Gifts Under The Christmas Tree Quotes

Time cannot be packaged and ribboned and left under trees for christmas morning.Time can't be given.But it can be shared

Some cities, like wrapped boxes under Christmas trees, conceal unexpected gifts, secret delights. Some cities will always remain wrapped boxes, containers of riddles never to be solved, nor even to be seen by vacationing visitors, or, for that matter, the most inquisitive, persistent travelers.

Time cannot be packaged and ribboned and left under trees for christmas morning. Time can't be given. But it can be shared.

Miss Edi: My brother Bertrand is the laziest person in the world. David: Oh yeah? And how lazy is that? Miss Edi: When he was three and saw all his gifts under the Christmas tree, he said, 'Who's going to open them for me?' David: I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was six, my father bought him a bicycle and took him out to teach him to ride it. David: And? Miss Edi: Bertrand did very well. My father ran along behind him, holding on, and my brother balanced perfectly. But when my father let go and the bicycle stopped, Bertrand asked why. When my father said he had to push on the pedals, my brother left it lying there in the street, and he never got on a bicycle again. David: Not bad, but I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was twelve, my parents took us out to a restaurant, the first one we'd ever been to, and my father ordered steaks for each of us. When my brother's came, he looked at it and asked how he was to eat it. My father showed him how to cut the steak, then how to chew it. My brother called the waiter back and ordered a bowl of mashed potatoes. David: Okay, that's getting up there, but I have heard a few worse. Miss Edi: When he was sixteen, my mother arranged for her beloved son to go to a dance with a very nice young girl. He was to pick her up at six pm. At six-thirty Bertrand was sitting in the living room and my father asked him why he hadn't gone on his date. My brother said, 'Because she hasn't come to get me yet.

The sharp thrill of seeing them [killdeer birds] reminded me of childhood happiness, gifts under the Christmas tree, perhaps, a kind of euphoria we adults manage to shut out most of the time. This is why I bird-watch, to recapture what it's like to live in this moment, right now.

Time is more precious than gold, more precious than diamonds, more precious than oil or any valuable treasures. It is time that we do not have enough of; it is time that causes the war within our hearts, and so we must spend it wisely. Time cannot be packaged and ribboned and left under trees for Christmas morning. Time can’t be given. But it can be shared.

Strange where our passions carry us, floggingly pursue us, forcing upon us unwanted dreams, unwelcome destinies. Her alleged abilities to sift the sands of daydreams until she produced the solid stuff, golden realities. Her power resided in her attitude: she behaved as though she believed she was irresistible. She sounds the way bananas taste. Some cities, like wrapped boxes under Christmas trees, conceal unexpected gifts, secret delights. Some cities will always remain wrapped boxes, containers of riddles never to be solved, nor even to be seen by vacationing visitors, or, for that matter, the most inquisitive, persistent travelers. To know such cities, to unwrap them, as it were, one has to have been born there. Venice is like that.

This water was very different from any ordinary food. It was born from the walk under the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of carrying him in my arms. It did the heart good, like a present. When I was a little boy, the lights of the Christmas tree, the music of the midnight mass, the sweetness of people's smiles, all formed part of the radiance of the Christmas gifts I received.

Men," said the little prince, "set out on their way in express trains, but they do not know what they are looking for. Then they rush about, and get excited, and turn round and round..." And he added: "It is not worth the trouble..." [...] "I am thirsty for this water," said the little prince. "Give me some of it to drink..." And I understood what he had been looking for. I raised the bucket to his lips. He drank, his eyes closed. It was as sweet as some special festival treat. This water was indeed a different thing from ordinary nourishment. Its sweetness was born of the walk under the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of my arms. It was good for the heart, like a present. When I was a little bou, the lights of the Christmas tree, the music of the Midnight Mass, the tenderness of smiling faces, used to make up, so the radiance of the gifts I received. "The men where you live," said the little prince, "raised five thousand roses in the same garden - and they do not find in it what they are looking for. [...] And yet what they are looking for could be found in one single rose, or in a little water." "Yes, that is true," I said. And the little prince added: "But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart...

