Top 8 Best International Christmas Stories for Children

I am Maria. I was betrothed to Joseph, a skilled and kind-hearted carpenter.

One day, in a dream, an angel appeared and said:

- Peace be with you. God has bestowed great blessings upon you.

I was confused by the angel's words. The angel continued:

- God is very pleased with you. You will have a son and name him Jesus. God will make him a king like your ancestor David. His reign will be eternal.

- But how can this happen? My husband and I haven't even thought about such matters.

I replied. The angel answered:

- The Holy Spirit will come to you. The power of God will overshadow you.

When I woke up, I felt both joy and confusion. Could my future child be a king? Would this king liberate Israel from Roman rule?

Not long after, I became pregnant. Joseph, upon learning this, was deeply saddened. He decided to quietly break off our engagement to avoid causing me public shame.

But before he could act, one night, the angel appeared to him and said: "Take Maria as your wife. The child in her womb is from the Holy Spirit."

Upon waking, Joseph immediately came to me and took me as his wife. Time passed, and then the Roman emperor Augustus issued a decree that everyone must return to their hometowns for a census. So, Joseph took me from Nazareth to Bethlehem in Judea, his hometown, where his ancestor, King David, had been born centuries ago.

When we arrived in Bethlehem, I went into labor. All the inns were full, and we had to stay in a stable. Joseph made a cradle from a manger for the baby to lie in.

As I gazed at my beautiful newborn, some shepherds came to visit. They told us that while resting with their sheep in the fields, a voice and a bright light appeared from the sky:

- The Savior has been born. Come to Bethlehem to worship him!

One shepherd knelt beside the baby Jesus and prayed. Just then, Jesus, who had been asleep, opened his eyes and smiled at him. The shepherd said he would never forget that smile.

As the shepherds left, three men on camels arrived. They said they had come from the East, and they were scholars who studied the stars. A bright star had appeared in the sky days earlier, which everyone believed was a sign of the birth of a great king. It was this star that had led them to Jesus.

When they saw the child, they bowed and offered gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The wise men told us that they had visited Jerusalem and asked: "Where is the newborn King of the Jews? We saw his star in the East."

King Herod, upon hearing this, summoned the priests and asked:

- Where will the Messiah be born?

The priests replied:

- He will be born in Bethlehem, Judea. A prophet wrote: "There, a leader will emerge to shepherd Israel."

King Herod questioned the wise men about the timing of the star's appearance. He then instructed them:

- Once you find the child, inform me so I can come and worship him too.

But on their way home after meeting Jesus, the wise men did not return to Herod, for an angel had warned them in a dream that Herod intended to harm the child.

In another dream, the angel also told Joseph:

- Get up and take the child and his mother to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for King Herod is seeking to kill the child.

Joseph immediately woke up and, with me, prepared to leave. It was still early morning. As we mounted our donkey, a young shepherd approached us. I recognized him as the shepherd who had prayed by Jesus' side on that holy night. The young man offered us a piece of lamb and a bottle of wine, saying that thanks to his prayer to the Holy Child, his dying father had been healed. He looked at baby Jesus in my arms with tears in his eyes. At that moment, a divine voice echoed in the sky:

Glory to God in the highest,
Peace on earth to those of good will.

At that time, I was a shepherd. My friends and I tended a flock of hundreds of sheep for a landowner near Bethlehem. My father was a poor carpenter, and my mother took care of the household. I had two younger siblings, so every month I brought my wages home to help support my family.

One time, my father fell seriously ill. My mother ran all over trying to find a cure, and I asked my employer for an advance on my wages to buy medicine for him, but nothing seemed to help. I was deeply worried, wondering what would happen to my family if my father passed away. Death seemed to be drawing near, and I felt helpless.

That night, we shepherds were out in the fields with our flock, talking about the strange star that had been shining brightly in the sky for several days. The older folks said they had never seen a star like it and believed it was a sign of something momentous about to happen for humanity.

