by P. E. Adotey Addo
It was the night before Christmas and I was very sad because my family life had been severely disrupted and I was sure that Christmas would never come. There was none of the usual joy and anticipation that I always felt during the Christmas season. I was eight years old but in the past few months I had grown a great deal. Before this year, I thought Christmas in my village came with many things. Christmas had always been for me one of the joyous religious festivals. It was the time for beautiful Christmas music on the streets, on radio, television, and everywhere. Christmas had always been a religious celebration and the church started preparing way back in November. We really felt that we were preparing for the birth of the baby Jesus. Christmas was the time when relatives and friends visited each other so there were always people traveling and visiting with great joy from all the different tribes. I always thought that was all Christmas was.
Oh, how I wished I had some of the traditional food consumed at the Christmas Eve dinner and the Christmas Day dinner, I knew I could not taste the rice, chicken, goat, lamb, and fruits of various kinds. The houses were always decorated with beautiful paper ornaments. The children and all the young people loved to make and decorate their homes and schools with colorful crepe paper.
All of us looked forward to the Christmas Eve Service at our church. After the service there would be a joyous possession through the streets. Everyone would be in a gala mood with local musicians in a Mardi Gras mood. Then on Christmas Day we all went back to church to read the scriptures and sing carols to remind us of the meaning of the blessed birth of the baby Jesus. We always thought that these were the things that meant Christmas.
After the Christmas service young people received gifts of special chocolate, special cookies, and special crackers. Young people were told that the gifts come from Father Christmas, and this always meant Christmas for us. They also received new clothes and perhaps new pairs of shoes. Meanwhile throughout the celebration, everyone was greeted with the special greeting word, “Afishapa” meaning Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Oh how I wish that those memories were real tonight in order to bring us Christmas. However, this Christmas Eve things were different and I knew Christmas would never come. Everyone was sad and desperate because of what happened last April when the so-called Army of Liberation attacked our village and took all the young boys and girls away.
Families were separated and some were murdered. We were forced to march and work for many miles without food. We were often hungry and we were given very little food. There was very little food. The soldiers burned everything in our village and during our forced march we lost all sense of time and place.
Miraculously we were able to get away from the soldiers during one rainy night. After several weeks in the tropical forest we made our way back to our burned out village. Most of us were sick, exhausted, and depressed. Most of the members of our families were no where to be found. We had no idea what day or time it was. This was the situation until my sick grandmother noticed the reddish and yellow flower we call, “Fire on the Mountain,” blooming in the middle of the marketplace where the tree had stood for generations and had bloomed for generations at Christmas time.
For some reason it had survived the fire that had engulfed the marketplace. I remembered how the nectar from this beautiful flower had always attracted insects making them drowsy enough to fall to the ground to become food for crows and lizards. We were surprised that the fire the soldiers started to burn the marketplace and the village did not destroy the “Fire on the Mountain” tree. What a miracle it was.
Grandmother told us that it was almost Christmas because the flower was blooming. As far as she could remember this only occurred at Christmas time. My spirits were lifted perhaps for a few minutes as I saw the flower. Soon I became sad again. How could Christmas come without my parents and my village? How could this be Christmas time when we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace, because since April we have not known any peace, only war and suffering? How could we celebrate as grandmother instructed us to do before she died? Those were the last words she spoke before she died last night.
As I continued to think about past joyous Christmases and the present suffering, we heard the horn of a car and not just one horn but several cars approaching our village. At first we thought they were cars full of men with machine guns so we hid in the forest. To our surprise they were not and they did not have guns. They were just ordinary travelers.
It seemed the bridge over the river near our village had been destroyed last April as the soldiers left our village. Since it was almost dusk and there were rumors that there were land mines on the roads, they did not want to take any chances. Their detour had led them straight to our village. When they saw us they were shocked and horrified at the suffering and the devastation all around us. Many of these travelers began to cry. They confirmed that tonight was really Christmas Eve. All of them were on their way to their villages to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. Now circumstances had brought them to our village at this time on this night before Christmas. They shared the little food they had with us. They even helped us to build a fire in the center of the marketplace to keep us warm.
In the middle of all this, my sister became ill and could not stand up. A short time after we returned to our village my grandmother told me that my oldest sister was expecting a baby. My sister had been in a state of shock and speechless since we all escaped from the soldiers. I was so afraid for my sister because we did not have any medical supplies and we were not near a hospital. Some of the travelers and the villagers removed their shirts and clothes to make a bed for my sister to lie near the fire we had made.
On that fateful night my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. This called for a celebration, war or no war, Africans have to dance and we celebrated until the rooster crowed at 6 a.m. We sang Christmas songs. Everyone sang in his or her own language. For the first time all the pain and agony of the past few months escaped. When morning finally came my sister was asked, “What are you going to name the baby?” Would you believe for the first time since our village was burned and all the young girls and boys were taken away, she spoke. She said, “His name is Gye Nyame, which means except God I fear none.”
And so we celebrated Christmas that night. Christmas really did come to our village that night, but it did not come in the cars or with the travelers. It came in the birth of my nephew in the midst of our suffering. We saw hope in what this little child could do. This birth turned out to be the universal story of how bad things turned into universal hope, the hope we found in the Baby Jesus. A miracle occurred that night before Christmas and all of a sudden I knew we were not alone any more. Now I knew there was hope, and I had learned that Christmas comes in spite of all circumstances. Christmas is always within us all. Christmas came even to our village that night.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Charity Christmas
by Alma J. Yates
As soon as Brother Malone announced that the priests quorum was going to give a Christmas to a needy family for our December service project, I knew our family was in trouble. Since Danny’s operation and Luke’s mission call eight months earlier, things were tight around our place. I don’t know what the official poverty level was for a family of nine, but I knew we were miles below it, and I was convinced that we were prime targets for all the ward service projects and Christmas charity drives.
“Hey, Jason,” I said, cornering my younger brother that night before we climbed into bed, “we’re in trouble. I think we’re on the list.”
Jason just looked at me and retorted innocently, “I haven’t done anything. Honest!”
“How many weeks till Christmas?” I asked solemnly.
He shrugged and pulled the quilts back from his bed, fluffed up his pillow and remarked indifferently, “I don’t know, but I’ve got a test in English tomorrow and I need some sleep or I’ll ……””
“Would you believe three?”
“Hey, I’ll believe anything. Just let me get to sleep,” he said, yawning and pushing his feet under the covers and snuggling up in a ball. “Besides, I’m not counting on anything for Christmas this year. Mom and Dad are broke.”
I turned the covers down on my bed, flipped off the light, and dropped heavily onto the mattress. “Well, when your teachers quorum chooses our family for their December service project, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The light flipped back on. Jason was sitting on the edge of his bed. “What’d you say?”
“Have you seen the storeroom lately?”
“Yeah, Mom sent me for a bottle of fruit tonight.”
“Was the door locked?” Jason shook his head. “It should have been. It always is this time of year. That’s where Mom and Dad hide the loot, but there’s no loot this year.”
Jason shrugged. “We’ll survive.”
“You don’t get the point,” I growled. “We’re charity material. Charity as in service project, needy family.”
“Come on, Brett,” he grinned nervously. “Mom fixes a few beans now and then, and we have lots of whole wheat bread, but that doesn’t make us candidates for welfare. Dad’s got a job. We’re not out on the street or anything.”
I flipped the light off again. “Wait till Christmas and find out the hard way,” I warned.
Five minutes later the lights came back on. “That’s just great!” he muttered. “All we need is 50 care packages on our front step Christmas Eve.” He groaned, shaking his head morosely. “How embarrassing!”
“The trouble is there’s not much we can do,” I complained. “How can you stop a charity project?”
“Let’s just tell them we don’t want anything.”
“Tell who? It could come from anybody. It’s not like we can send letters to everyone in the ward declining their good will.”
“Let’s move,” Jason growled.
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Could we hide?”
“For a month?”
Glumly we sat on our beds and brooded as we pondered the inevitable. “I know,” Jason suggested after a moment of silence. “We’ll beat them to the punch.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll pull off our own charity job, on somebody else.” He grinned, enthusiasm brightening his eyes. “If we’re helping another family—anybody—nobody will bother us. Everybody will think we’ve got enough to throw away.”
“Maybe,” I whispered, considering the plan’s plausibility. “It just might work. But who? Who’s in worse shape than we are?”
“What about the Bradleys? She’s a widow, three kids. You home teach there. You’d know what they could use.”
I smiled, but the smile was temporary. “We’re forgetting one thing. We’re broke. How do we help if we don’t have anything to help with?”
Jason sighed. “I forgot about that,” he mumbled.
It was true. We had no money, no job, and we struggled with a pride that prevented us from going down on main street with a bell and pot to solicit contributions.
“I know,” Jason volunteered, the excitement obvious. “We can collect pop cans and sell them. Twenty cents a pound.”
“In the middle of winter? Nobody drinks pop in the winter, and I’m not about to rummage through garbage cans just to pinch a few pennies.”
“How about newspapers. Morgan’s Shopping Center gives 30 dollars a ton for them. Everybody’s got newspapers, winter or summer.”
“Can we make enough money collecting newspapers?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Could you go around begging for newspapers?” I asked skeptically.
Jason cleared his throat. “Maybe. As long as we don’t go to people we know.””
“When do we start then?”
