Christmas Is For Love
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.
