge fuss. But Christmas is not for the gifts we exchange. It's not about sleigh rides or sweet candy canes. Nay, Christmas is simple. A time to recall Christ's gift of atonement He gave to us all.

Do not wait until Christmas to spread a little cheer, people appreciate kindness, all through of the year.

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenze sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was. But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday- in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating on my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case- somehow proven that an innocent man didn't do it. And my husband would toast me: "To Rachel, my beautiful wife, the mother of my chidren and the finest lawyer in Indy." I shared my fantasy with Darcy as we discovered that her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information. "You know, Rachel, who cares what day of the week we turn thirty?" she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. "We'll be old by then. Birthdays don't matter when you get that old." I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lackluster approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn't much of a gift. But my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect the disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn't quite meet expectations. So Darcy was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays wouldn't matter as much by the time we reached thirty. The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when Darcy and I started watching ths show Thirty Something together. It wasn't our favorite- we preferred cheerful sit-coms like Who's the Boss? and Growing Pains- but we watched it anyway. My big problem with Thirty Something was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the meaning of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surealy last forever. Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth, I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time..

The charming aspect of Christmas is the fact that it expresses good will in a cheerful, happy, benevolent, non-sacrificial way. One says: “Merry Christmas”—not “Weep and Repent.” And the good will is expressed in a material, earthly form—by giving presents to one’s friends, or by sending them cards in token of remembrance.

I hear that in many places something has happened to Christmas; that it is changing from a time of merriment and carefree gaiety to a holiday which is filled with tedium; that many people dread the day and the obligation to give Christmas presents is a nightmare to weary, bored souls; that the children of enlightened parents no longer believe in Santa Claus; that all in all, the effort to be happy and have pleasure makes many honest hearts grow dark with despair instead of beaming with good will and cheerfulness. "A Plantation Christmas," 1934

The Christmas spirit whispers softly in my ear to be of good cheer.

Manipulative parents have a field day on holidays, spreading guilt as if it were Christmas cheer.

You only agreed to try and get back in her good books.” “All’s fair in love and war,” said Ron brightly, “and this is a bit of both. Cheer up, it’s the Christmas holidays, Luna’ll be home!

Christmas, therefore, is the most unsentimental, realistic way of looking at life. It does not say, “Cheer up! If we all pull together we can make the world a better place.” The Bible never counsels indifference to the forces of darkness, only resistance, but it supports no illusions that we can defeat them ourselves. Christianity does not agree with the optimistic thinkers who say, “We can fix things if we try hard enough.” Nor does it agree with the pessimists who see only a dystopian future. The message of Christianity is, instead, “Things really are this bad, and we can’t heal or save ourselves. Things really are this dark—nevertheless, there is hope.” The Christmas message is that “on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Notice that it doesn’t say from the world a light has sprung, but upon the world a light has dawned. It has come from outside. There is light outside of this world, and Jesus has brought that light to save us; indeed, he is the Light (John 8:12). THE

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In alms-house, hospital, and jail, in misery’s every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his prospects.

I want a date with you, Lieutenant, seeing as our Sunday plans were aborted.” “I thought dates went out with the I do’s. Isn’t that in the marriage rule book?” “You didn’t read the fine print. Christmas Eve, barring emergencies. You and me, in the parlor. We’ll open our gifts, drink a great deal of Christmas cheer, and take turns banging each other’s brains out.” “Will there be cookies?” “Without a doubt.” “I’m there.

I sometimes doubt whether even the friends whose kind thoughts turned downwards me that evening from the distant South and West could realize how cheerful is the recollection of the Christmas spent in the solitude and cold of the desert.

He saw those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the material of happiness, contentment, and peace.

Also," Bunty adds cheerfully, "how many cats did you have when you left?" "One," Annabel says, putting her hand over her face. "You have three now." Bunty swings hrt bag over her shoulder. "See you at Christmas, lovelies!" And my grandmother disappears as abruptly as she arrived.

There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun.

THE HOUSE OF PAIN Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair, — The bravest who an entrance gain Reluctant linger there, For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to cheer the sight. And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the light. Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of beauty blow, — Like Christmas-roses, which attain Perfection 'mid the snow, — Love, entering, in his mild warmth the darkest shadows melt, And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of wings is felt. Ah, me ! the Prison House of Pain ! — what lessons there are bought ! — Lessons of a sublimer strain Than any elsewhere taught, — Amid its loneliness and gloom, grave meanings grow more clear, For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so strangely near !

Merry Christmas," said George. "Don't go downstairs for a bit." "Why not?" said Ron. "Mum's crying again," said Fred heavily. "Percy sent back his Christmas jumper." [I guess that's a sweater, though my jury is still out on it until I get a future confirmation.] "Without a not," added George. "Hasn't asked how Dad is or visit him [in the hospital] or anything..." "We tried to comfort her," said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. "Told her Percy's nothing but a humongous pile of rat droppings--" "--didn't work," said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. "So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.

All I could see was that the one year I was really primed for holiday cheer, no one else was cooperating.

Because you’re turning witchy. You need fresh air and Christmas cheer.” “Fuck that,” she says. “I need a drink.

And I knew that one day, when my kids were old enough, I would pass on the magic ornament

A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. “Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!

That evening I glanced back at the TV as Bella poured half a bottle of the finest brandy into her bowl of cake batter, I waited for tinselly anticipation to land like snowflakes all around me, but I felt nothing. Even when she produced what she described as 'a winter landscape for European cheeses', sprigged with holly and a frosty snow scene, I failed to get my fix. 'Ooh, this is a juicy one,' she said, biting seductively at a maraschino cherry she'd earlier described as 'divinely kitsch'. She swallowed the cherry whole, giggled girlishly and raised a flute of champagne. 'Why have cava when Champagne is sooo much more bubbly? Cheers!' she said, taking a large sip of vintage Krug.

It was only a searing pain running from her coccyx that was giving her any trouble. She'd landed on her arse - which, thankfully, had enough padding on it to have saved her from anything more serious. Three cheers for fat-bottomed girls.