Jason chewed on his thumb. “Couple of weeks from now.”
“You’re stalling.””
“I’ve got some tests coming up and a paper to write and …”
“I wonder what your teachers quorum will get you for Christmas.”
He glared at me. “Maybe we better start tomorrow afternoon.”
So with dubious motives we embarked on our questionable Christmas crusade. The next day after school we dragged ourselves over to Fruit Heights. We were sure no one there knew us, so we figured we could commence our campaign without fear of being recognized.
The trace of an icy mist hung in the afternoon air, bit through our coats and sweaters, and numbed our cheeks and noses. Pulling our collars up around our ears and digging our hands deep into our pockets, we approached our first house with an emotional mixture of trepidation, loathing, and melancholy endurance. I took a deep breath, gingerly pushed the door bell, and stepped back, shivering from cold and abject embarrassment.
Hearing someone approach, Jason turned to me and whispered nervously, “Maybe you’d better do the talking. I don’t know anything about this.”
“And what do I know?” I hissed back. “We’re in this together, you know.”
“Yeah, but you’re the oldest,” he added, stepping behind me just as the door opened and an older man greeted us with a curt nod and a withering scowl.
For a moment I just stood and stared, unable to call to mind the door approach Jason and I had rehearsed. Finally the man demanded gruffly, “Well?”
“Do you have some paper?” I blurted out.
“Paper?”
I gulped. “Newspaper.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, waving us away and turning to go. “The Collins boy brings it. I don’t need another paper. I hardly read the one I take now.”
“No,” I called out in desperation, “we don’t sell papers. We’re collecting old papers. To sell.”
“What?” the man asked.
“We’re trying to help a family for Christmas,” I explained. “The papers are for them.”
“It’s a widow’s family,” Jason volunteered from behind me. “It’s not really for us. The money from the papers, I mean.”
The man rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and looked us up and down. “I’ve got a few papers, I guess.”
“Could you save them? We’re not picking them up today. We’ll be back in two weeks. On a Saturday.”
“It’s for the widow and her kids,” Jason called out again. “And we’re not her kids either. We’re just trying to help her out. We’re not …”
I poked Jason to shut him up. “We’ll be back in two weeks then,” I repeated, my cheeks flushed purple.
By the time we made it out into the street again, I had to unbutton my coat because I was sweating so much. “I don’t know how many more of those I can do,” I muttered. “That wiped me out.”
“That wasn’t bad at all,” Jason grinned, pleased with himself.
“You didn’t say anything either,” I returned. “At least anything sensible. But the next door’s yours.”
“Mine?” he protested.
“And leave out the part about us not being the widow’s kids. Just act natural or they really will think we’re the widow’s kids.”
Our whole operation that afternoon lay between abject drudgery and acute torture, but we persisted. Our commitment did waver at times, but each time one of us faltered in our resolve to continue, the other would comment matter-of-factly, “It’s this or care packages Christmas Eve.” With that humiliating possibility looming before us, we beat down our pride and trudged on to the next house.
It was getting dark when we knocked at the last house on the block. We had already promised ourselves that if we could endure till then, we would call it quits for the night.
An older woman, Mrs. Bailey, hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on a cane. She peered skeptically over the rims of her glasses and pressed her thin, pale lips together.
“Hello, ma’am,” I greeted her, a pinched smile frozen to my blue lips. “We’re collecting old newspapers,” I announced. “For a needy family.” Mrs. Bailey didn’t respond, and I began to wonder if she could even hear me. “We’ going to sell the papers and help this family with Christmas,” I all but shouted, just in case she was slightly deaf. “Do you have any old newspapers lying around?”
“Well, my husband has collected a few,” Mrs. Bailey said in a shaky voice.
“Would he like to donate them to the cause?” Jason asked.
“Well, he planned to read them.”
“Do you think he could read them by a week from Saturday? That’s when we’ll pick them up.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” she answered bluntly.
It wasn’t exactly a turn down, but neither was it an offer. In nervous perplexity we stood shifting our weight from one foot to the other. “Well, thanks just the same,” I said, turning to go.
“What’d you say they’re for?” she spoke up suddenly.
“We’re helping a widow and her kids.”
Mrs. Bailey cocked her head to one side and tapped her cane on the front step. After a moment of contemplation, she shuffled into her house and returned with a sweater thrown about her frail shoulders. She motioned for us to follow her. We inched along behind her as she limped her way to the driveway. She led us to her garage and stopped. Banging on the door with her cane, she commanded, “You’ll have to open it.”
Jason and I jumped for the door and pushed it up. It squeaked and creaked and finally crashed into place overhead. We squinted into the black interior but could see nothing.
“There’s a light on the back wall,” she remarked. “One of you will have to turn it on.”
Jason volunteered me by giving me a shove. Reluctantly, I ventured into the darkness.
“Straight back,” Mrs. Bailey directed. “You can’t miss it.”
Before I had taken four steps, my feet smashed into a lawn mower. I teetered forward and tried to regain my balance, but in stepping over the mower, my feet became tangled in a garden hose and I crashed to the floor, knocking over cans, boxes, rakes, and hoes.
“Watch your step,” Mrs. Bailey cautioned from behind me.
“It’s on the back wall,” Jason encouraged from the safety of the driveway.
Muttering, I extricated myself from the tangle of tools, wire, and hose and continued my perilous journey to the back wall, this time with my hands outstretched, groping the blackness for other obstacles. After banging my shins on cans and boxes and scraping my head on a bucket hanging from the ceiling, I finally reached the back wall and flipped on the switch.
A pale yellow light cast a thousand shadows throughout the garage, and it was hard to determine just how effective the light was. The garage was stacked almost to the ceiling with a lifetime collection of odds and ends—tools, pots, old furniture, tires, and boxes. I was amazed that I had even managed to reach the light switch without maiming myself permanently or losing my life.
“There they are,” Jason sang out, pointing to two boxes right inside the garage door. “We didn’t even need the light for these,” he laughed.
“Now you tell me,” I growled under my breath.
“Oh, that’s only part of them,” Mrs. Bailey whined. “The others are in the corner under the tarp.”
In the shadows, I hadn’t noticed the dark mound in the far corner. I waded through some ragged lawn furniture, stumbled over two saw horses, and finally fell against the enormous mystery hidden under an old army tarp, gray with years of dust.
Grabbing one corner of the tarp, I jerked it back. A suffocating cloud of dust choked and blinded me. I sputtered, gasping for breath, and rubbed the dirt from my eyes, tripping over a croquet mallet and sitting down hard in a rusty, battered wheelbarrow filled with flower pots. My nostrils were filled with the musty smell of dirt and dried and decaying flowers, and there was a gritty film between my lips and teeth.
Jason whistled. “Would you look at that,” I heard him say in amazement.
Flailing the air with my arms to beat the dust away, I cracked my eyes and stared in disbelief at the huge mountain of newspapers before me. “How long’s he been saving them?” I gasped.
“I lost track after 20 years,” Mrs. Bailey replied simply. “Some people collect stamps. Some collect coins. My husband collected newspapers. He didn’t have time to read them, so he stacked them in here to read later. He insisted that the time would come when he’d be able to sit down and enjoy them. Nothing I could say ever changed his mind. And he wouldn’t let me get rid of them until he read them. So here they are. And he still hasn’t read them.”
“Is he going to care if we take them?” I wondered out loud.
“Oh, it’s hard to say with him.”
“We could leave some of the newer ones in case he wants to read them,” Jason offered.
Mrs. Bailey waved his remark aside with her hand and shook her head. “He won’t read them. Any of them. Not now. He died three years ago. They’re yours if you’ll haul them off.”
It was just a wild guess, but we estimated that there was at least a ton of newspapers in Mrs. Bailey’s garage. All ours! As we hurried home that night, a new enthusiasm was born. What had begun as a sheepish attempt to conceal our own poverty suddenly became a personal quest.
“You know,” Jason said, “I think we can really do it. Mrs. Bailey’s papers alone are enough to give the Bradleys a little Christmas. But we can get more, lots more. All we’ve got to do is keep knocking on doors.”
“And maybe tomorrow we better split up,” I suggested. “We can cover more ground.”
Two weeks later everyone in Fruit Heights had been contacted. We had even swallowed our pride and asked people in our own neighborhood to donate papers.
The Saturday before Christmas we were getting ready to collect our newspapers in Dad’s ancient, temperamental truck. The truck was a battered antique, but it was all we had to make our Christmas drive. It had traveled its share of miles and was now content to live its remaining moments rusting in front of our house. On a good day, which was rare, and if it was treated just right, it might consent to run. Unfortunately, that particular Saturday didn’t seem to appeal to the truck. When I turned the key and pushed the starter, it coughed and emitted a blue puff of smoke from the exhaust, but it refused to start. I tried again and again, but each time the cough became weaker and the smoke from the exhaust more faint.
We fumed and fussed. We pleaded with it, petted it, yelled at it, kicked it, and would have taken a sledge hammer to it. But it was dead. We had told everyone in Fruit Heights that we would pick up their papers, and we were afraid if we waited, those papers would end up in Monday’s trash.
“We’ve just got to go today, Brett. If we don’t get those papers, the Bradleys might not have anything.”
“Someone else might help them,” I said, trying to be positive just in case the old truck had finally fallen victim to age.