As we were discussing the star, suddenly the sky burst into dazzling light, and we were all terrified. From the glow, a voice spoke to us:

- Today, the Savior has been born in Bethlehem. Come and worship Him.

Upon hearing this, we rushed to Bethlehem. There, we found Joseph and Maria with a sleeping child lying in a manger in a humble stable. The place was filled with the light of the strange star. Could the Savior truly have been born in such a humble setting?

Joseph, seeming to understand my thoughts, said:

- The Emperor Augustus decreed that everyone must return to their hometowns for a census. When we arrived in Bethlehem, my wife went into labor, and all the inns were full, so we had to stay here.

The child had an unusually radiant face. I knelt beside Him, thinking of my sick father, and whispered:

- Please bless our family.

As I knelt there, the child, with His eyes closed, suddenly opened them and smiled at me. It was the most beautiful smile, one I will never forget. Whenever I face hardship, thinking of that smile lifts my spirits and eases my burdens.

As we were about to leave, three men on camels appeared. They introduced themselves as scholars of the stars and said that the strange star had led them here. They bowed down and honored the child, offering gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

On our way back to the flock, we continued talking about the incredible things we had witnessed in Bethlehem. As dawn broke, I saw someone approaching on a donkey. I recognized him immediately—it was my father, who the day before had been lying on his deathbed. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was truly him! As he drew near, we embraced, tears of joy in our eyes. What miracle had happened? Before me stood the strong, healthy man I had always known, not the frail, sick man I had feared would not survive. My father joyfully announced:

- I have come to bring you good news. Last night, all my ailments mysteriously disappeared as if by a miracle. I feel as strong as I did before. From now on, I can continue working and support our children. Thank you for always worrying about me.

I recalled the smile of the Holy Child when I had prayed. I embraced my father tightly and said:

- The Savior has come, Father.

Mary Maredante

Two Christmases ago, my father called to ask what I wanted for the holiday. I mentioned the name of a book but immediately stopped and said, “No, I want you to record for me the story of THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.” There was a long pause on the other end before he replied in his firm voice, “Oh, my God, Mary, why would you want that? You're forty years old!”

I hesitated, feeling embarrassed, but stood firm: “Dad, I remember when you used to hold all of us on the couch and read THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS aloud. I still hear your strong voice and feel the peace of being with you as you mimicked all the characters. I really want you to do that for me because I'm living almost two thousand five hundred miles away, and I can't come home. Hearing you would make me so happy!”

He softened his tone, still surprised, and asked, “You mean you want me to tell the story just like old times, with bells, whistles, and everything else?”

- Yes, yes, exactly, Dad.

There was silence again, and then he said, “Alright, I’ll read it for you.”

I could tell he was both resolute and accommodating in his voice. “Okay, I’ll call you back on Christmas.” After saying our goodbyes, I hung up feeling a mix of sadness and uncertainty. Perhaps I had asked too much of a seventy-six-year-old man, or maybe he thought it was crazy that I would ask for something like that at my age. But I wasn’t sure. I just knew that every time we spoke, I could hear his voice growing a little weaker. And I began to accept that, at some point, there would come a day when I wouldn’t hear that voice anymore.

On Christmas Eve, a small package wrapped in brown paper, sealed tightly with tape and a special stamp, arrived. My name and address were written in my father’s elegant handwriting with some curious flourishes. Inside, I found a tape with the handwritten title: “THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.”

I played the tape, and my father’s voice boomed from the speakers: “It was on a night… before Christmas when all the creatures… just like when we were little!” Near the end, he continued, “And now, I will read you the story of THE MAGIC LITTLE MACHINE.” I understood why he included one of our favorite stories from our childhood—this was also the story we had read to Mom when she passed away from cancer three years ago.

The tape went on with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Silent Night,” one of our family’s favorite carols that we sang together every Christmas Eve before bed. Then came “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” and other hymns, one after another, until the end of the tape. I slept peacefully that Christmas night, grateful for this miracle my father had given me.