When James entered the breakfast room that morning, it was to varied reactions. Those who hadn't known that he'd arrived started cheerful greetings that sputtered to an end as they got a good look at his face. Those who did know of his arrival and what subsequently followed it were either tactfully silent, grinning from ear to ear, or foolish enough to remark on it. Jeremy fell into the middle and latter categories when he said with a chuckle, "Well,I know the poor Christmas tree didn't do that to you, though you did try valiantly to chop it down to size." "And succeeded,as I recall," James grouched, though he did think to ask, "Was it salvageable, puppy?" "Minus a few of its feathers is all, but those pretty little candles will dress it up so as not to notice- at least if someone other than me finishes the task.I'm much better at hanging the mistletoe." "And making good use of it," Amy noted with a fond smile for her handsome cousin. Jeremy winked at her. "That goes without saying.

It is light that cheers us when we are downhearted, it is light that brings us solace out of suffering, it is light that beams upon us when we discover some new hidden truth of the universe—it is light that first greets us when we emerge into this world.

He is the same chap who informed me that there are unusually high numbers of Mennonites who suffer from depression but nobody knows why. I said, Well, thank you for that! As cheerfully as if I was accepting a plate of homemade Christmas cookies from one of my students.

this woman was trouble the first moment he saw her and heard her exuberant “good morning.” Even her name was cheerful: Julia. Looking at her, it was easy to envision the opening scene from The Sound of Music, with Julie Andrews twirling around, arms extended, singing, joyful, excited.

Seriously, isn’t there enough holiday cheer around here? You all don’t have to invade my office.” I glared at my coworkers, decked out in their fancy Christmas finery, complete with Santa hats and jingly socks. I should have been expecting this—it was a week before Christmas. -- Erica

Mr. Adams, the Public Relations Manager, was no fool. Just a handful of female workers had managed to get themselves in the papers, and a policeman had ordered the man from the council to meet with them. Mr. Adams had also seen the response of the crowd. Sacking patriotic women war workers at Christmas would not be a good move.

Repentance means turning away from one’s own work to the mercy of God. The whole Bible calls to us and cheers us: Turn back, turn back! Return—where to? To the everlasting grace of God, who does not leave us…. God will be merciful—so come, judgment day! Lord Jesus, make us ready. We rejoice. Amen.7 Bonhoeffer’s sermon for Repentance Sunday, November 19, 1933

What was really important was that a child's smile would cheer the hearts of their parents, and the parents' cheer would warm the old hearts of their grandparents, and so on. Because laughter and happiness, when they are genuine, reach every corner of the house, clearing the cobwebs that have accumulated during the year and bringing a new light to the family.

At a play-off game with the Chargers, goose bumps ran down my arms as I rushed through the smoke-filled tunnel onto the field. The energy and voices of 70,000 screaming fans can turn even a veteran player’s determined squint into the wide eyes of a child on Christmas morning. While the cheerleaders performed and urged on the crowd, running back Danny Woodhead turned to me. “Can you believe we get to do this?

Nice singing,” he added to Irene and the others. “How about limiting it to carols for the rest of the day? Thank you, ladies, I think you’ve made your point and suggest you all go now. It is nearly Christmas, after all.” Then he gave a slight nod and with no intention of letting us try to carry on, slowly and very deliberately walked away. “Well done, girls,” called one of the soldiers. “You keep it up. We’re right behind you.

Christmas time is here. You see it everywhere. Wreaths hanging on doors. Lights hanging on every house and porch. It’s that time of year, Where families gather for Christmas cheer. Having eggnog And loving God. Everybody loves it, Christmas is special To you and me As you can see. I love Christmas so much. Celebrating Jesus’ birth. He was born in a stable on that cold winter’s night. He changed the world on that night, bright.

It was Tilly’s turn to speak, and she startled them with her words, “I’m very glad tomorrow is Christmas, even though I shan’t have any presents at all.” These sentiments were spoken as the three little girls trudged home from school, and Tilly’s words struck a cord of pity in the others. Kate and Bessy wondered how she could speak so cheerfully and be so happy when she was too poor to receive even the smallest of gifts on Christmas Day.

Oh Come All Ye Faithful “Occum” Claus stood a head taller than most of the other men at the party.  Like most of his crazy family, he wore a Santa suit, only the coat of his outfit was missing, exposing suspenders and a sleeveless white tank top.  The man was heavily muscled and looked angry; a mixture of holiday cheer and a Navy SEAL having a really bad day.  He was the picture that went along with the headline “Christmas Nightmare” or “Crazed Santa Attacks Orphans with Fire Ax.

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties, to bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all — Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

galette des rois. We have found through trial and error it is usually prudent to push the fève piece toward the youngest person in the room. If you can’t lay your hand on some fèves, a coin wrapped in greaseproof paper should have the same cheerful effect in warding off the post-chrimbo blues. 1 roll ready-made puff pastry, unless you are a fantastic pastry nut (I worship you) 1 egg, beaten 2 tbsp. jam 100g soft butter 100g caster sugar (superfine sugar) 100g ground almonds 1 tbsp. brandy Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Divide the ready-made puff pastry in half, and roll out each piece into two circles. Put one of the circles on a baking sheet and spread with the jam. Whisk the butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in most of the egg. Stir in the almonds, brandy, and add the fève. Spread the mix on top of the jam, then cover with the second piece of pastry. Seal up with a pinch. You can decorate the top of the galette with a fork if you like. Bake for 25 minutes or until crisp and golden. Serve warm or cold.

Holmes offered Julia a cheerful “Merry Christmas” and gave her a hug, then took her hand and led her to a room on the second floor that he had readied for the operation. A table lay draped in white linen. His surgical kits stood open and gleaming, his instruments laid out in a sunflower of polished steel. Fearful things: bonesaws, abdomen retractor, trocar and trepan. More instruments, certainly, than he really needed and all positioned so that Julia could not help but see them and be sickened by their hard, eager gleam

Let Everyday Be Christmas Christmas is forever, not for just one day, for loving, sharing, giving, are not to put away like bells and lights and tinsel, in some box upon a shelf. The good you do for others is good you do yourself. Peace on Earth, good will to men, kind thoughts and words of cheer, are things we should use often and not just once a year. Remember too the Christ-child, grew up to be a man; to hide him in a cradle, is not our dear Lord's plan. So keep the Christmas spirit, share it with others far and near, from week to week and month to month, throughout the entire year!