“Maybe, but we can’t be sure,” Jason countered. “We’ve just got to get it working.”
“Why today?” I growled, pounding helplessly on the steering wheel.
“Well, we sure aren’t going to get it running this way,” Jason said. “I’m getting some tools.”
I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Do you really think you can fix it? What will Dad say if you ruin it?”
“It’s already ruined. I can’t hurt it.”
“I wish Dad were here,” I moaned.
“Well, we’ll have to do more than wish. Let’s get to work.”
Next to Dad, Jason was the best mechanic in the family, so if anyone could coax the truck into starting he could. I sat back and watched while he checked everything from the points to the gas pump. After an hour of grunting and experimenting, he dropped the hood, wiped a greasy hand across his forehead, and said optimistically, “Fire it up.”
I whispered a prayer, turned the key, and pressed the starter. The truck groaned, coughed, sputtered, rattled, and finally purred. “Hop in,” I commanded with a grin, “before she changes her mind.”
Jason tossed the tools into the truck, wiped his hands on his pants, and jumped in just as we jerked away from the curb and headed for Fruit Heights.
The truck’s miraculous resurrection was not our only surprise of the day. We soon discovered that our project had become contagious. A host of people in Fruit Heights had been pricked by the Christmas spirit. When we made our first stop a man shuffled out and asked, “Could this family you’re helping use a trike? Our kids are too big for it now. It’s just sitting in the garage gathering dust.”
At another place we picked up an electric train set. A couple gave us a miniature table and chair set. We received a wagon and some Lincoln logs. A widower gave us a rocking chair.
When we stopped at the O’Briens’, there was only a small pile of newspapers, hardly enough for the stop, but before we left, Mrs. O’Brien came out and asked, “Is there a little girl in this family?”
“Trina’s four,” Jason replied.
“I have a doll—one I bought years ago, thinking I’d have a girl. I had five boys instead.” She smiled shyly. “Boys don’t take to dolls. I’ve been meaning to do something with it.” She left and came back with the biggest, prettiest doll I’d ever seen in my life. “It’s never been used,” she explained.
“Gee!” we gasped. “Are you sure you want to just give it away?”
She looked at the doll for a moment and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I would have just given it to one of my girls had I had one.” She sighed. “If Trina will like it, I want her to have it. I would like to see her face Christmas morning when she sees it.” She took a deep breath and flashed a weak smile. “Oh, well. I guess Christmas morning I’ll have to imagine what Trina is doing.”
By the end of the day the old truck had made six trips and was about to die a second time after our rigorous demands, but we had collected just under 150 dollars worth of newspapers, not to mention the donated gifts we had received. We bought shoes and coats for the kids; a gift certificate for Sister Bradley; and two boxes of groceries, candies, and nuts for the stockings and Christmas dinner.
Christmas Eve everything was ready. Dad helped us fire up the old truck one more time. Jason and I filled it to overflowing and sputtered down the street to the Bradleys’, coasting the last block so as not to announce our arrival.
It was starting to snow as we climbed out of the truck and sneaked to the Bradleys’ front steps with our arms bulging with gifts. We could hear Sister Bradley and her three kids singing Christmas carols, and we paused for a moment in the shadows to listen before returning to the truck for the trike, the rocker, and the table and chairs.
When we had placed the last box of groceries on the step, we rapped loudly on the door and then sprinted to a clump of bushes where we could observe unseen. Sister Bradley opened the door and peered into the darkness. She was beginning to close the door when she spotted our Christmas project all over her front steps. She gasped and looked up and down the street, then back at the pile of presents. Slowly she dropped to her knees and began to cry.
My vision blurred with tears, and something swelled up inside of me until I could hardly breathe. Starting from deep in my chest and finally reaching to the tips of my fingers and toes, a gratifying warmth overwhelmed me. Never in my life had I felt such an all-consuming fulfillment. I was sure I would burst, and I wondered why I had waited so long to discover this side of Christmas.
When we returned home, all the lights were off except those on the tree, and everyone but Dad was in bed. He was there waiting for us in the dim light next to an enormous package—addressed to Jason and me!
“Where’d that come from?” I asked as soon as I saw it.
Dad smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Someone left it on the doorstep while you were over at the Bradleys’.”
“Left it for us?” I groaned. He nodded. “You mean a Christmas package for us?” He shrugged again, obviously amused. “Well, we don’t want it!” I flared. “That’s exactly what we didn’t want.”
“They can just keep it,” Jason rebelled. “I’m not opening it.”
“It’s an insult,” I added. “I’m not taking anybody’s care package.”
Dad held up a restraining hand. “Talking isn’t going to change a thing,” I insisted, anticipating his argument. Dad motioned for us to sit down. We did, grumbling irritably. He waited for our protests to subside, and then he asked quietly, “Has this been a good Christmas?”
I looked over at Jason and he at me. “Yeah,” I muttered, staring at the floor but avoiding the package.
“Why? What’s so special about this Christmas?”
“Because … because we were giving something. We were making somebody happy.”
“Does taking this package change that?”
“It’s charity,” I flared. “We don’t want charity.”
Dad nodded. “Do you know what charity is? Real charity? Love, pure love. This package is a token of someone’s love, not of their ridicule or pity. It is the offspring of charity, of love, just as your gifts to the Bradleys sprang from love.”
“But Dad,” I protested.
Dad shook his head. “How would it have been had the Bradleys reacted to your gifts like you’re reacting to this one?” He looked at Jason and me and waited for an answer, but all we could do was shrug our shoulders and stare at the anonymous package. “You know, sons, there can never be a giver without a receiver. Both are necessary and good.”
He paused a moment. “When Luke went on his mission, I wanted to support him all by myself. I thought it only right that a father support his own son. My pride had a lot to do with it. I was being a little selfish. I didn’t realize until I started getting secret contributions that there were those who wanted to give also. I came to understand that I didn’t have the right to deny them the opportunity.”
He looked at our package. “I don’t know who left this for you. I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. But whoever it was has as much right to the joy of giving as you two. Unless you accept the gift, they can’t enjoy the full satisfaction of giving.” He placed his hands on our knees and concluded, “At Christmas time we give generously and receive graciously. That’s the spirit of Christmas. When you can do those two things, equally well, you will have taken a giant step toward manhood.”
Long after Dad went to bed, Jason and I stayed by the tree contemplating our unexpected gift. It was the hardest gift for us to accept, but we knew Dad was right.
“I wonder what’s in it?” Jason finally mused.
We glanced at each other. A spark of curiosity glowed in our eyes. I looked around to determine whether we were alone. “We could always peek,” I suggested furtively.
Jason nodded. “I never could wait till Christmas morning.”
We both grinned, nodded our agreement, and then eagerly pulled the package toward us and began peeling off the wrapping.
As soon as Brother Malone announced that the priests quorum was going to give a Christmas to a needy family for our December service project, I knew our family was in trouble. Since Danny’s operation and Luke’s mission call eight months earlier, things were tight around our place. I don’t know what the official poverty level was for a family of nine, but I knew we were miles below it, and I was convinced that we were prime targets for all the ward service projects and Christmas charity drives.
“Hey, Jason,” I said, cornering my younger brother that night before we climbed into bed, “we’re in trouble. I think we’re on the list.”
Jason just looked at me and retorted innocently, “I haven’t done anything. Honest!”
“How many weeks till Christmas?” I asked solemnly.
He shrugged and pulled the quilts back from his bed, fluffed up his pillow and remarked indifferently, “I don’t know, but I’ve got a test in English tomorrow and I need some sleep or I’ll ……””
“Would you believe three?”
“Hey, I’ll believe anything. Just let me get to sleep,” he said, yawning and pushing his feet under the covers and snuggling up in a ball. “Besides, I’m not counting on anything for Christmas this year. Mom and Dad are broke.”
I turned the covers down on my bed, flipped off the light, and dropped heavily onto the mattress. “Well, when your teachers quorum chooses our family for their December service project, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The light flipped back on. Jason was sitting on the edge of his bed. “What’d you say?”
“Have you seen the storeroom lately?”
“Yeah, Mom sent me for a bottle of fruit tonight.”
“Was the door locked?” Jason shook his head. “It should have been. It always is this time of year. That’s where Mom and Dad hide the loot, but there’s no loot this year.”
Jason shrugged. “We’ll survive.”
“You don’t get the point,” I growled. “We’re charity material. Charity as in service project, needy family.”
“Come on, Brett,” he grinned nervously. “Mom fixes a few beans now and then, and we have lots of whole wheat bread, but that doesn’t make us candidates for welfare. Dad’s got a job. We’re not out on the street or anything.”
I flipped the light off again. “Wait till Christmas and find out the hard way,” I warned.
Five minutes later the lights came back on. “That’s just great!” he muttered. “All we need is 50 care packages on our front step Christmas Eve.” He groaned, shaking his head morosely. “How embarrassing!”
“The trouble is there’s not much we can do,” I complained. “How can you stop a charity project?”
“Let’s just tell them we don’t want anything.”
“Tell who? It could come from anybody. It’s not like we can send letters to everyone in the ward declining their good will.”
“Let’s move,” Jason growled.
“Where?”
He shrugged. “Could we hide?”
“For a month?”
