We married in August and
settled into a small apartment near the university where both of us went to
school. We each had a year until graduation and scrimped and struggled through
that autumn quarter. Now Christmas was approaching and we had little money
between us to squander on Christmas gifts. We managed to put aside enough money
for winter-quarter tuition and books, and that had taken all we had except for
rent, utilities, and food.
We walked through the
department stores of Salt Lake arm in arm with the confidence of better days
ahead. My bride paused before a winter coat, caressing it with her eyes and
fingers. Together we looked at the price tag—seventy-five dollars. Tuition for
a quarter was eighty-five dollars. We both knew the coat was out of the
question. Her coat, seam-split and stained, would have to do another year. But
Christmas is a time for dreaming and hoping, and her gaze lingered long upon
the coat.
When I received my paycheck on
December 20, we paid what bills we owed and discovered we had twenty dollars
left for Christmas. Together we found a Christmas tree lot where a stack of
broken branches lay. For fifty cents, they let us fill the trunk of our old car
with pine boughs. We drove home and wired them together into the semblance of a
Christmas tree. With a borrowed string of lights and some handmade ornaments,
we created our first Christmas tree.
We agreed to spend no more
than five dollars apiece in shopping for each other. While my wife drove the
car to do her shopping, I walked the half dozen blocks to the Grand Central
drugstore to see how far I could stretch five dollars. After considerable
searching, I selected a paperback novel my wife had commented about and a small
box of candy. Together they came to $4.75. As I approached the checkout stand,
I was met with a long line of shoppers, each trying to pay as quickly as
possible and get on with the bustle of the season. No one was smiling.
I waited perhaps half an hour,
and only three people were ahead of me in the line when I became aware that the
line had ground to a halt. The clerk was having an animated discussion with an
elderly customer. He was tall and thin, with an enormous shock of white hair
that had been carefully parted and combed. He was wearing a pair of navy blue
slacks that ended nearly three inches above his shoes. His plaid shirt was
missing a button, and the sleeves of the shirt protruded two or three inches
past the sleeves of his light jacket. He had an ancient leather wallet in his
hand.
“Sir,” barked the clerk, “the
price of insulin has gone up. I’m sorry, but we have no control over that. You
need four more dollars.”
“But it has been the same
price ever since my wife started taking it. I have no more money. She needs the
medication.” The man’s neck was turning red and he was obviously uncomfortable
with the situation. “I must have the insulin. I must.”
The clerk shook her head. “I’m
sorry, sir, but I have no control over the prices. You need four more dollars.”
The woman immediately ahead of
me in line began to mutter under her breath. She had other purchases to make
and resented this clot in the artery of Christmas shopping. “Hurry up, hurry
up,” she whispered loudly.
“Please let me take the
insulin and I will bring you back the four dollars,” pleaded our elderly
friend. The clerk was adamant; he had to pay before he got the medicine.
The man standing behind
him put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on, pop, you’re holding up the
line. Pay the lady and let’s get on with it.”
“I don’t have any more
money,” he replied. As he turned to face the man behind him, I saw his face for
the first time. He had enormous bushy white eyebrows that seemed out of place
on his emaciated face, but complimented the thin, white moustache on his upper
lip. “I’ve been buying insulin here for years. Always it has been the same
price. Now it’s four dollars more. My wife”—he threw up his hands in despair—“must
have it.” He turned back to the clerk.
The lady in front of me
grew more agitated. The dozen or so people behind me began craning their necks
to see what was holding up the line. Suddenly I stepped out of line, reached
into my pocked, withdrew my wallet, and handed five dollars to the old man.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
He hesitated a moment,
then his blue eyes grew moist as he took the money. “God bless you, my son.”
I tuned and walked back
into the store aisles. I counted the money I had remaining in my wallet—four
dollars. I replaced the box of candy on the shelf and got back into line to pay
for the novel. The line moved slowly, but at last I made my purchase.
Snow was falling in soft,
white, feathery flakes as I walked up the hill toward our apartment. The lights
from the city reflected from the clouds above and gave a glow to my
surroundings that matched the glow I felt inside. I turned in our driveway and
saw an envelope stuck in our screen door. I removed it and found written on the
front of the envelope simply, “Matthew 25:40.”
I opened the door,
stepped inside, and turned on the light. I ripped open the end of the envelope
and withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. There was no other message. With wonder, I
folded the envelope and stuffed it in my pocket as I heard my wife drive in.
She brought in her sack of purchases and shooed me out of our apartment while
she did her wrapping.
It was only after I had
driven to the department stored and purchased the winter coat for my wife that
I took time to get out my Bible and read the scripture written on the envelope:
“Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
To this day, I have no
idea who blessed our lives that Christmas.
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