There are some wonderful aspects to Christmas. It's magical. And each year, from at least November, well, September, well, if I'm honest, May, I look forward to it hugely. The singing, eating, log fires, eating, drinking, singing, eating, the good will, the cheer, ice skating, singing, the eating, the drinking, the show, the scarves, singing, eating, drinking, eating, singing, eating. Yes, I embrace the season in all its candle-lit, log-fire-lighting, chestnut-roasting gloriousness, and ponder the people to whom I can spread bounty and joy in this glorious season of giving. *sings* 'Well, I wish it could be Christmas every da-a-a-a-ay!

If, when you say whiskey, you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacles of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degredation and despair, shame and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it with all my power. But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

The Merry Chrismouse by Stewart Stafford What a time for the merry Chrismouse, Making toys in his workshop/house, Everyone contributes, even his spouse, With Christmas cheer, no one will douse. A sprig of holly for a present tree, Blizzard snow is grated cheese, The kindly rodent set to please, When he comes on Christmas Eve. Nuts and seeds on their button table, Playing games and telling fables, Discarded tinsel on the wall of gable, In midwinter's icy spell unstable. A time for amnesia that felines exist, Kindness and joy at their fingertips, Baby mice excitedly make lists, To have many gifts when they insist. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years. I’d been shut up in my hotel for more than a week, afraid to telephone anybody or go out; and my heart scrambled and floundered at even the most innocent noises: elevator bell, rattle of the minibar cart, even church clocks tolling the hour, de Westertoren, Krijtberg, a dark edge to the clangor, an inwrought fairy-tale sense of doom. By day I sat on the foot of the bed straining to puzzle out the Dutch-language news on television (which was hopeless, since I knew not a word of Dutch) and when I gave up, I sat by the window staring out at the canal with my camel’s-hair coat thrown over my clothes—for I’d left New York in a hurry and the things I’d brought weren’t warm enough, even indoors. Outside, all was activity and cheer. It was Christmas, lights twinkling on the canal bridges at night; red-cheeked dames en heren, scarves flying in the icy wind, clattered down the cobblestones with Christmas trees lashed to the backs of their bicycles. In the afternoons, an amateur band played Christmas carols that hung tinny and fragile in the winter air. Chaotic room-service trays; too many cigarettes; lukewarm vodka from duty free. During those restless, shut-up days, I got to know every inch of the room as a prisoner comes to know his cell. It was my first time in Amsterdam; I’d seen almost nothing

Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. “It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress. “I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff. “We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly from her corner. The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got Father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say “perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.

The crowds had been unbearable. First at Northgate, where she did most of her shopping and then at the airport. Sea-Tac had been filled with activity and noise, everyone in a hurry to get someplace else. There seemed to be little peace or good cheer and a whole lot of selfish concern and rudeness. Then, in the tranquility of church on Christmas Eve, everything had come into perspective for Cait. There had been crowds and rudeness that first Christmas, too, she reasoned. Yet in the midst of that confusion had come joy and peace and love. For most people, it was still the same. Christmas gifts and decorations and dinners were, after all, expressions of the love you felt for your family and friends. And if the preparations sometimes got a bit chaotic, well, that no longer bothered Cait.

Comparing marriage to football is no insult. I come from the South where football is sacred. I would never belittle marriage by saying it is like soccer, bowling, or playing bridge, never. Those images would never work, only football is passionate enough to be compared to marriage. In other sports, players walk onto the field, in football they run onto the field, in high school ripping through some paper, in college (for those who are fortunate enough) they touch the rock and run down the hill onto the field in the middle of the band. In other sports, fans cheer, in football they scream. In other sports, players ‘high five’, in football they chest, smash shoulder pads, and pat your rear. Football is a passionate sport, and marriage is about passion. In football, two teams send players onto the field to determine which athletes will win and which will lose, in marriage two families send their representatives forward to see which family will survive and which family will be lost into oblivion with their traditions, patterns, and values lost and forgotten. Preparing for this struggle for survival, the bride and groom are each set up. Each has been led to believe that their family’s patterns are all ‘normal,’ and anyone who differs is dense, naïve, or stupid because, no matter what the issue, the way their family has always done it is the ‘right’ way. For the premarital bride and groom in their twenties, as soon as they say, “I do,” these ‘right’ ways of doing things are about to collide like two three hundred and fifty pound linemen at the hiking of the ball. From “I do” forward, if not before, every decision, every action, every goal will be like the line of scrimmage. Where will the family patterns collide? In the kitchen. Here the new couple will be faced with the difficult decision of “Where do the cereal bowls go?” Likely, one family’s is high, and the others is low. Where will they go now? In the bathroom. The bathroom is a battleground unmatched in the potential conflicts. Will the toilet paper roll over the top or underneath? Will the acceptable residing position for the lid be up or down? And, of course, what about the toothpaste? Squeeze it from the middle or the end? But the skirmishes don’t stop in the rooms of the house, they are not only locational they are seasonal. The classic battles come home for the holidays. Thanksgiving. Which family will they spend the noon meal with and which family, if close enough, will have to wait until the nighttime meal, or just dessert if at all? Christmas. Whose home will they visit first, if at all? How much money will they spend on gifts for his family? for hers? Then comes for many couples an even bigger challenge – children of their own! At the wedding, many couples take two candles and light just one often extinguishing their candle as a sign of devotion. The image is Biblical. The Bible is quoted a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one. What few prepare them for is the upcoming struggle, the conflict over the unanswered question: the two shall become one, but which one? Two families, two patterns, two ways of doing things, which family’s patterns will survive to play another day, in another generation, and which will be lost forever? Let the games begin.