Glumly we sat on our beds and brooded as we pondered the inevitable. “I know,” Jason suggested after a moment of silence. “We’ll beat them to the punch.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll pull off our own charity job, on somebody else.” He grinned, enthusiasm brightening his eyes. “If we’re helping another family—anybody—nobody will bother us. Everybody will think we’ve got enough to throw away.”
“Maybe,” I whispered, considering the plan’s plausibility. “It just might work. But who? Who’s in worse shape than we are?”
“What about the Bradleys? She’s a widow, three kids. You home teach there. You’d know what they could use.”
I smiled, but the smile was temporary. “We’re forgetting one thing. We’re broke. How do we help if we don’t have anything to help with?”
Jason sighed. “I forgot about that,” he mumbled.
It was true. We had no money, no job, and we struggled with a pride that prevented us from going down on main street with a bell and pot to solicit contributions.
“I know,” Jason volunteered, the excitement obvious. “We can collect pop cans and sell them. Twenty cents a pound.”
“In the middle of winter? Nobody drinks pop in the winter, and I’m not about to rummage through garbage cans just to pinch a few pennies.”
“How about newspapers. Morgan’s Shopping Center gives 30 dollars a ton for them. Everybody’s got newspapers, winter or summer.”
“Can we make enough money collecting newspapers?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Could you go around begging for newspapers?” I asked skeptically.
Jason cleared his throat. “Maybe. As long as we don’t go to people we know.””
“When do we start then?”
Jason chewed on his thumb. “Couple of weeks from now.”
“You’re stalling.””
“I’ve got some tests coming up and a paper to write and …”
“I wonder what your teachers quorum will get you for Christmas.”
He glared at me. “Maybe we better start tomorrow afternoon.”
So with dubious motives we embarked on our questionable Christmas crusade. The next day after school we dragged ourselves over to Fruit Heights. We were sure no one there knew us, so we figured we could commence our campaign without fear of being recognized.
The trace of an icy mist hung in the afternoon air, bit through our coats and sweaters, and numbed our cheeks and noses. Pulling our collars up around our ears and digging our hands deep into our pockets, we approached our first house with an emotional mixture of trepidation, loathing, and melancholy endurance. I took a deep breath, gingerly pushed the door bell, and stepped back, shivering from cold and abject embarrassment.
Hearing someone approach, Jason turned to me and whispered nervously, “Maybe you’d better do the talking. I don’t know anything about this.”
“And what do I know?” I hissed back. “We’re in this together, you know.”
“Yeah, but you’re the oldest,” he added, stepping behind me just as the door opened and an older man greeted us with a curt nod and a withering scowl.
For a moment I just stood and stared, unable to call to mind the door approach Jason and I had rehearsed. Finally the man demanded gruffly, “Well?”
“Do you have some paper?” I blurted out.
“Paper?”
I gulped. “Newspaper.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, waving us away and turning to go. “The Collins boy brings it. I don’t need another paper. I hardly read the one I take now.”
“No,” I called out in desperation, “we don’t sell papers. We’re collecting old papers. To sell.”
“What?” the man asked.
“We’re trying to help a family for Christmas,” I explained. “The papers are for them.”
“It’s a widow’s family,” Jason volunteered from behind me. “It’s not really for us. The money from the papers, I mean.”
The man rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and looked us up and down. “I’ve got a few papers, I guess.”
“Could you save them? We’re not picking them up today. We’ll be back in two weeks. On a Saturday.”
“It’s for the widow and her kids,” Jason called out again. “And we’re not her kids either. We’re just trying to help her out. We’re not …”
I poked Jason to shut him up. “We’ll be back in two weeks then,” I repeated, my cheeks flushed purple.
By the time we made it out into the street again, I had to unbutton my coat because I was sweating so much. “I don’t know how many more of those I can do,” I muttered. “That wiped me out.”
“That wasn’t bad at all,” Jason grinned, pleased with himself.
“You didn’t say anything either,” I returned. “At least anything sensible. But the next door’s yours.”
“Mine?” he protested.
“And leave out the part about us not being the widow’s kids. Just act natural or they really will think we’re the widow’s kids.”
Our whole operation that afternoon lay between abject drudgery and acute torture, but we persisted. Our commitment did waver at times, but each time one of us faltered in our resolve to continue, the other would comment matter-of-factly, “It’s this or care packages Christmas Eve.” With that humiliating possibility looming before us, we beat down our pride and trudged on to the next house.
It was getting dark when we knocked at the last house on the block. We had already promised ourselves that if we could endure till then, we would call it quits for the night.
An older woman, Mrs. Bailey, hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on a cane. She peered skeptically over the rims of her glasses and pressed her thin, pale lips together.
“Hello, ma’am,” I greeted her, a pinched smile frozen to my blue lips. “We’re collecting old newspapers,” I announced. “For a needy family.” Mrs. Bailey didn’t respond, and I began to wonder if she could even hear me. “We’ going to sell the papers and help this family with Christmas,” I all but shouted, just in case she was slightly deaf. “Do you have any old newspapers lying around?”
“Well, my husband has collected a few,” Mrs. Bailey said in a shaky voice.
“Would he like to donate them to the cause?” Jason asked.
“Well, he planned to read them.”
“Do you think he could read them by a week from Saturday? That’s when we’ll pick them up.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” she answered bluntly.
It wasn’t exactly a turn down, but neither was it an offer. In nervous perplexity we stood shifting our weight from one foot to the other. “Well, thanks just the same,” I said, turning to go.
“What’d you say they’re for?” she spoke up suddenly.
“We’re helping a widow and her kids.”
Mrs. Bailey cocked her head to one side and tapped her cane on the front step. After a moment of contemplation, she shuffled into her house and returned with a sweater thrown about her frail shoulders. She motioned for us to follow her. We inched along behind her as she limped her way to the driveway. She led us to her garage and stopped. Banging on the door with her cane, she commanded, “You’ll have to open it.”
Jason and I jumped for the door and pushed it up. It squeaked and creaked and finally crashed into place overhead. We squinted into the black interior but could see nothing.
“There’s a light on the back wall,” she remarked. “One of you will have to turn it on.”
Jason volunteered me by giving me a shove. Reluctantly, I ventured into the darkness.
“Straight back,” Mrs. Bailey directed. “You can’t miss it.”
Before I had taken four steps, my feet smashed into a lawn mower. I teetered forward and tried to regain my balance, but in stepping over the mower, my feet became tangled in a garden hose and I crashed to the floor, knocking over cans, boxes, rakes, and hoes.
“Watch your step,” Mrs. Bailey cautioned from behind me.
“It’s on the back wall,” Jason encouraged from the safety of the driveway.
Muttering, I extricated myself from the tangle of tools, wire, and hose and continued my perilous journey to the back wall, this time with my hands outstretched, groping the blackness for other obstacles. After banging my shins on cans and boxes and scraping my head on a bucket hanging from the ceiling, I finally reached the back wall and flipped on the switch.
A pale yellow light cast a thousand shadows throughout the garage, and it was hard to determine just how effective the light was. The garage was stacked almost to the ceiling with a lifetime collection of odds and ends—tools, pots, old furniture, tires, and boxes. I was amazed that I had even managed to reach the light switch without maiming myself permanently or losing my life.
“There they are,” Jason sang out, pointing to two boxes right inside the garage door. “We didn’t even need the light for these,” he laughed.
“Now you tell me,” I growled under my breath.
“Oh, that’s only part of them,” Mrs. Bailey whined. “The others are in the corner under the tarp.”
In the shadows, I hadn’t noticed the dark mound in the far corner. I waded through some ragged lawn furniture, stumbled over two saw horses, and finally fell against the enormous mystery hidden under an old army tarp, gray with years of dust.
Grabbing one corner of the tarp, I jerked it back. A suffocating cloud of dust choked and blinded me. I sputtered, gasping for breath, and rubbed the dirt from my eyes, tripping over a croquet mallet and sitting down hard in a rusty, battered wheelbarrow filled with flower pots. My nostrils were filled with the musty smell of dirt and dried and decaying flowers, and there was a gritty film between my lips and teeth.
Jason whistled. “Would you look at that,” I heard him say in amazement.
Flailing the air with my arms to beat the dust away, I cracked my eyes and stared in disbelief at the huge mountain of newspapers before me. “How long’s he been saving them?” I gasped.
“I lost track after 20 years,” Mrs. Bailey replied simply. “Some people collect stamps. Some collect coins. My husband collected newspapers. He didn’t have time to read them, so he stacked them in here to read later. He insisted that the time would come when he’d be able to sit down and enjoy them. Nothing I could say ever changed his mind. And he wouldn’t let me get rid of them until he read them. So here they are. And he still hasn’t read them.”
“Is he going to care if we take them?” I wondered out loud.
“Oh, it’s hard to say with him.”
“We could leave some of the newer ones in case he wants to read them,” Jason offered.
Mrs. Bailey waved his remark aside with her hand and shook her head. “He won’t read them. Any of them. Not now. He died three years ago. They’re yours if you’ll haul them off.”
It was just a wild guess, but we estimated that there was at least a ton of newspapers in Mrs. Bailey’s garage. All ours! As we hurried home that night, a new enthusiasm was born. What had begun as a sheepish attempt to conceal our own poverty suddenly became a personal quest.
“You know,” Jason said, “I think we can really do it. Mrs. Bailey’s papers alone are enough to give the Bradleys a little Christmas. But we can get more, lots more. All we’ve got to do is keep knocking on doors.”
