Christmas is for Love

Author Unknown

Christmas is for love. It is joy, for giving and sharing,
for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for
tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly
Christmas is for love.

I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with
wide-eyed innocence and soft rosy cheeks gave me a
wondrous gift one Christmas.

Mark was an orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter
middle-aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of
caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to
remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her
generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still,
with all this scolding and chilliness at home, he was a
sweet and gentle child.

I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began
staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his
aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up
the classroom. We did this quietly and comfortably, not
speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour
of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his
mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he
remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always
spent much time with him. As Christmas drew nearer,
however, Mark failed to stay after school each day.

I looked forward to his coming, but as the days
passed, he continued to scamper hurriedly from
the room after class. I stopped him one afternoon and
asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told
him how I had missed him, and his large gray eyes lit up
eagerly as he replied, "Did you really miss me?" I
explained how he had been my best helper.

"I was making you a surprise." he whispered
confidentially. "It's for Christmas." With that, he
became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He
didn't stay after school anymore after that. Finally
came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept
slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands
concealing something behind his back.

"I have your present." he said timidly when I looked up.
"I hope you like it." He held out his hands, and there
lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.

"It's beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it?" I asked,
opening the top to look inside.

"Oh, you can't see what's in it," he replied," and you
can't touch it or taste it, or feel it, but Mother always
said it makes you feel good all the time...warm on cold
nights, and safe when you're all alone."

I gazed at the empty box. "What is it, Mark," I asked
gently, "that will make me feel so good?"

"It's love," he whispered softly, "and Mother always
said it's best when you give it away."

And he turned and quietly left the room.

So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of
wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as
inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I
explain to them that there is love in it.

Yes, Christmas is for merriment, mirth and song, for
food and wondrous gifts. But mostly... Christmas is for
love.