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.
Author Unknown