“And maybe tomorrow we better split up,” I suggested. “We can cover more ground.”
Two weeks later everyone in Fruit Heights had been contacted. We had even swallowed our pride and asked people in our own neighborhood to donate papers.
The Saturday before Christmas we were getting ready to collect our newspapers in Dad’s ancient, temperamental truck. The truck was a battered antique, but it was all we had to make our Christmas drive. It had traveled its share of miles and was now content to live its remaining moments rusting in front of our house. On a good day, which was rare, and if it was treated just right, it might consent to run. Unfortunately, that particular Saturday didn’t seem to appeal to the truck. When I turned the key and pushed the starter, it coughed and emitted a blue puff of smoke from the exhaust, but it refused to start. I tried again and again, but each time the cough became weaker and the smoke from the exhaust more faint.
We fumed and fussed. We pleaded with it, petted it, yelled at it, kicked it, and would have taken a sledge hammer to it. But it was dead. We had told everyone in Fruit Heights that we would pick up their papers, and we were afraid if we waited, those papers would end up in Monday’s trash.
“We’ve just got to go today, Brett. If we don’t get those papers, the Bradleys might not have anything.”
“Someone else might help them,” I said, trying to be positive just in case the old truck had finally fallen victim to age.
“Maybe, but we can’t be sure,” Jason countered. “We’ve just got to get it working.”
“Why today?” I growled, pounding helplessly on the steering wheel.
“Well, we sure aren’t going to get it running this way,” Jason said. “I’m getting some tools.”
I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Do you really think you can fix it? What will Dad say if you ruin it?”
“It’s already ruined. I can’t hurt it.”
“I wish Dad were here,” I moaned.
“Well, we’ll have to do more than wish. Let’s get to work.”
Next to Dad, Jason was the best mechanic in the family, so if anyone could coax the truck into starting he could. I sat back and watched while he checked everything from the points to the gas pump. After an hour of grunting and experimenting, he dropped the hood, wiped a greasy hand across his forehead, and said optimistically, “Fire it up.”
I whispered a prayer, turned the key, and pressed the starter. The truck groaned, coughed, sputtered, rattled, and finally purred. “Hop in,” I commanded with a grin, “before she changes her mind.”
Jason tossed the tools into the truck, wiped his hands on his pants, and jumped in just as we jerked away from the curb and headed for Fruit Heights.
The truck’s miraculous resurrection was not our only surprise of the day. We soon discovered that our project had become contagious. A host of people in Fruit Heights had been pricked by the Christmas spirit. When we made our first stop a man shuffled out and asked, “Could this family you’re helping use a trike? Our kids are too big for it now. It’s just sitting in the garage gathering dust.”
At another place we picked up an electric train set. A couple gave us a miniature table and chair set. We received a wagon and some Lincoln logs. A widower gave us a rocking chair.
When we stopped at the O’Briens’, there was only a small pile of newspapers, hardly enough for the stop, but before we left, Mrs. O’Brien came out and asked, “Is there a little girl in this family?”
“Trina’s four,” Jason replied.
“I have a doll—one I bought years ago, thinking I’d have a girl. I had five boys instead.” She smiled shyly. “Boys don’t take to dolls. I’ve been meaning to do something with it.” She left and came back with the biggest, prettiest doll I’d ever seen in my life. “It’s never been used,” she explained.
“Gee!” we gasped. “Are you sure you want to just give it away?”
She looked at the doll for a moment and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I would have just given it to one of my girls had I had one.” She sighed. “If Trina will like it, I want her to have it. I would like to see her face Christmas morning when she sees it.” She took a deep breath and flashed a weak smile. “Oh, well. I guess Christmas morning I’ll have to imagine what Trina is doing.”
By the end of the day the old truck had made six trips and was about to die a second time after our rigorous demands, but we had collected just under 150 dollars worth of newspapers, not to mention the donated gifts we had received. We bought shoes and coats for the kids; a gift certificate for Sister Bradley; and two boxes of groceries, candies, and nuts for the stockings and Christmas dinner.
Christmas Eve everything was ready. Dad helped us fire up the old truck one more time. Jason and I filled it to overflowing and sputtered down the street to the Bradleys’, coasting the last block so as not to announce our arrival.
It was starting to snow as we climbed out of the truck and sneaked to the Bradleys’ front steps with our arms bulging with gifts. We could hear Sister Bradley and her three kids singing Christmas carols, and we paused for a moment in the shadows to listen before returning to the truck for the trike, the rocker, and the table and chairs.
When we had placed the last box of groceries on the step, we rapped loudly on the door and then sprinted to a clump of bushes where we could observe unseen. Sister Bradley opened the door and peered into the darkness. She was beginning to close the door when she spotted our Christmas project all over her front steps. She gasped and looked up and down the street, then back at the pile of presents. Slowly she dropped to her knees and began to cry.
My vision blurred with tears, and something swelled up inside of me until I could hardly breathe. Starting from deep in my chest and finally reaching to the tips of my fingers and toes, a gratifying warmth overwhelmed me. Never in my life had I felt such an all-consuming fulfillment. I was sure I would burst, and I wondered why I had waited so long to discover this side of Christmas.
When we returned home, all the lights were off except those on the tree, and everyone but Dad was in bed. He was there waiting for us in the dim light next to an enormous package—addressed to Jason and me!
“Where’d that come from?” I asked as soon as I saw it.
Dad smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Someone left it on the doorstep while you were over at the Bradleys’.”
“Left it for us?” I groaned. He nodded. “You mean a Christmas package for us?” He shrugged again, obviously amused. “Well, we don’t want it!” I flared. “That’s exactly what we didn’t want.”
“They can just keep it,” Jason rebelled. “I’m not opening it.”
“It’s an insult,” I added. “I’m not taking anybody’s care package.”
Dad held up a restraining hand. “Talking isn’t going to change a thing,” I insisted, anticipating his argument. Dad motioned for us to sit down. We did, grumbling irritably. He waited for our protests to subside, and then he asked quietly, “Has this been a good Christmas?”
I looked over at Jason and he at me. “Yeah,” I muttered, staring at the floor but avoiding the package.
“Why? What’s so special about this Christmas?”
“Because … because we were giving something. We were making somebody happy.”
“Does taking this package change that?”
“It’s charity,” I flared. “We don’t want charity.”
Dad nodded. “Do you know what charity is? Real charity? Love, pure love. This package is a token of someone’s love, not of their ridicule or pity. It is the offspring of charity, of love, just as your gifts to the Bradleys sprang from love.”
“But Dad,” I protested.
Dad shook his head. “How would it have been had the Bradleys reacted to your gifts like you’re reacting to this one?” He looked at Jason and me and waited for an answer, but all we could do was shrug our shoulders and stare at the anonymous package. “You know, sons, there can never be a giver without a receiver. Both are necessary and good.”
He paused a moment. “When Luke went on his mission, I wanted to support him all by myself. I thought it only right that a father support his own son. My pride had a lot to do with it. I was being a little selfish. I didn’t realize until I started getting secret contributions that there were those who wanted to give also. I came to understand that I didn’t have the right to deny them the opportunity.”
He looked at our package. “I don’t know who left this for you. I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew. But whoever it was has as much right to the joy of giving as you two. Unless you accept the gift, they can’t enjoy the full satisfaction of giving.” He placed his hands on our knees and concluded, “At Christmas time we give generously and receive graciously. That’s the spirit of Christmas. When you can do those two things, equally well, you will have taken a giant step toward manhood.”
Long after Dad went to bed, Jason and I stayed by the tree contemplating our unexpected gift. It was the hardest gift for us to accept, but we knew Dad was right.
“I wonder what’s in it?” Jason finally mused.
We glanced at each other. A spark of curiosity glowed in our eyes. I looked around to determine whether we were alone. “We could always peek,” I suggested furtively.
Jason nodded. “I never could wait till Christmas morning.”
We both grinned, nodded our agreement, and then eagerly pulled the package toward us and began peeling off the wrapping.
A Christmas Gift I'll Never Forget
By Linda DeMers Hummel
He entered my life twenty years ago, leaning against the doorjamb of Room 202, where I taught fifth grade. He wore sneakers three sizes too large and checkered pants ripped at the knees.
Daniel made this undistinguished entrance in the school of a quaint lakeside village known for its old money, white colonial homes and brass mailboxes. He told us his last school had been in a neighboring county. "We were pickin' fruit," he said matter of factly.
I suspected this friendly, scruffy, smiling boy from an immigrant family had no idea he had been thrown into a den of fifth-grade lions who had never before seen torn pants. If he noticed snickering, he didn't let on. There was no chip on his shoulder.
Twenty five children eyed Daniel suspiciously until the kickball game that afternoon. Then he led off the first inning with a home run. With it came a bit of respect from the wardrobe critics of Room 202.
Next was Charles's turn. Charles was the least athletic, most overweight child in the history of fifth grade. After his second strike, amid the rolled eyes and groans of the class, Daniel edged up and spoke quietly to Charles's dejected back. "Forget them, kid. You can do it."
Charles warmed, smiled, stood taller and promptly struck out anyway. But at that precise moment, defying the social order of this jungle he had entered, Daniel gently began to change things - and us.