He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God’s creatures, were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others,

But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feeling in my life (I am wiser now, perhaps) as that of being with them, remembering how they had been employed, and seeing them enjoy the ride. I was not angry with them; I was more afraid of them, as if I were cast away among creatures with whom I had no community of nature. They were very cheerful. The old man sat in front to drive, and the two young people sat behind him, and whenever he spoke to them leaned forward, the one on one side of his chubby face and the other on the other, and made a great deal of him. They would have talked to me too, but I held back, and moped in my corner; scared by their love-making and hilarity, though it was far from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgement came upon them for their hardness of heart. So, when they stopped to bait the horse, and ate and drank and

The kids helped keep me together as well. One day they came in from playing after dinner, and I told them I was just completely exhausted by work and everything else. I said I’d take a shower as soon as I finished up; then we’d read and get ready for bed. They warmed up some towels in the dryer while I was showering and had them waiting for me when I was done. They made some hot coffee--not really understanding that coffee before bed isn’t the best strategy. But it was just the way I like it, and waiting on the bed stand. They turned down the bedcovers and even fluffed my pillows. Most of the time, their gifts are unintentional. Angel recently decided that, since the Tooth Fairy is so nice, someone should be nice to her. My daughter wrote a little note and left it under her pillow with some coins and her tooth. Right? The Tooth Fairy was very taken with that, and wrote a note back. “I’m not allowed to take money from the children I visit,” she wrote. “But I was so grateful. Thank you.” Then there was the time the kids were rummaging through one of Chris’s closets and discovered the Christmas Elf. Now everyone knows that the Christmas Elf only appears on Christmas Eve. He stays for a short while as part of holiday cheer, then magically disappears for the rest of the year. “What was he doing here!” they said, very concerned, as they brought the little elf to me. “And in Daddy’s closet!” I called on the special brain cells parents get when they give birth. “He must have missed Daddy so much that he got special permission to come down and hang out in his stuff. I wonder how long he’ll be with us?” Just until I could find another hiding place, of course. What? Evidence that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, you say? Keep it to yourself. In this house, we believe.

Meet Me In Toyland by Stewart Stafford Santa handed me the keys to Toyland, And, placing them squarely in the palm of my hand, He bid me go and have lots of fun, With all kinds of everyone. I skipped across the gingerbread bridge, Yuletide coffee flowing down from the ridge, To a Christmas tree consisting of mint, Lit all around by falling star glint. At the frosting gates of Castle St Nicholas, Silver snake tinsel began to hiss, As polar bears to a clockwork orchestra danced, With elves as their partners gleefully entranced. Multitudes of children whooped and cheered, Forgetting all their doubts and fears, Celebrating their gifts of toys, With every kind of girl and boy. Alas, our midwinter joy came to an end, And I tearfully bid adieu to all my new friends, And took a shooting star comet home, Across the Northern Lights in the sky’s dome. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Season's Greetings by Stewart Stafford Season's Greetings To those we are needing, While I am leading The Festive charge. Christmas love is fleeting, The snow is sleeting, And there's every chance of feeling, A thaw in my cold heart. Season's Greetings everywhere, Let War cease and all be fair, A heart that's full of Christmas cheer, Bravely faces the New Year. And so, we feast and celebrate, For those we've lost, we contemplate, Christmas is an emotional stocktake, Of those still here and those that are late. The year winds down to that last date, Resolutions tempting fate, New Fear's Eve, many hate, And choose to socially-isolate. Season's Greetings while you can, To every woman, child, and man, Season's Greetings, don't you wait Hold back now, and it's too late. And in the end, all we do, Is create memories for the few, Who mattered while we strode this earth, Then back to the place before our birth. Season's Greetings, decorations down, Bittersweet crunching sounds, Topple the tree to live again, Twelfth Night, the inevitable end. © Stewart Stafford, 2020. All rights reserved.

You’re worried about Anna?” “Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.” “Westhaven, are you pouting?” Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?” The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.” “Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.” “They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.” “You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.” Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?” “And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his gaze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man. “The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?” “I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.” St. Just was silent for a moment while the fire hissed and popped in the hearth. “So I like to sing to my daughters. Emmie bears so much of the burden, it’s little enough I can do to look after my own children.” “You love them all more than you ever thought possible, and you’re scared witless,” Westhaven said, feeling a pang of gratitude to be able to offer the simple comfort of a shared truth. “I believe we’re just getting started on that part. With every child, we’ll fret more for our ladies, more for the children, for the ones we have, the one to come.” “You’re such a wonderful help to a man, Westhaven. Perhaps I’ll lock you in that nice cozy privy next time nature calls.” Which

She sits in the hospital, awake in the silent night, People don’t say ‘Merry Christmas,’ they ask, “Will you be alright? It is so sad   you can’t be home at this special time”, But as she reads her Bible, tears come to her eyes,   She is reminded of why Christ was born, He came to comfort those who mourn, And He came to die that we might have life His light is so much brighter than all of the Christmas lights.   So if you’re alone in the silent night, And you feel you’ve gone too far and things can’t be made right, If holiday cheer, makes your sadness clear, Remember why we celebrate this time of year,   And be reminded of why Christ was born He came to comfort those who mourn, He came to die that we might have life Oh His light is so much brighter than all of the Christmas lights.   She lies in the hospital, wrapped with love in the silent night, For she is not alone, Jesus is by her side. He didn’t come for all the holly and all of the mistletoe, He came for us so we will never be alone.   So be reminded of why Christ was born He came to comfort those who mourn, And He came to die that we might have life His light is so much brighter than all of the Christmas lights.

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas-time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian World! A moment’s pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me as yet, and let me look once more! I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled; from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow’s Son; and God is good! If Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion of thy downward growth, O may I, with a grey head, turn a child’s heart to that figure yet, and a child’s trustfulness and confidence! Now, the tree is decorated with bright merriment, and song, and dance, and cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent and welcome be they ever held, beneath the branches of the Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy shadow! But, as it sinks into the ground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves. “This, in commemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy and compassion. This, in remembrance of Me!

An Atheopagan Prayer by Mark Green Praise to the wide spinning world Unfolding each of all the destined tales compressed In the moment of your catastrophic birth Wide to the fluid expanse, blowing outward Kindling in stars and galaxies, in bright pools Of Christmas-colored gas; cohering in marbles hot And cold, ringed, round, gray and red and gold and dun And blue Pure blue, the eye of a child, spinning in a veil of air, Warm island, home to us, kind beyond measure: the stones And trees, the round river flowing sky to deepest chasm, salt And sweet. Praise to Time, enormous and precious, And we with so little, seeing our world go as it will Ruing, cheering, the treasured fading, precious arriving, Fear and wonder, Fear and wonder always. Praise O black expanse of mostly nothing Though you do not hear, you have no ear nor mind to hear Praise O inevitable, O mysterious, praise Praise and thanks be a wave Expanding from this tiny temporary mouth this tiny dot Of world a bubble Going out forever meeting everything as it goes All the great and infinitesimal Gracious and terrible All the works of blessed Being. May it be so. May it be so. May our hearts sing to say it is so.