The following May, my father passed away unexpectedly. No more Sunday calls, no more asking, “How’s the Gospel family, Mary?” and no more “I love you”s. But his voice still remains, reminding me that I can do whatever I set my mind to, and that I can use my love to care for others, even through difficult times. That is the power of love.

This Christmas, I played my father’s tape again and sent it to my siblings, much to their surprise. My youngest sister called, choked up, and said: “Mary, I just got the tape. Did you notice that Dad said it was December 19th on the tape? That’s today. When I put it on, Holden, my two-and-a-half-year-old son, ran out from the kitchen shouting, ‘Grandpa’s here! Grandpa’s here!’ Maybe you can see Dad, Mary! Look around, he’s here!”

I will always remember those words from my sister.

Though it was Christmas Day and only a few days before the New Year, the exhausted mother returned home from the store after a long, tiring day at work, dragging the shopping bags across the kitchen floor. Waiting for her was her eight-year-old son, David, who nervously recounted what his younger brother had done: “... while I was playing outside and Dad was on the phone, Tom took colored pencils and drew on the wall, on the brand-new wallpaper you put up in the office! I told him you’d be mad!”

The mother sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Where is he now?” Without hesitation, she dropped her bags and marched into her younger son's room, where he was hiding. She called out his full name, a common sign of anger in Western cultures. When she entered the room, the boy trembled in fear, knowing something serious was coming. For the next ten minutes, the mother cursed her son, explaining how much she had to save to afford the wallpaper and how expensive it was. As she continued scolding him, her frustration grew, and by the time she left the room, she was fuming with anger!

The mother hurried to the office to see the damage for herself. But when she looked at the wall, her eyes filled with tears. What she read felt like an arrow through her heart. The words “I love you, Mom” were written on the wall, framed by a heart!

And now, many years later, the wallpaper is still there, just as the mother saw it, with an empty photo frame hanging around it, preserving it. It serves as a reminder to her, and to everyone: Take a moment to read the words written on the wall!

The story happened over five years ago, but I still vividly remember the gift a little girl gave me that winter—a cold Christmas, but warm with human kindness.

In December, the northern weather was cold and rainy, a chill that cut through the skin. The cramped space of my small attic room couldn't soothe the loneliness or the homesick feeling I had. My class had plans to go out for Christmas, but my mother still hadn't sent the money. The floods back home probably destroyed the crops, leaving the family without income.

Yesterday, some neighbors told us about part-time work for charity organizations. My friend Hải and I decided to try. The job wasn’t too hard, but it was time-consuming, as we both played Santa Claus. We started our work at six in the evening and often didn’t return until after midnight. Some nights we worked at orphanages, others at centers for the disabled or shelters for poor children.

As Christmas approached, we were busier than ever. One night, while standing at the gate of a school on the outskirts of the city, it was already very late, but one little girl hadn’t gone home yet. She stared at me but hesitated to approach. I walked over and asked softly, “What’s wrong?” She smiled, her eyes still filled with joy: “Santa, do only good students get gifts? I got a bad grade in math today, and I’m afraid I won’t get a gift.” I smiled gently, “No, Santa gives to everyone. But I’ll be happier if you try your best.” The girl looked at me, then at Hải, surprised: “So I’ve made both of you sad?”

She started crying, her hot tears falling onto my hands. I realized that throughout the night, exhausted as we were, we hadn’t smiled at many children, including her. “It’s okay, stop crying. We’re not sad, but you need to do better, okay?” She smiled, her eyes still watery: “So, do you two get gifts for giving out presents to children?” Hải stepped forward: “No, we just bring gifts and help make your dreams come true. When you’re Santa, you don’t need anything else.”

The girl walked up to me and Hải, then kissed us gently on the cheek. Both of us were stunned but didn’t forget to smile as she walked away. A warm sensation spread across my cheek, then my whole body. A sweet, mixed feeling of joy and nostalgia. I realized I’d never wished for a gift for myself. It seemed my childhood had passed, and the myth of Santa Claus had long since faded into the past.