By autumn's end, we had all gravitated toward him. He taught us all kinds of lessons. How to call a wild turkey. How to tell whether fruit is ripe before that first bite. How to treat others, even Charles. Especially Charles. He never did use our names, calling me "Miss" and the students "kid."
The day before Christmas vacation, the students always brought gifts for the teacher. It was a ritual - opening each department-store box, surveying the expensive perfume or scarf or leather wallet, and thanking the child.
That afternoon, Daniel walked to my desk and bent close to my ear. "Our packing boxes came out last night," he said without emotion. "We're leavin' tomorrow."
As I grasped the news, my eyes filled with tears. He countered the awkward silence by telling me about the move. Then, as I regained my composure, he pulled a gray rock from his pocket. Deliberately and with great style, he pushed it gently across my desk.
I sensed that this was something remarkable, but all my practice with perfume and silk had left me pitifully unprepared to respond. "It's for you," he said, fixing his eyes on mine. "I polished it up special."
I've never forgotten that moment.
Years have passed since then. Each Christmas my daughter asks me to tell this story. It always begins after she picks up the small polished rock that sits on my desk. Then she nestles herself in my lap and I begin. The first words of the story never vary. "The last time I ever saw Daniel, he gave me this rock as a gift and told me about his boxes. That was a long time ago, even before you were born.
"He's a grown up now," I finish. Together we wonder where he is and what he has become.
"Someone good I bet," my daughter says. Then she adds, "Do the end of the story."
I know what she wants to hear - the lesson of love and caring learned by a teacher from a boy with nothing and everything - to give. A boy who lived out of boxes. I touch the rock, remembering.
"Hi, kid," I say softly. "This is Miss. I hope you no longer need the packing boxes. And Merry Christmas, wherever you are."
He entered my life twenty years ago, leaning against the doorjamb of Room 202, where I taught fifth grade. He wore sneakers three sizes too large and checkered pants ripped at the knees.
Daniel made this undistinguished entrance in the school of a quaint lakeside village known for its old money, white colonial homes and brass mailboxes. He told us his last school had been in a neighboring county. "We were pickin' fruit," he said matter of factly.
I suspected this friendly, scruffy, smiling boy from an immigrant family had no idea he had been thrown into a den of fifth-grade lions who had never before seen torn pants. If he noticed snickering, he didn't let on. There was no chip on his shoulder.
Twenty five children eyed Daniel suspiciously until the kickball game that afternoon. Then he led off the first inning with a home run. With it came a bit of respect from the wardrobe critics of Room 202.
Next was Charles's turn. Charles was the least athletic, most overweight child in the history of fifth grade. After his second strike, amid the rolled eyes and groans of the class, Daniel edged up and spoke quietly to Charles's dejected back. "Forget them, kid. You can do it."
Charles warmed, smiled, stood taller and promptly struck out anyway. But at that precise moment, defying the social order of this jungle he had entered, Daniel gently began to change things - and us.
By autumn's end, we had all gravitated toward him. He taught us all kinds of lessons. How to call a wild turkey. How to tell whether fruit is ripe before that first bite. How to treat others, even Charles. Especially Charles. He never did use our names, calling me "Miss" and the students "kid."
The day before Christmas vacation, the students always brought gifts for the teacher. It was a ritual - opening each department-store box, surveying the expensive perfume or scarf or leather wallet, and thanking the child.
That afternoon, Daniel walked to my desk and bent close to my ear. "Our packing boxes came out last night," he said without emotion. "We're leavin' tomorrow."
As I grasped the news, my eyes filled with tears. He countered the awkward silence by telling me about the move. Then, as I regained my composure, he pulled a gray rock from his pocket. Deliberately and with great style, he pushed it gently across my desk.
I sensed that this was something remarkable, but all my practice with perfume and silk had left me pitifully unprepared to respond. "It's for you," he said, fixing his eyes on mine. "I polished it up special."
I've never forgotten that moment.
Years have passed since then. Each Christmas my daughter asks me to tell this story. It always begins after she picks up the small polished rock that sits on my desk. Then she nestles herself in my lap and I begin. The first words of the story never vary. "The last time I ever saw Daniel, he gave me this rock as a gift and told me about his boxes. That was a long time ago, even before you were born.
"He's a grown up now," I finish. Together we wonder where he is and what he has become.
"Someone good I bet," my daughter says. Then she adds, "Do the end of the story."
I know what she wants to hear - the lesson of love and caring learned by a teacher from a boy with nothing and everything - to give. A boy who lived out of boxes. I touch the rock, remembering.
"Hi, kid," I say softly. "This is Miss. I hope you no longer need the packing boxes. And Merry Christmas, wherever you are."
The Doll and a White Rose
Author Unknown
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys. And wondered if the grandkids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll aisle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about 5 holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for.
I watched him turn to a woman and he called his aunt by name and said, "Are you sure I don't have enough money?"
She replied a bit impatiently, "You know that you don't have enough money for it." The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle. The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, "It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it."
I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said. "No, Santa can't go where my sister is...I have to give the doll to my Mamma to take to her."
I asked him where his sister was. He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, "She has gone to be with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be with her.” My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, "I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store."
Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he'd had taken at the front of the store. He said. "I want my Mamma to take this with her so she don't ever forget me. I love my Mama so very much and I wish she did not have to leave me. But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister."
I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet. While he was not looking I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, "Shall we count that money one more time?"
He grew excited and said. "Yes, I just know it has to be enough"
So I slipped my money in with his and we began to count it. Of course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, "Thank you Jesus for giving me enough money."
Then the boy said "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Mama can take it with her to give to my sister. And he heard my prayer. I wanted to ask him for enough to buy my Mama a white rose, but I didn't ask him, but he gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Mama. She loves white roses so very, very much."
In a few minutes the aunt came back and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping in a totally different spirit than when I had started. And I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and the Mother was in serious condition. The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely this little boy did not belong with that story. Two days later I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected. Later that day, I could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home where the young woman was. And there she was holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left there in tears, my life changed forever.
The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming. And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces.
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys. And wondered if the grandkids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll aisle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about 5 holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for.
I watched him turn to a woman and he called his aunt by name and said, "Are you sure I don't have enough money?"
She replied a bit impatiently, "You know that you don't have enough money for it." The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle. The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, "It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it."
I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said. "No, Santa can't go where my sister is...I have to give the doll to my Mamma to take to her."
I asked him where his sister was. He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, "She has gone to be with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be with her.” My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, "I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store."
Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he'd had taken at the front of the store. He said. "I want my Mamma to take this with her so she don't ever forget me. I love my Mama so very much and I wish she did not have to leave me. But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister."
I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet. While he was not looking I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, "Shall we count that money one more time?"
He grew excited and said. "Yes, I just know it has to be enough"
So I slipped my money in with his and we began to count it. Of course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, "Thank you Jesus for giving me enough money."
Then the boy said "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Mama can take it with her to give to my sister. And he heard my prayer. I wanted to ask him for enough to buy my Mama a white rose, but I didn't ask him, but he gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Mama. She loves white roses so very, very much."
In a few minutes the aunt came back and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping in a totally different spirit than when I had started. And I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and the Mother was in serious condition. The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely this little boy did not belong with that story. Two days later I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected. Later that day, I could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home where the young woman was. And there she was holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left there in tears, my life changed forever.
The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming. And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces.
Angel on a Doorstep
By Shirly Bachelder
When Ben delivered milk to my cousin's home that morning, he wasn't his usual sunny self. The slight, middle-aged man seemed in no mood for talking.
It was late November 1962, and as a newcomer to Lawndale, Calif., I was delighted that milkmen still brought bottles of milk to doorsteps. In the weeks that my husband, kids and I had been staying with my cousin while house hunting, I had come to enjoy Ben's jovial repartee. Today, however, he was the epitome of gloom as he dropped off his wares story town without paying their bills, and he would have to cover the losses. One of the debtors owed only $10, but the other was $79 in arrears and had left no forwarding address. Ben was distraught at his stupidity for allowing this bill to grow so large.
"She was a pretty woman," he said, "with six children and another on the way. She was always saying, `I'm going to pay you soon, when my husband gets a second job. I believed her. What a fool I was! I thought I was doing a good thing, but I've learned my lesson. I've been had!"
All I could say was, "I'm so sorry."
The next time I saw him, his anger seemed worse. He bristled as he talked about the messy young ones who had drunk up all his milk. The charming family had turned into a parcel of brats. I repeated my condolences and let the matter rest. But when Ben left, I found myself caught up in his problem and longed to help. Worried that this incident would sour a warm person, I mulled over what to do. Then, remembering that Christmas was coming, I thought of what my grandmother used to say: "When someone has taken from you, give it to them, and then you can never be robbed."
The next time Ben delivered milk, I told him I had a way to make him feel better about the $79.
"Nothing will do that," he said, "but tell me anyway."
"Give the woman the milk. Make it a Christmas present to the kids who needed it."
"Are you kidding?" he replied. "I don't even get my wife a Christmas gift that expensive."
"You know the Bible says, 'I was a stranger and you took me in.' You just took her in with all her little children."
"Don't you mean she took me in? The trouble with you is, it wasn't your $79."
I let the subject drop, but I still believed in my suggestion. We'd joke about it when he'd come. "Have you given her the milk yet?" I'd say.
"No," he'd snap back, "but I'm thinking of giving my wife a $79 present, unless another pretty mother starts playing on my sympathies."