You own a sweet shop?” St. Just fell in step beside Westhaven, all bonhomie and good cheer. “Diversification of assets, Kettering calls it. Get your own sweet shop, why don’t you?” “My brother, a confectioner. Marriage has had such a positive impact on you, Westhaven. How long have you owned this fine establishment?” It was a fine establishment, which was to say, it was warm. The scents of chocolate and cinnamon thick in the air didn’t hurt, either. Westhaven waited silently while St. Just peered around the place with unabashed curiosity. There was a prodigious amount of pink in the decor, and ribbon bows and small baskets and tins artfully decorated. “You own a bordello for sweets,” St. Just observed in a carrying voice likely honed on the parade grounds of Spain. “It’s charming.” “Unlike you.” “You’re just cold and missing your countess. One must make allowances.” Mercifully, those allowances meant St. Just kept quiet while Westhaven purchased a quantity of marzipan. “You aren’t going to tell the troops to carry on, God Save the King, and all that?” St. Just asked as they left the shop. He reached over and stuffed his fingers into the bag of sweets Westhaven was carrying. “Help yourself, by all means.” “Can’t leave all the heavy lifting to my younger brothers.

IN THE SMALL Ohio town where I grew up, many homes had parlors that contained pianos, sideboards, and sofas, heavy objects signifying gentility. These pianos were rarely tuned. They went flat in summer around the Fourth of July and sharp in winter at Christmas. Ours was a Story and Clark. On its music stand were copies of Stephen Foster and Ethelbert Nevin favorites, along with one Chopin prelude that my mother would practice for twenty minutes every three years. She had no patience, but since she thought Ohio—all of it, every scrap—made sense, she was happy and did not need to practice anything. Happiness is not infectious, but somehow her happiness infected my father, a pharmacist, and then spread through the rest of the household. My whole family was obstinately cheerful. I think of my two sisters, my brother, and my parents as having artificial, pasted-on smiles, like circus clowns. They apparently thought cheer and good Christian words were universals, respected everywhere. The pianos were part of this cheer. They played for celebrations and moments of pleasant pain. Or rather, someone played them, but not too well, since excellent playing would have been faintly antisocial. “Chopin,” my mother said, shaking her head as she stumbled through the prelude. “Why is he famous?

How is his temperature?” “He needs to go up one more degree.” “The devil I do,” West said. “With that fire stoked so high, the room is an oven. Soon I’ll be as brown as a Christmas goose. Speaking of that… I’m famished.” “The doctor said we can’t feed you until you’ve reached the right temperature,” Pandora said. “Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked. “I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.” Cassandra smiled. “I’ll ask the doctor if you may have some broth.” “Broth?” he repeated indignantly. “Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.” “Wait,” Kathleen said, frowning. “Isn’t Hamlet supposed to be in the cellars?” “Cook wouldn’t allow it,” Cassandra said. “She said he would find a way to knock over the bins and eat all the root vegetables.” She cast a proud glance at the cheerful-looking creature. “Because he is a very creative and enterprising pig.” “Cook didn’t say that last part,” Pandora said. “No,” Cassandra admitted, “but it was implied.” The twins cleared the dogs and pig from the room and left. Helen extended the thermometer to West. “Under your tongue, please,” she said gravely. He complied with a long-suffering expression.

Well,then why don't we go hunting tomorrow?" he offered cheerfully, knowing that a sunny disposition right now would rankle his friend. Bronwyn flashed Tyr a radiant smile. "What a sensible suggestion. After the past few days,it would be refreshing to spend some time with a charming gentleman and give me a chance to get away from certain...frustrations," she said as her gaze leisurely swept over Ranulf. "I can show you the choice spots." Tyr let go a low chuckle. No wonder the women at court never interested Ranulf. None of them had the audaciousness needed to penetrate his thick shell. Tyr returned Bronwyn's smile and picked up a handful of almonds. "That would be great.It will also give you a chance to meet more of the men." Ranulf didn't move, but his knuckles turned white. "The last thing the men need is a woman around who enjoys toying with their emotions." "I do not toy,my lord,but I suspect manners and general kindness may appear that way to someone who has the emotional capacity of a stone." her voice had risen at least an octave, giving away her confusion and hurt pride. Oblivious,Ranulf slowly shifted his gaze to hers and grated back, "If I am a stone,madam,then perhaps it is because I look like one.I'm sorry that I don't have Tyr's smile or Tory's sweet nature.Men like me do not appeal to women like yourself. I would be a half-wit to think otherwise.

Dear Padfoot, Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going. We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard. Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind's going, personally! Lots of love, Lily

The eyes from Burma, from Tonkin, watch these women at their hundred perseverances—stare out of blued orbits, through headaches no Alasils can ease. Italian P/Ws curse underneath the mail sacks that are puffing, echo-clanking in now each hour, in seasonal swell, clogging the snowy trainloads like mushrooms, as if the trains have been all night underground, passing through the country of the dead. If these Eyeties sing now and then you can bet it’s not “Giovinezza” but something probably from Rigoletto or La Bohème—indeed the Post Office is considering issuing a list of Nonacceptable Songs, with ukulele chords as an aid to ready identification. Their cheer and songfulness, this lot, is genuine up to a point—but as the days pile up, as this orgy of Christmas greeting grows daily beyond healthy limits, with no containment in sight before Boxing Day, they settle, themselves, for being more professionally Italian, rolling the odd eye at the lady evacuees, finding techniques of balancing the sack with one hand whilst the other goes playing “dead”—cioé, conditionally alive—where the crowds thicken most feminine, directionless . . . well, most promising. Life has to go on. Both kinds of prisoner recognize that, but there’s no mano morto for the Englishmen back from CBI, no leap from dead to living at mere permission from a likely haunch or thigh—no play, for God’s sake, about life-and-death! They want no more adventures: only the old dutch fussing over the old stove or warming the old bed, cricketers in the wintertime, they want the semi-detached Sunday dead-leaf somnolence of a dried garden.