I took a shower after dinner and changed into comfortable Christmas Eve pajamas, ready to settle in for a couple of movies on the couch. I remembered all the Christmas Eves throughout my life--the dinners and wrapping presents and midnight mass at my Episcopal church. It all seemed so very long ago. Walking into the living room, I noticed a stack of beautifully wrapped rectangular boxes next to the tiny evergreen tree, which glowed with little white lights. Boxes that hadn’t been there minutes before. “What…,” I said. We’d promised we wouldn’t get each other any gifts that year. “What?” I demanded. Marlboro Man smiled, taking pleasure in the surprise. “You’re in trouble,” I said, glaring at him as I sat down on the beige Berber carpet next to the tree. “I didn’t get you anything…you told me not to.” “I know,” he said, sitting down next to me. “But I don’t really want anything…except a backhoe.” I cracked up. I didn’t even know what a backhoe was. I ran my hand over the box on the top of the stack. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine--so unadorned, so simple, I imagined that Marlboro Man could have wrapped it himself. Untying the twine, I opened the first package. Inside was a pair of boot-cut jeans. The wide navy elastic waistband was a dead giveaway: they were made especially for pregnancy. “Oh my,” I said, removing the jeans from the box and laying them out on the floor in front of me. “I love them.” “I didn’t want you to have to rig your jeans for the next few months,” Marlboro Man said. I opened the second box, and then the third. By the seventh box, I was the proud owner of a complete maternity wardrobe, which Marlboro Man and his mother had secretly assembled together over the previous couple of weeks. There were maternity jeans and leggings, maternity T-shirts and darling jackets. Maternity pajamas. Maternity sweats. I caressed each garment, smiling as I imagined the time it must have taken for them to put the whole collection together. “Thank you…,” I began. My nose stung as tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect gift. Marlboro Man reached for my hand and pulled me over toward him. Our arms enveloped each other as they had on his porch the first time he’d professed his love for me. In the grand scheme of things, so little time had passed since that first night under the stars. But so much had changed. My parents. My belly. My wardrobe. Nothing about my life on this Christmas Eve resembled my life on that night, when I was still blissfully unaware of the brewing thunderstorm in my childhood home and was packing for Chicago…nothing except Marlboro Man, who was the only thing, amidst all the conflict and upheaval, that made any sense to me anymore. “Are you crying?” he asked. “No,” I said, my lip quivering. “Yep, you’re crying,” he said, laughing. It was something he’d gotten used to. “I’m not crying,” I said, snorting and wiping snot from my nose. “I’m not.” We didn’t watch movies that night. Instead, he picked me up and carried me to our cozy bedroom, where my tears--a mixture of happiness, melancholy, and holiday nostalgia--would disappear completely.

Josiah’s gaze narrowed in Santa’s direction. “How did he know our names?” “He must be from around here.” “I don’t live here.” He sounded more surprised than upset. “You’re one of Marietta’s most famous former residents. Most people know who you are.” Ellie touched the top of his hand to reassure him. “Or maybe he’s the real Santa, and you’ll find a special gift under the tree on Christmas morning.” “More like an identity theft notification,” Josiah joked.

There are things in our lives that we are absolutely confident about, because we know they are a part of our destiny. Destiny is like a gift under a Christmas tree with our name on it. It's already ours. We just need to go get it. So go get your gift Today. Go claim the gift that is ALREADY YOURS.

Destiny is like a gift under a Christmas tree with our name on it. It's already ours. We just need to go get it. So go get your gift Today. Go claim the gift that is ALREADY YOURS.

There are things in our lives that we are absolutely confident about, because we know they are a part of our destiny. Destiny is like a gift under a Christmas tree with our name on it. It's already ours. We just need to go get it. So go get your gift today. It's waiting for you. Go CLAIM the gift that is ALREADY YOURS.

Destiny is like a gift under a Christmas tree with our name on it. It's already ours. We just need to go get it. So go get your gift today. It's waiting for you. Go CLAIM the gift that is ALREADY YOURS.

Dare To Go Get Your Gift "There are things in our lives that we are absolutely confident about, because we know they are a part of our destiny. Destiny is like a gift under a Christmas tree with our name on it. It's already ours. We just need to go get it. So go get your gift today. It's waiting for you. Go CLAIM the gift that is ALREADY YOURS.