Every time I'd ask the question, it seemed he lightened up a bit more. Then, six days before Christmas, it happened. He arrived with a tremendous smile and a glint in his eyes. "I did it!" he said. "I gave her the milk as a Christmas present. It wasn't easy, but what did I have to lose? It was gone, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said, rejoicing with him. "But you've got to really mean it in your heart."
"I know. I do. And I really feel better. That's why I have this good feeling about Christmas. Those kids had lots of milk on their cereal just because of me."
The holidays came and went. On a sunny January morning two weeks later, Ben almost ran up the walk. "Wait till you hear this," he said, grinning. He explained he had been on a different route, covering for another milkman. He heard his name being called, looked over his shoulder and saw a woman running down the street, waving money. He recognized her immediately--the woman with all the kids, the one who didn't pay her bill. She was carrying an infant in a tiny blanket, and the woman's long brown hair kept getting in her eyes.
"Ben, wait a minute!" she shouted. "I've got money for you."
Ben stopped the truck and got out.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I really have been meaning to pay you." She explained that her husband had come home one night and announced he'd found a cheaper apartment. He'd also gotten a night job. With all that had happened, she'd forgotten to leave a forwarding address. "But I've been saving," she said. "Here's $20 toward the bill."
"That's all right," Ben replied. "It's been paid."
"Paid!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean? Who paid it?"
"I did."
She looked at him as if he were the Angel Gabriel and started to cry.
"Well," I asked, "what did you do?"
"I didn't know what to do, so I put an arm around her. Before I knew what was happening, I started to cry, and I didn't have the foggiest idea what I was crying about. Then I thought of all those kids having milk on their cereal, and you know what? I was really glad you talked me into this."
"You didn't take the $20?"
"Heck no," he replied indignantly. "I gave her the milk as a Christmas present, didn't I?"
When Ben delivered milk to my cousin's home that morning, he wasn't his usual sunny self. The slight, middle-aged man seemed in no mood for talking.
It was late November 1962, and as a newcomer to Lawndale, Calif., I was delighted that milkmen still brought bottles of milk to doorsteps. In the weeks that my husband, kids and I had been staying with my cousin while house hunting, I had come to enjoy Ben's jovial repartee. Today, however, he was the epitome of gloom as he dropped off his wares story town without paying their bills, and he would have to cover the losses. One of the debtors owed only $10, but the other was $79 in arrears and had left no forwarding address. Ben was distraught at his stupidity for allowing this bill to grow so large.
"She was a pretty woman," he said, "with six children and another on the way. She was always saying, `I'm going to pay you soon, when my husband gets a second job. I believed her. What a fool I was! I thought I was doing a good thing, but I've learned my lesson. I've been had!"
All I could say was, "I'm so sorry."
The next time I saw him, his anger seemed worse. He bristled as he talked about the messy young ones who had drunk up all his milk. The charming family had turned into a parcel of brats. I repeated my condolences and let the matter rest. But when Ben left, I found myself caught up in his problem and longed to help. Worried that this incident would sour a warm person, I mulled over what to do. Then, remembering that Christmas was coming, I thought of what my grandmother used to say: "When someone has taken from you, give it to them, and then you can never be robbed."
The next time Ben delivered milk, I told him I had a way to make him feel better about the $79.
"Nothing will do that," he said, "but tell me anyway."
"Give the woman the milk. Make it a Christmas present to the kids who needed it."
"Are you kidding?" he replied. "I don't even get my wife a Christmas gift that expensive."
"You know the Bible says, 'I was a stranger and you took me in.' You just took her in with all her little children."
"Don't you mean she took me in? The trouble with you is, it wasn't your $79."
I let the subject drop, but I still believed in my suggestion. We'd joke about it when he'd come. "Have you given her the milk yet?" I'd say.
"No," he'd snap back, "but I'm thinking of giving my wife a $79 present, unless another pretty mother starts playing on my sympathies."
Every time I'd ask the question, it seemed he lightened up a bit more. Then, six days before Christmas, it happened. He arrived with a tremendous smile and a glint in his eyes. "I did it!" he said. "I gave her the milk as a Christmas present. It wasn't easy, but what did I have to lose? It was gone, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said, rejoicing with him. "But you've got to really mean it in your heart."
"I know. I do. And I really feel better. That's why I have this good feeling about Christmas. Those kids had lots of milk on their cereal just because of me."
The holidays came and went. On a sunny January morning two weeks later, Ben almost ran up the walk. "Wait till you hear this," he said, grinning. He explained he had been on a different route, covering for another milkman. He heard his name being called, looked over his shoulder and saw a woman running down the street, waving money. He recognized her immediately--the woman with all the kids, the one who didn't pay her bill. She was carrying an infant in a tiny blanket, and the woman's long brown hair kept getting in her eyes.
"Ben, wait a minute!" she shouted. "I've got money for you."
Ben stopped the truck and got out.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I really have been meaning to pay you." She explained that her husband had come home one night and announced he'd found a cheaper apartment. He'd also gotten a night job. With all that had happened, she'd forgotten to leave a forwarding address. "But I've been saving," she said. "Here's $20 toward the bill."
"That's all right," Ben replied. "It's been paid."
"Paid!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean? Who paid it?"
"I did."
She looked at him as if he were the Angel Gabriel and started to cry.
"Well," I asked, "what did you do?"
"I didn't know what to do, so I put an arm around her. Before I knew what was happening, I started to cry, and I didn't have the foggiest idea what I was crying about. Then I thought of all those kids having milk on their cereal, and you know what? I was really glad you talked me into this."
"You didn't take the $20?"
"Heck no," he replied indignantly. "I gave her the milk as a Christmas present, didn't I?"
A Christmas Morning Memory
By Leo Buscaglia
I didn’t believe her. Angels had better things to do with their time than watch to see if I was a good or bad boy. Even with my limited seven year old wisdom, I had figured out that, at best, the Angel could only watch over two or three kids at a time...and why should I be one of them? The odds were certainly in my favor. Yet Mama, who knew all things, had told me time and time again that the Christmas Angel knew, saw, and evaluated all things and could not be compared to anything we ignorant human beings understood. Anyway, I wasn’t all that sure that I believed in the Christmas angel. All my friends in the neighborhood told me that it was Santa Claus who came on Christmas Eve and that they’d never heard of an angel who brought presents. Mama had lived in America for years and blessed her new land as her permanent home, but she was forever Italian as polenta, and for her, it would always be an Angel. “Who’s this Santa Claus?” she’d say. “And what has he to do with Christmas?”
In addition, I must admit that I wasn’t too impressed with our Italian Angel. Santa Claus was always more generous and imaginative. He brought my friends bicycles, Tinker Toys, puzzles, candy canes, and baseball mitts. Italian Angels always brought apples, oranges, assorted nuts, raisins, a small panettone (cake), and some little, round licorice candies we called bottone de prete (priest’s buttons) because they looked like buttons you’d find on a priest’s cassock. Also, the Angel always included in our stockings some imported chestnuts, hard as rocks. I must admit that I never understood what to do with the chestnuts. We finally gave them to Mama to be boiled into submission, then peeled and eaten for dessert after Christmas dinner. It hardly seemed a very appropriate gift for a child of six or seven. The Christmas Angel couldn’t be too bright I often thought.
When I questioned Mama about this, she would only say that it was not for me, “still wet behind the ears” to question an angel, especially the Christmas Angel.
During this particular Christmastime, my seven-year-old behavior could hardly have been said to be exemplary. My brother and sisters, all older than I, never seemed to cause any problems. I, on the other hand, always seemed to be the center of them all. At mealtime, I hated everything. I was required to take a bite of everything, and each meal became a challenge. It was Felice (as my family called me) against a world of adults. It was I who never remembered to close the chicken coop, who would rather read than take out the garbage, and who, most of all, challenged everything that Mama and Papa did, felt, or commanded. In short, I was a brat.
For a least a month prior to Christmas, Mama warned me, “You’re being a very bad boy, Felice. Christmas Angels don’t bring presents to brats. They bring a stick from a peach tree suitable for hitting on the legs. So, you’d better change your ways. I can’t be good for you. Only you can choose to be good.”
“Who cares?” was my response. “The Angel never brings me anything I want anyway.” I did very little over the next weeks toward mending my ways.
As it is in most homes, Christmas Eve was a magical time. Even though we were very poor, we always had special foods to eat. After dinner, we sat around the wood stove that served as the center of our lives during the winter months and talked and laughed and listened to stories. We would spend much time planning for the next day’s feats, for which we had been preparing all week. Being a Catholic family, we would all go to confession, after which we’d decorate the tree. The evening would end with a small cup of Mama’s wondrous zabaglione. Never mind that it has some wine in it, Christmas only came once a year!
I’m sure that it is true of all children, but I found it almost impossible to get to sleep on Christmas Eve. My mind danced. Not with thoughts of sugar plums, but with serious concerns like the possibility that the Christmas Angel would miss my house or run out of gifts. I would become very excited over the possibility that Santa Claus would forget we were Italian and stop in anyway, not realizing that I had already been visited by the Angel. Then I’d get a double dose of everything!
How is it that Christmas morning, no matter how little sleep was had the night before, never presents a wake-up problem? So it was on this particular morning. It was just a matter of moments after hearing the first movement before we were all up and charging for the kitchen and the clothesline, on which were hanging our stockings and under which were our bright, newly polished shoes.
