Christmas is for love. It is for
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
innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a
wondrous gift one
Christmas.
Mark was an 11 year old 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 the 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 room. 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 near however, Mark failed to stay
after school each day. I looked forward to his
coming, and when the days passed and 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 any more 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.
"Its 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 into 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 gaiety,
mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But
mostly, Christmas is for
love.
