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our hometown, but we had the richest family—in love, in giving, in caring, and in understanding the needs of those who were less fortunate than ourselves.
    I reached the “kettle” and was greeted by the smiling faces of two Salvation Army officers.
    â€œGod bless you, my love, and Merry Christmas!” said the man in the neatly pressed uniform. His eyes were like twinkling stars, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
    â€œGod bless you, too, and Merry Christmas to you and yours as well,” I replied as I deposited a twenty-dollar bill into the plastic ball. I was doing this now, not only in memory of my father, who always made the annual trip to the Salvation Army kettle, but also for my own son and daughter. Hopefully, they would carry on the tradition when I passed on, knowing that they, too, had been taught the true meaning of Christmas as my dad had taught me— the gift of knowing that it is indeed better to give than to receive.
    I joined the throng of the other shoppers and made my way back home. My family would be waiting for me. I envisioned the scene that would greet me. My husband would be standing over a piping hot pot of soup (all ready for the friends and family who would show up tonight after the late evening church service). My son, Luke, would be busy belting out the newest Christmas carol he had learned to play on one of the many musical instruments he owned. (God had truly blessed him with the gift of music.) Emily would be waiting at the top of the stairs with the baby Jesus in her hand. She would greet me with an emphatic, “Mommy, it’s time now to put the baby in the nativity scene. What took you so long?” I’d scoop her up and say, “Yes, it is time, sweetheart.” Then I’d move into the living room, freshly decorated with trinkets and treasures from past Christmases together, and as I would watch my daughter carefully lay the Christ child in the manger, I’d bow my head and say, “Merry Christmas, Dad, and Happy Birthday, Jesus.”
    Kimberly Welsh

The Gift of Time
    W hat wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?
    Jean Jacques Rousseau
    I was a Christmas baby, and today was my tenth birthday, making it extra special. After opening our presents and eating Christmas brunch with Mum and Dad, my big sister Gail and I scooted upstairs to our bedroom to try out some of our gifts. She was placing a stack of 45-rpm records on the spindle of the record player, and I was about to model another of my new sweaters when Mum called up to us.
    â€œCarol! Gail! Are you two dressed yet? We’re leaving soon to visit your grandmother. Hurry up! She’ll be expecting us!”
    Gail and I exchanged pained looks. Don’t get me wrong: we dearly loved our Gramma White, but visiting a nursing home on Christmas Day was not our idea of fun. We shrugged our shoulders in joint resignation and started to get dressed.
    Gramma White had been living with us for the past three years, but a month ago she fell and broke her hip. During her hospital stay, Dad and Mum held a family conference and explained that Gramma could not return home. She needed greater care than we could provide. When she was released from the hospital, she was transferred to a nearby nursing home. Mum visited her almost every day. Gail and I dropped in to say hello a few times on our way home from school. The white metal beds and side tables were all the same, and everything else was painted in varying shades of pale green. Gramma usually remembered who we were, but sometimes she didn’t, and we would coax her into conversation by talking about the old days at the cottage. The dry air was always too warm and tainted with the odors of illness and aging. I felt uncomfortable standing next to her bed in a large room filled with other old people. Our visits were usually very short.
    Christmas was Gramma’s favorite time of year. As the holiday season approached, the