The flag story is important, Berntson thought. Before the assault was over, Christmas had sent Frank Thomas, his gunnery sergeant, to find an American flag. He knew it was against the rules. This was a war on behalf of the Republic of Vietnam, and the correct flag to run up the pole at its province headquarters would have been Saigon’s yellow and red ensign. But Christmas’s men had bled and died all the way across southern Hue, not ARVN troops. They had looked up at that enemy flag the whole way. They had taken it down, and they wanted to show who had done it. The Stars and Stripes had earned its place. Berntson continued jotting down Christmas’s words: “‘Proudest moment of my life—to be given opp to do it’ . . . ‘main thought was getting the flag up—so it would fly and everyone could see that flag flying’ . . . Capt. Ron Christmas, 27, 2001 S.W. 36th Ave, Fort Lauderdale, FLA CO for 2/5 Hotel . . . ‘street fighting is dirtiest close in. Biggest problem is control—keeping all platoons in line—communication also problem . . . platoons have done extremely well . . . flag. ‘inspiration thing I have ever seen in my lifetime—because it was a hard thing. That feeling of patriotism . . . all you could hear are cheers . . . really brings out America Spirit.’” Hours later, Christmas was paid a visit by two officers, both majors, one army and the other marine. They had been sent by Colonel Hughes from the compound. They said the American flag would have to come down. The South Vietnamese flag was the appropriate one. The men around Christmas were still loading up the wounded and dead. “I don’t think my men are going to like that,” he said. “That doesn’t make any difference,” said one. “You are violating protocol.” “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Christmas. “If you want to take the flag down, you guys go take it down. But I cannot be responsible for all of my men.” Kaczmarek, who was sitting close enough to overhear the exchange, chose that moment to reposition his rifle. The majors left. The flag remained. Christmas had a gunny sergeant haul it down at sunset, and the next morning a bright yellow South Vietnamese flag flew in its place. But watching Old Glory run up that afternoon was a sight none of the marines who witnessed it would ever regret, or forget.

The house filled rapidly; cheerful talk overflowed the rooms and children were bobbing in and out everywhere with their shining new toys, until finally, at a very late hour, we all sat down to the Christmas dinner, before the huge, crisp and crackling brown body of the Christmas goose. Everything but the holiday was forgotten. That was the last night I remember, in the years in which I was to remain in Germany, over which no shadow fell.

Christmas is the season of a good cheer.

He is my Savior. He is my friend. He was born in a manger. And died for my sins. He still lives in heaven above, Looking down on us. He loves us so much, Even if sometimes we’re dumb. And so, we celebrate Christmas every year, Loving God and bringing holiday cheer. But we often get so mixed up in the spirit, We don’t realize what makes Christmas. It’s not about the eggnog, presents, Reindeer, or even elves. It’s about God who sent His One and only Son, Jesus for us. So, whatever you do this year, Remember Christmas is about Jesus, Not Santa Claus and Reindeer. Merry Christmas, Dear!

There was an excitability about him that seemed it could dissipate at any moment as though he were Christmas in July but rather than sporting holiday cheer and sparkling fireworks, he offered the showing of amateur eggnog hangover and explanations about the lack of permits to the fire department.

Snow crisps under sleighs, and bells chime like fairy laughter as everyone heads home, where warm apple pie and the cheer of the hearth wait.

When Hermione had returned to her bunk, Harry lowered his voice. “You only agreed to try and get back in her good books.” “All’s fair in love and war,” said Ron brightly, “and this is a bit of both. Cheer up, it’s the Christmas holidays, Luna’ll be home!

In Christ’s first coming, He implemented a rescue plan conceived in the mind of God before the foundation of the world. He did not come to promote holiday cheer, boost end-of-year sales, or serve as the central figure in a Nativity scene. He came to save sinners. To save sinners, Christ had to put away what makes people sinners–namely, sin.

with good appetites and a cheerful mind let us all fall to eatin'.

I've just written out the death certificate,' the doctor said cheerfully. 'Natural causes of course. She was eighty-eight. I think it was the Beaujolais Nouveau, I warned her not to drink it after Christmas but she was always stubborn. I'll send the undertakers around later. But they won't be able to fit her for at least a couple of days. She'll be all right there as long as it doesn't get too hot.

And thus the (Christmas) evening passes, in a strain of rational good will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party in behalf of his neighbor, and to perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, than half the homilies that have ever been written, by half the Divines that have ever lived.

Serge,” said Coleman. “Are we shopping?” “No, I just love coming to the mall at Christmas, digging how stores tap into the whole holiday spirit, especially the bookstores with their special bargain displays.” “Displays?” asked Coleman. “Big ones near the front,” said Serge. “If you want to show someone you put absolutely zero thought into their gift, you buy a giant picture book about steam locomotives, ceramic thimbles, or Scotland.” “But why are we wearing elf suits?” “To spread good cheer.” “What for?” “Because of the War on Christmas.” “Who started the war?” asked Coleman. “Ironically, the very people who coined the term and claim others started the war. They’re upset that people of different faiths, along with the coexistence crowd who respect those faiths, are saying ‘Season’s Greetings’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ But nobody’s stopping anyone from saying ‘Merry Christmas.’ ” “And they’re still mad?” Serge shrugged. “It’s the new holiness: Tolerance can’t be tolerated. So they hijack the birth of Jesus as a weapon to start quarrels and order people around. Christmas should be about the innocence of children—and adults reverting to children to rediscover their innocence. That’s why we’re in elf suits. We’re taking Christmas back!

Tis the season, you lot. Cheer up. At least the man can change a dirty nappy. If he and Sophie have anticipated their vows, he’ll need to be handy in the nursery. Now, shall I beat you at cribbage seriatim or both at the same time?” “And what if there are to be no vows?” St. Just asked. Valentine answered as he crossed his knife and fork very precisely across his plate. “Then he’ll need to learn how to disappear from Sophie’s life and never show his miserable face in the shire again. We won’t have him trifling with her.” Westhaven resumed his place at the table. “But his family seat is in Kent,” St. Just said. “He can’t very well avoid that for the rest of his life, particularly not after he inherits.” Westhaven smiled, not a particularly pleasant smile. “Exactly so. Valentine, fetch the cards; St. Just, we’ll need decent libation. As I see it, we really don’t have very many options.