Elsie posed with trays of Christmas stollen, nut bars, and lebkuchen hearts. “During times of war, Christmas may mean fewer gifts under the tree but more gifts from the heart.” That was her all-star quote. Reba had pushed hard to get it. Reba

Papa told me if you ever get lost, the stars can get you home.” Jake nodded. “That’s right. Your papa was a very smart man.” “And he promised me a train for Christmas. Which isn’t long from now!” Aletta didn’t say anything but could feel Jake’s attention shift in her direction. “Remember what I said about Santa this year, Andrew. He’s going to be very busy. So we must be grateful for whatever gift is under the tree for us.” “Yes, ma’am.” Then Andrew leaned toward Jake. “But mine’s gonna be a train,” he whispered.

There isn't any family on Mom's side. She's sansei, third generation Japanese. Her grandparents emigrated from the thirties. They didn't speak the language and only had a whisper of a better life when they boarded a ship bound for America. After World War II, they slipped their heirloom kimono under the bed, put up Christmas trees in December, and exclusively spoke English. But some traditions refuse to fade. They seep through the cracks and cling to the walls---remove your shoes before entering the house, always bring a gift when visiting someone for the first time, celebrate the New Year by eating Toshikoshi soba and mochi.

In the soft quiet of the days before Christmas, we find warmth not from a fireplace, but in the close embrace of loved ones. The true magic of the season lies in simple acts of kindness, shared laughter, and the heart's gentle whisper that the best gifts are not under the tree, but in the moments we create together!

And hidden somewhere under the tree was that unexpected gift—be it a wooden sword with which to defend the ramparts, or a lantern with which to explore a mummy’s tomb. Such is the magic of Christmas in childhood, thought the Count a little wistfully, that a single gift can provide one with endless hours of adventure while not even requiring one to leave one’s house.

He had never brought home a school report and watched his mother smile. The clay ashtray he’d made in kindergarten had been one of sixteen Mrs. Flannigan received on Mother’s Day. All the Christmas gifts under the tree were labeled “for a girl” or “for a boy.” The evening Will graduated high school, he’d looked out at the crowd of cheering families and seen only strangers.

DECEMBER 6 First Saturday of Advent Cure Every Disease Saint Nicholas, also known as Nicholas the Wonderworker, was a fourth-century Greek bishop. Legend has it that he saved the people of Myra from famine, protected the wrongly accused, and practiced secret gift-giving—putting coins, for example, in the shoes townsfolk would leave on their doorsteps. A friend once told a story from his childhood of Christmas morning. For weeks, he’d anticipated the opening of the presents. He’d seen the gifts under the tree, picked them up, hefted them to gauge the weight, held them up to his ear and shook, trying to guess. Finally, Christmas dawned; the family gathered; one by one he opened all kinds of beautiful gifts. He can’t now remember what the gifts were; what he remembers is that by afternoon he felt downcast, fretful. “What is it?” his mother finally asked. “What’s the matter?” “I didn’t get what I wanted,” he replied. “What did you want?” “I don’t know—I just know I didn’t get it.” Saint Nicholas reminds us that the Christmas practice of exchanging gifts is based on the greatest gift of all: Christ himself. To be a laborer for the harvest is to realize that we can never, ever get enough. It’s in giving that our demons are cast out. It’s in loving that we are healed.

This place is Christmas. It’s the pine garland-wrapped staircase and the battery-operated lights in the window. The delicately executed velvet bows strategically placed in every greenery-swathed doorframe. The single piece of mistletoe hanging in the living room, leading you to the expertly decorated tree full of matching baubles and bulbs, ribbons, and the golden angel at the top. It’s the handcrafted green and red quilts hanging like tapestries on the walls, the crystal stemware used as candy dishes full of pillow mints that melt on your tongue the moment they enter your mouth. And it’s the exquisitely wrapped presents under the tree decorated in matching paper, bows, and gift tags. Together, it’s a snapshot of my childhood, where Christmas made me believe in miracles, made me believe in magic, and gave me all the warm feelings about the holiday season.