It was all as we had left it the night before except that the shoes and stockings were stuffed to capacity with the Christmas Angel’s bounty, that is, all except mine. My shoes, shining brightly, were empty. My stockings, hanging loosely over the line, were equally empty except for one, from which emerged a long, dry peach limb.
I saw the looks of horror on the faces of my brother and sisters. We all stopped in our tracks. All eyes went to Mama and Papa, then back again to me.
Mama said, “Ah, I knew it. The Christmas Angel never misses a thing. The Christmas only leaves what we deserve.”
My eyes welled up with tears. My sisters reached out to comfort me, but I fought them off savagely. “I didn’t want those dumb presents,” I cried. “I hate the dumb, old Angel. There’s no Christmas Angel anyway.”
I fell into Mama’s arms. She was a large woman, and her lap had saved me from despair and loneliness so many times before. I saw that she was crying as she comforted me. So was Papa. My sisters’ loud sobbing and my brother’s sniffling filled the early morning silence.
After a while, my mother spoke as if talking to herself. “Felice isn’t a bad boy. He just acts bad from time to time. The Christmas Angel knows that. He could have been good if he wanted to, but this year he chose to be bad. There was nothing else the Angel could do. Maybe next year he’ll decide to be better. But for now, we can all be happy again.”
Everyone immediately emptied the gifts in their shoes and stockings onto my lap. “Here,” they said, “take this.” Within a short while the house was again full of chatter, smiles and laughter. I had received more than my shoes and stockings could ever carry.
Mama and Papa had gone to mass early, as usual. They had collected the chestnuts and set them on their way to hours of boiling in a wonderful spiced water, another pot among sauces simmering. Delicate odors emerged like magic potions from the oven, all on the way to becoming our miraculous Christmas dinner.
We got ready for church. As was her usual practice, Mama checked each of us in turn, a collar adjuster here, hair pulled back there, a soft caress for each. It was my turn last. She set her very large brown eyes on min. “Felice,” she said, “do you understand why the Christmas Angel couldn’t leave you gifts?”
“Uh-huh,” I answered.
“The Angel reminds us that we will always get what we deserve. We can’t escape it. Sometimes it’s hard to understand, and it hurts and makes us cry. But it teaches us what’s right and wrong, and we get better every year.”
I’m not certain that at the time I really understood what she meant. I knew only that I was sure I was loved, that whatever I had done, I had been forgiven, and that there would always be another chance for me.
I have never forgotten that Christmas so many years ago. Since then, life has not always been fair or offered me what I thought I’d deserved or rewarded my being good. Over the years, I know that I have been selfish, bratty, thoughtless, and perhaps, at times, even cruel...but I have never forgotten that where there is forgiveness, sharing, another chance given, and unwavering love, the Christmas Angel is always present and it’s always Christmas.
I didn’t believe her. Angels had better things to do with their time than watch to see if I was a good or bad boy. Even with my limited seven year old wisdom, I had figured out that, at best, the Angel could only watch over two or three kids at a time...and why should I be one of them? The odds were certainly in my favor. Yet Mama, who knew all things, had told me time and time again that the Christmas Angel knew, saw, and evaluated all things and could not be compared to anything we ignorant human beings understood. Anyway, I wasn’t all that sure that I believed in the Christmas angel. All my friends in the neighborhood told me that it was Santa Claus who came on Christmas Eve and that they’d never heard of an angel who brought presents. Mama had lived in America for years and blessed her new land as her permanent home, but she was forever Italian as polenta, and for her, it would always be an Angel. “Who’s this Santa Claus?” she’d say. “And what has he to do with Christmas?”
In addition, I must admit that I wasn’t too impressed with our Italian Angel. Santa Claus was always more generous and imaginative. He brought my friends bicycles, Tinker Toys, puzzles, candy canes, and baseball mitts. Italian Angels always brought apples, oranges, assorted nuts, raisins, a small panettone (cake), and some little, round licorice candies we called bottone de prete (priest’s buttons) because they looked like buttons you’d find on a priest’s cassock. Also, the Angel always included in our stockings some imported chestnuts, hard as rocks. I must admit that I never understood what to do with the chestnuts. We finally gave them to Mama to be boiled into submission, then peeled and eaten for dessert after Christmas dinner. It hardly seemed a very appropriate gift for a child of six or seven. The Christmas Angel couldn’t be too bright I often thought.
When I questioned Mama about this, she would only say that it was not for me, “still wet behind the ears” to question an angel, especially the Christmas Angel.
During this particular Christmastime, my seven-year-old behavior could hardly have been said to be exemplary. My brother and sisters, all older than I, never seemed to cause any problems. I, on the other hand, always seemed to be the center of them all. At mealtime, I hated everything. I was required to take a bite of everything, and each meal became a challenge. It was Felice (as my family called me) against a world of adults. It was I who never remembered to close the chicken coop, who would rather read than take out the garbage, and who, most of all, challenged everything that Mama and Papa did, felt, or commanded. In short, I was a brat.
For a least a month prior to Christmas, Mama warned me, “You’re being a very bad boy, Felice. Christmas Angels don’t bring presents to brats. They bring a stick from a peach tree suitable for hitting on the legs. So, you’d better change your ways. I can’t be good for you. Only you can choose to be good.”
“Who cares?” was my response. “The Angel never brings me anything I want anyway.” I did very little over the next weeks toward mending my ways.
As it is in most homes, Christmas Eve was a magical time. Even though we were very poor, we always had special foods to eat. After dinner, we sat around the wood stove that served as the center of our lives during the winter months and talked and laughed and listened to stories. We would spend much time planning for the next day’s feats, for which we had been preparing all week. Being a Catholic family, we would all go to confession, after which we’d decorate the tree. The evening would end with a small cup of Mama’s wondrous zabaglione. Never mind that it has some wine in it, Christmas only came once a year!
I’m sure that it is true of all children, but I found it almost impossible to get to sleep on Christmas Eve. My mind danced. Not with thoughts of sugar plums, but with serious concerns like the possibility that the Christmas Angel would miss my house or run out of gifts. I would become very excited over the possibility that Santa Claus would forget we were Italian and stop in anyway, not realizing that I had already been visited by the Angel. Then I’d get a double dose of everything!
How is it that Christmas morning, no matter how little sleep was had the night before, never presents a wake-up problem? So it was on this particular morning. It was just a matter of moments after hearing the first movement before we were all up and charging for the kitchen and the clothesline, on which were hanging our stockings and under which were our bright, newly polished shoes.
It was all as we had left it the night before except that the shoes and stockings were stuffed to capacity with the Christmas Angel’s bounty, that is, all except mine. My shoes, shining brightly, were empty. My stockings, hanging loosely over the line, were equally empty except for one, from which emerged a long, dry peach limb.
I saw the looks of horror on the faces of my brother and sisters. We all stopped in our tracks. All eyes went to Mama and Papa, then back again to me.
Mama said, “Ah, I knew it. The Christmas Angel never misses a thing. The Christmas only leaves what we deserve.”
My eyes welled up with tears. My sisters reached out to comfort me, but I fought them off savagely. “I didn’t want those dumb presents,” I cried. “I hate the dumb, old Angel. There’s no Christmas Angel anyway.”
I fell into Mama’s arms. She was a large woman, and her lap had saved me from despair and loneliness so many times before. I saw that she was crying as she comforted me. So was Papa. My sisters’ loud sobbing and my brother’s sniffling filled the early morning silence.
After a while, my mother spoke as if talking to herself. “Felice isn’t a bad boy. He just acts bad from time to time. The Christmas Angel knows that. He could have been good if he wanted to, but this year he chose to be bad. There was nothing else the Angel could do. Maybe next year he’ll decide to be better. But for now, we can all be happy again.”
Everyone immediately emptied the gifts in their shoes and stockings onto my lap. “Here,” they said, “take this.” Within a short while the house was again full of chatter, smiles and laughter. I had received more than my shoes and stockings could ever carry.
Mama and Papa had gone to mass early, as usual. They had collected the chestnuts and set them on their way to hours of boiling in a wonderful spiced water, another pot among sauces simmering. Delicate odors emerged like magic potions from the oven, all on the way to becoming our miraculous Christmas dinner.
We got ready for church. As was her usual practice, Mama checked each of us in turn, a collar adjuster here, hair pulled back there, a soft caress for each. It was my turn last. She set her very large brown eyes on min. “Felice,” she said, “do you understand why the Christmas Angel couldn’t leave you gifts?”
“Uh-huh,” I answered.
“The Angel reminds us that we will always get what we deserve. We can’t escape it. Sometimes it’s hard to understand, and it hurts and makes us cry. But it teaches us what’s right and wrong, and we get better every year.”
I’m not certain that at the time I really understood what she meant. I knew only that I was sure I was loved, that whatever I had done, I had been forgiven, and that there would always be another chance for me.
I have never forgotten that Christmas so many years ago. Since then, life has not always been fair or offered me what I thought I’d deserved or rewarded my being good. Over the years, I know that I have been selfish, bratty, thoughtless, and perhaps, at times, even cruel...but I have never forgotten that where there is forgiveness, sharing, another chance given, and unwavering love, the Christmas Angel is always present and it’s always Christmas.
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