She frankly gaped at the tableau before her: the baby naked on a nest of rugs and blankets, cheerfully kicking and squirming at nothing in particular, and the great golden length of Mr. Charpentier, curled indolently above the child, long, elegant fingers playing with the child’s feet. Sophie did not know how to change a diaper. She did not know how to comfort a fussy baby. She did not know the particulars of feeding such a small child. But she did know that these matters were the province of women, a fact of which Mr. Charpentier was apparently ignorant. “Is

. . . and so we arrived at a ford that of course we couldn’t cross. To crown it all, it was raining. Captains Denegre and Tucker went off in the gathering darkness through mud ankle-deep, reappearing with news of a house somewhere into which we might be taken. Whatever failed us in those days, it was not Virginian hospitality! The good people whose home we invaded seemed more than pleased to receive us, and next morning betimes started us again “On to Richmond.” By that time all Christmas cheer had gone out of us. To reach a ferry, where there was only a tiny makeshift of a skiff, we and the mules wearily took up the burden of life again, plodding five miles through sloughs and hopeless mud, up perpendicular hills and down again, till every bone ached and philosophy ceased to be a virtue. Once more on the shores of classic Pamunkey, liquid mud flowing everywhere, in prospect a crossing, two by two, in a miserable egg-shell made of slimy planks, the bottom quite under water! The crowning feat of our expedition was, on reaching the other shore, all vehicles failing, to take heart of grace and walk six miles, in a downpour, to the nearest station of the railway. If it is asked what were our notions of perfection, I would answer that in those days we were sustained by what Cervantes styled “the bounding of the soul, the bursting of laughter, and the quicksilver of the five senses.” From Recollections Grave and Gay by Mrs. Burton Harrison. Scribners, New York, 1911.

This Blue Coat’s woman?” he demanded, gesturing toward Lily. Caleb shook his head. “She’s her own woman. Just ask her.” Lily’s heart was jammed into her throat. She had an urge to go for the rifle again, but this time it was Caleb she wanted to shoot. “He lies,” she said quickly, trying to make sign language. “I am too his woman!” The Indian looked back at his followers, and they all laughed. Lily thought she saw a hint of a grin curve Caleb’s lips as well but decided she must have imagined it. “You trade woman for two horses?” Caleb lifted one hand to his chin, considering. “Maybe. I’ve got to be honest with you. She’s a lot of trouble, this woman.” Lily’s terror was exceeded only by her wrath. “Caleb!” The Indian squinted at Lily and then made an abrupt, peevish gesture with the fingers of one hand. “He wants you to get down from the buggy so he can have a good look at you,” Caleb said quietly. “I don’t care what he wants,” Lily replied, folding her trembling hands in her lap and squaring her shoulders. The Indian shouted something. “He’s losing his patience,” Caleb warned, quite unnecessarily. Lily scrambled down from the buggy and stood a few feet from it while the Indian rode around her several times on his pony, making thoughtful grunting noises. Annoyance was beginning to overrule Lily’s better judgment. “This is my land,” she blurted out all of a sudden, “and I’m inviting you and your friends to get off it! Right now!” The Indian reined in his pony, staring at Lily in amazement. “You heard me!” she said, advancing on him, her hands poised on her hips. At that, Caleb came up behind her, and his arms closed around her like the sides of a giant manacle. His breath rushed past her ear. “Shut up!” Lily subsided, watching rage gather in the Indians’ faces like clouds in a stormy sky. “Caleb,” she said, “you’ve got to save me.” “Save you? If they raise their offer to three horses, you’ll be braiding your hair and wearing buckskin by nightfall.” The Indians were consulting with one another, casting occasional measuring glances in Lily’s direction. She was feeling desperate again. “All right, then, but remember, if I go, your child goes with me.” “You said you were bleeding.” Lily’s face colored. “You needn’t be so explicit. And I lied.” “Two horses,” Caleb bid in a cheerful, ringing voice. The Indians looked interested. “I’ll marry you!” Lily added breathlessly. “Promise?” “I promise.” “When?” “At Christmas.” “Not good enough.” “Next month, then.” “Today.” Lily assessed the Indians again, imagined herself carrying firewood for miles, doing wash in a stream, battling fleas in a tepee, being dragged to a pallet by a brave. “Today,” Lily conceded. The man in the best calico shirt rode forward again. “No trade,” he said angrily. “Blue Coat right—woman much trouble!” Caleb laughed. “Much, much trouble,” he agreed. “This Indian land,” the savage further insisted. With that, he gave a blood-curdling shriek, and he and his friends bolted off toward the hillside again. Lily turned to face Caleb. “I lied,” she said bluntly. “I have no intention of marrying you.” He brought his nose within an inch of hers. “You’re going back on your word?” “Yes,” Lily answered, turning away to climb back into the buggy. “I was trying to save myself. I would have said anything.” Caleb caught her by the arm and wrenched her around to face him. “And there’s no baby?” Lily lowered her eyes. “There’s no baby.” “I should have taken the two horses when they were offered to me,” Caleb grumbled, practically hurling her into the buggy. Lily

With the glorious flames of compassion in your heart, embrace the goodness from all religions. Taste the love of Christmas, the radiance of Diwali, the brotherhood of Ramadan, the feast of Sukkot and assimilate anything that appeals to you. The end product of such acceptance is a peaceful human society, filled with joy and cheer.

This,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking around him, “this is, indeed, comfort.” “Our invariable custom,” replied Mr. Wardle. “Everybody sits down with us on Christmas eve, as you see them now—servants and all; and here we wait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire.” Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face. “Come,” said Wardle, “a song—a Christmas song.” Charles Dickens The Pickwick Papers

Come home with me a little space And browse about our ancient place, Lay by your wonted troubles here And have a turn of Christmas cheer. These sober walls of weathered stone Can tell a romance of their own, And these wide rooms of devious line Are kindly meant in their design. Sometimes the north wind searches through, But he shall not be rude to you. We’ll light a log of generous girth For winter comfort, and the mirth Of healthy children you shall see About a sparkling Christmas tree. . . . And you may chafe the wasting oak, Or freely pass the kindly joke To mix with nuts and home-made cake And apples set on coals to bake. Or some fine carol we will sing In honor of the Manger-King. . . . These dear delights we fain would share With friend and kinsman everywhere, And from our door see them depart Each with a little lighter heart. Leslie Pinckney Hill

And that last was offered with cheerful glee, as if Rothgreb knew damned good and well Vim was dying for even a glimpse of Sophie.

