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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. |
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