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.
-- Author unknown