I realized that being Santa isn’t just about wearing the red and white costume and giving out gifts. Santa truly exists when we connect with one another. The spirit of giving isn’t just about hurriedly handing out gifts, but also about those innocent and meaningful kisses. I’m grateful to that sweet little girl who gave us “hired Santas” such a memorable Christmas moment.

As usual every Christmas season, I receive a gift from my brother. But that Christmas, the most joyful thing wasn't the gift he gave me—a car—but the life lesson I learned that cold winter night...

It was already 7 PM, and most of the office had cleared out. I was heading to the garage to grab my car and head home for Christmas dinner.

A boy, poorly dressed and looking like a street urchin, was circling around my car, his face full of awe. Then he spoke up when he noticed me approaching. "Is this your car?" he asked. I nodded. "It’s a Christmas gift from my brother," I replied. The boy looked surprised when he heard this. "Wait... so your brother gave you this car, and you didn’t have to pay for it? Oh! I wish..." The boy hesitated.

I could guess what he wanted to say next—he wanted a brother like mine. I looked at him, ready to listen, but he kept his head down, shuffling his feet nervously. "I wish..." he said again. "I could be a brother like that." I was taken aback by his words. Suddenly, I suggested, "How about we take a ride around the city in this car?" The boy’s face lit up, and he eagerly responded, "I’d love that!"

After the ride, the boy asked with bright, hopeful eyes, "Can you drive me to my house?" I smiled and nodded. I thought I understood what he wanted. He wanted to show his neighbors how he arrived home in such a big car. But I was wrong. "Just stop here, and would you mind waiting for me for a minute?" he asked.

He ran down a narrow, dark alley that seemed empty. A few minutes later, I heard his footsteps returning, but this time he wasn’t running. He was walking slowly, and behind him was a little girl, who I assumed was his sister, with deformed feet. The boy was carefully pushing her in an old, worn-out wheelchair, navigating it down the steps, and he stopped next to my car.

Only four days left until Christmas, but the festive spirit hasn’t quite caught up with me, even though the parking lot at the discount store in our neighborhood is packed. Inside, it's even worse, with aisles clogged with shopping carts and last-minute shoppers.

Why am I here today? I wondered. My legs ache, my head throbs. I have a list of people who insisted they didn’t need any gifts, but I know they’d be disappointed if I didn’t give them something!

Buying gifts for people who have everything, only to regret the expense later—honestly, I find little joy in the whole process!

I hurriedly placed the last items in my cart and made my way to the checkout line, which stretched far ahead. I picked the shortest line, but I knew I’d still have to wait at least 20 minutes.

In front of me stood two children— a boy of about five and a younger girl. The boy was wearing a torn shirt and oversized, worn-out sneakers that hung over his short, faded jeans. He tightly clutched several crumpled bills in his dirty hands. The girl’s clothes were just as ragged.

The girl had dull hair, tangled in messy curls. Her small face showed she was eagerly anticipating dinner. She held a pair of shiny yellow sandals in her hands, and as Christmas music played from the store’s stereo, she hummed along, slightly off-key, yet full of happiness.

Finally, it was our turn. The girl carefully placed the sandals on the counter, treating them like treasure.

The cashier rang up the total: "That’ll be $6.09." The boy placed his crumpled bills on the counter, frantically searching his pockets.

Eventually, he came up with only $5.12. "I think we’ll have to return the shoes," he said, gathering all his courage. "I’ll come back for them later. Maybe tomorrow."

Hearing this, the girl began to cry.

"But Jesus will love these shoes!" she sobbed.

The boy tried to console her, "It’s okay, we’ll go home and find some more money. Don’t cry, we’ll come back later."

Moved by their situation, I quickly handed the cashier $3. The children had been waiting in line for so long, and it was Christmas after all.