By putting our focus on giving to others and meeting their very real needs, we can battle the greed in our hearts. Christmas is a season not of getting, but of giving, because at Christmas we are celebrating that God is the most generous and outrageous Giver in the universe. After all, he gave us his Son. Proverbs says, “Some people are always greedy for more, but the godly love to give!” (Proverbs 21:26). To pour ourselves into becoming outrageous givers is to pursue becoming more like God. God turns greedy, grasping, fearful hoarders into generous, honest, cheerful givers.

f you're living in a place that's just not big enough for that huge Christmas tree you'd love to have, get branches of evergreen, balsam, or juniper and use them to outline mirrors, arrange on mantels or windowsills, or decorate tabletops and bookshelves. Add gold or silver balls or showcase your holiday collectibles among the branches, such as snow villages, angels, and Christmas teacups. And don't forget to use plenty of unlit candles in seasonal colors. If you do light them, make sure the branches are arranged so they're not a fire hazard. Add a nativity scene to set the significant tone of the season. Make your home warm and welcoming, overflowing with love and good cheer. hose food shows on TV don't have anything on me! Cooking with your friends-inviting them to sit with you while you prepare a fantastic meal is something I've been doing for years. More often, though, I'll put my friends to work. We all have fun pitching in. I've had some of my best conversations while I was stirring a pot of soup and someone else was tossing a salad. I've also had some of my closest times with my husband in that warm, creative room in our house. Good talk seems to happen naturally in the kitchen. And teamwork is great fun! No one is lonely; no one feels left out. Creativity flourishes as you work together.

While Nigel helped her rearrange the contents of the basket, the door to the drawing room opened and Lord Broadmore came charging out. “Amelia, I must insist that you remain with me in the drawing room. You’re making a cake of yourself and I don’t like it one blasted bit.” Nigel’s eyes narrowed in warning as he took a step forward. Amelia shot out a hand to stop him. “I do not appreciate your tone of voice, my lord, nor your ungenerous implication,” she said. “I have my aunt’s approval. I certainly do not need yours.” Broadmore drew himself up to his full, outraged height. For once, Amelia didn’t care if she offended him. She was tired of his rudeness and resented his assumption that they were already engaged. “Amelia,” Broadmore said through clenched teeth, “I will not countenance this sort of behavior from the woman I expect to marry. Everyone will think you prefer Dash’s company to mine, which is bloody ridiculous. Even you can’t be that much of a birdwit.” Amelia sucked in a harsh breath, dumbfounded by the vile insult. She darted a quick glance at Nigel, expecting to find a seething male. Nigel’s blue eyes had gone so cold and flinty it made her shiver, but instead of ripping up at Broadmore he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. His eyebrows arched in polite inquiry as if to say to her, well, what are you going to do about that? It took Amelia a few moments to realize Nigel was deferring to her judgment instead of simply assuming the right to defend her regardless of her feelings. Good for you, dear Mr. Dash. She handed Nigel the sweets basket, then faced Broadmore. “My lord, I have had quite enough of your outrageously rude behavior. Rest assured that I will be escorting Mr. Dash upstairs to see my sister, and you are not to say another word about it.” Then, giving into an impulse that had been building within her for a long time, she jabbed Broadmore sharply in the chest with her index finger. “Please go back into the drawing room and do not dare to pass judgment on my behavior to anyone. In fact, if you say another word about this I will never speak to you again.” Then she whirled around, her anger propelling her like a cannonball up the staircase. Nigel caught up to her outside the nursery. “Well done, Miss Easton.” It sounded like he was choking back laughter. “You routed the enemy with commendable aplomb.” Amelia let her forehead thunk against the thick oak panel of the door. Now that her anger was cooling, her display of temper mortified her. “You must think me completely mad, Mr. Dash. I apologize for acting so disgracefully.” When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she shivered at the exhalation of his breath on her neck. “Actually, I thought you quite splendid, Miss Easton. I was hard-pressed not to give a resounding cheer.” She tilted her head sideways to look at him. His eyes, tender and amused, smiled back at her. “Shall we?” he asked. Reaching around her, he opened the door. Amelia

a row she had stared unseeingly into the gloom, Claire wasn’t as angry as she might have been. At least it was someone to talk to. ‘No, no news,’ she sighed. ‘Just wondering how I’m going to get through all this cheer and partying. Maybe I should find a cave, a nice quiet cave and just crawl into it.’ ‘Darling girl,’ Gilly Metcalf, formerly Morgan while she had been married to Claire’s father, said in a careful voice: ‘I know you’re going through a tough time, and if I could be there you know I would. In

Twas the night before Christmas, at a town in the South, A band of ex-Confederates gathered, down in the mouth; That the black man was now free, they felt was unfair, An abomination they’d address with terror to spare; Crosses they’d burn with white hoods on their head, Spreading their message of hate with horror and dread.” Yes, ringing in the season with Yuletide cheer, the Ku Klux Klan was officially organized in Pulaski, Tennessee, on December 24, 1865.

Where there is compassion, there exist good cheer.

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas-time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian World! A moment’s pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me as yet, and let me look once more! I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled; from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow’s Son; and God is good! If Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion of thy downward growth, O may I, with a grey head, turn a child’s heart to that figure yet, and a child’s trustfulness and confidence!

What can they be discussing?” Jenny asked nobody in particular. “A marriage proposal?” the duchess suggested. “I doubt it.” Her mother gave her a considering look from the sideboard. “If Bernward offered, Genevieve, would you choose Paris over him?” Her Grace was a pragmatic woman, also a mother who would cheerfully kill for her children or for her dear Percival. Her instincts were not to be discounted, ever. “I did.” “Oh, my dear, whatever could be more important than love?” And

Ahhh, hell nawl! This ‘pose to be a time of cheer not a time of fear. Lil nigga since the guns pointed at yo’ ass, I assume you the fuckin problem. Did you even find out what type of family you was gone be spending yo’ time with for the holidays before you came up in here doing whatever the fuck you did? ‘Cause you in a room full of murderers, goons, thugged out niggas, and cold-blooded killers!