Third Day of Christmas Story
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 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 out) 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 and when, as 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 confidently. "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 your like it." He held out his hands, and there lying in his palms was a tiny wooden box.
"It's beauiful, 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 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 quietly and 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.
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 out) 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 and when, as 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 confidently. "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 your like it." He held out his hands, and there lying in his palms was a tiny wooden box.
"It's beauiful, 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 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 quietly and 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.
1 comment:
Thanks for posting these. I'm loving them. Is it okay if I print them up?
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