Suddenly, I felt a pair of arms wrap around me, and the soft voice of the boy said, "Thank you so much, miss."
"What did you mean when you said 'Jesus will love these shoes'?" I asked.

The boy replied, "My mom is sick, and she’s going to Heaven. My dad said she’ll be with Jesus before Christmas."

The girl added, "Our teacher told us that the streets in Heaven are golden, just like these shoes. My mom will look so beautiful walking on that road in these shoes, don’t you think?"

Tears filled my eyes as I saw the girl’s tears roll down her face.
I said, "Yes, I’m sure your mom will look beautiful."

I quietly thanked God for sending these children to remind me of the true, precious meaning of gift-giving.

I hurried to the local store to buy a few last-minute Christmas gifts. On the way, I observed the crowd and thought to myself, I should have bought these presents earlier, but there had been too many things to do. Christmas is also the time when I can finally relax for a moment. At one point, I wished I could sleep through the entire holiday season. But now, it was time to head quickly to the toy store.

As I searched for what I needed, I spotted a boy around 5 years old, holding a very cute doll. He hugged the doll lovingly, gently stroking its hair. I was intrigued, so I watched him closely, wondering who he might be buying the doll for. I heard him ask his aunt standing next to him, “Are you sure you don’t have enough money to buy this doll?” The aunt responded with irritation, “You need to understand that I can’t afford it!” She then told him not to wander off while she went to buy a few other things, and she would return in a few minutes. She walked away, leaving the boy still playing with the doll.

I approached him and asked who he was buying the doll for. The boy replied, “I’m buying it for my little sister because she really wants a doll for Christmas, and she thinks Santa Claus will bring her one.” I told him that perhaps Santa would bring it after all. The boy quickly responded, “Santa doesn’t know where my sister is. I’ll give the doll to my mom so she can take it to my sister.” I asked the boy where his sister was now.

The boy looked up at me with a sad expression and said, “She has gone to be with Jesus.”

“My dad said my mom is going to follow her soon,” he continued. Hearing this, my heart ached. The boy added, “I told my dad to tell my mom not to go yet. I told him to ask her to wait until I come back from the store.” The boy then asked if I wanted to see the pictures he had drawn. I said I would love to. He pulled out a few drawings he had placed on the counter and handed them to me. “I want my mom to take these with her so she won’t forget me. I love my mom so much, and I don’t want her to leave. But my dad says she has to go with my sister.”

I looked at the boy, and it seemed as though he had grown up so much in his small frame. While he wasn’t looking, I quickly reached into my wallet and pulled out some money. I told him, “Would you like to count this money with me?” The boy eagerly agreed, “Yes, I hope it’s enough.” We counted the money together, and he quietly said, “Of course, there are so many dolls here, thank God for bringing me this money.” Then he added, “I just prayed to God for this money, and He heard my prayer. I also wanted to ask Him for enough money to buy my mom a white rose because she loves them, but before I could ask, He gave me enough money for both the doll and the rose.”

At that moment, his aunt returned, so I pushed my cart away. I felt a different sense of calm than when I first entered the store, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the story the boy had shared. Only later did I remember reading a tragic news report about a car accident caused by a drunk driver, where a young girl was killed instantly, and her mother was seriously injured. At that time, I never imagined that the story the boy had told me was connected to this tragedy.

Two days later, I saw a news report saying that the woman had passed away. I couldn’t forget the boy and wondered if there was a link between these two stories. The following day, something urged me to go out and buy a white rose bouquet, which I brought to the funeral of the young woman. There, I saw her lying in the coffin, holding a beautiful white rose in her hand, beside her was a doll and the drawings from the boy I had met at the toy store.

I stood there, tears streaming down my face. Since that moment, I have cherished my loved ones more and learned to appreciate these sacred feelings. The love the boy had for his little sister and mother was immense. But a single moment of irresponsibility by that drunk driver destroyed the life of that innocent boy. Someone once said, “We live by what we have, but we create the meaning of our lives by what we share with others.”