Who Started Christmas?
This morning I heard a story on the radio of a woman who was out Christmas
shopping with her two children; after many hours of looking at row after row
of toys and everything else imaginable, and after hours of hearing both her
children asking for everything they saw on those many shelves, she finally
made it to the elevator with her two kids.
She was feeling what so many of us feel during the holiday season time of
the year—overwhelming pressure to go to every party, every housewarming,
taste all the holiday food and treats, get that perfect gift for every
single person on our shopping list, make sure we don’t forget anyone on our
card list, and the pressure of making sure we respond to everyone who sent
us a card.
Finally the elevator doors opened and there was already a crowd in the car.
She pushed her way into the car and dragged her two kids in with her and all
the bags of stuff. When the doors closed she couldn’t take it anymore and
stated, “Whoever started this whole Christmas thing should be found, strung
up and shot.”
From the back of the car everyone heard a quiet, calm voice respond, “Don’t
worry. We already crucified him.”
For the rest of the trip down the elevator it was so quiet you could have
heard a pin drop.
Don’t forget this year to keep the One who started this whole Christmas
thing in your every thought, deed, purchase, and word. If we all did it,
just think of how different this whole world would be.
The Reason For The Season!
The Tricycle
January 1969
by CATHRYN ROTHERY, Marblehead, Massachusetts
When I was a child, my father was a physician on the staff of a large state
mental hospital. At the top of the hospital community’s social ladder were
the doctors and their families. Then came the business manager and chief
engineer, nurses, electricians, carpenters and plumbers, and finally, the
skilled and semi-skilled workers.
Near the bottom of the ladder were the attendants. They were largely
untrained, relatively uneducated people. Most of them lived with their
families nearby the hospital. We never went near their houses. Some of their
children, though, had to pass our home on the hospital grounds on their walk
to their little school on the other side. Naturally we, the doctors’
children, did not attend this country school. We were driven two miles into
town where, for a small tuition fee, we were educated.
We resented these “trespassers” who traversed “our” domain each day. We were
always back from our school before they passed by on their way home. At
first we simply stared at them–and they returned the silent hostility. Then
one fall day we began to use words, and soon were hurling insults at each
other. We needed a name for them, so we began to call them the “Meanies.”
After a while, words were not enough. I have forgotten who cast the first
stone. Soon the little group began to gather stones on their way home from
school. In the meantime, we prepared and waited for them. The battle never
lasted more than a few minutes, which was the only reason our parents
remained unaware for a while. Actually, little damage was done. But once,
when one of the “Meanies” was hit, she cried angrily, “I’m gonna tell my
daddy on you!”
“We’re not afraid of your daddy,” we jeered. “Our daddy can fire your
daddy!” Of course, as soon as our parents realized what was going on, they
put a stop to it.
It was about that time that my sister and I outgrew our tricycles. We wanted
bicycles. The trikes were still in good shape, and we decided to try to sell
them in order to have Christmas money. For several days we displayed the two
trikes in the front yard with a big “For Sale” sign, but there were no
buyers. Then my mother insisted that the trikes be put downstairs.
Weeks passed. Then one afternoon a small knock sounded at the door. I opened
it, and standing there was a pale little girl, about my age, poorly but
cleanly dressed. She was one of the “Meanies”! What could she want? Then she
said in a quiet voice, “Have you sold the tricycles?”
It took a minute for me to recover myself enough to ask her in–how strange
it seemed to do that–and to call my mother. We conducted the little girl
downstairs to see the tricycles. I wanted to say something, but the best I
could do was, “You look a little big for that trike.”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” she said quickly. “I’m buying it for my little sister
for Christmas. I saw them out in the yard last month, but I had to wait
until I saved some money. I did chores after school.” Then she bent down to
examine the two vehicles more carefully. Suddenly I admired this little girl
immensely.
She stood up and looked directly at me. It wasn’t a hostile look, but her
eyes said, “Even though I am poor and my daddy is just an attendant, I have
a right to be here. You offered something for sale, and I came to buy it and
I am proud of what I am doing.” But when she spoke, her voice held a trace
of anxiety as she said, “How much is it?”
I remember wondering how much money she had saved. I conferred with Mama.
“Two dollars,” I said, hoping it was not too much.
A wisp of a smile brightened her face as she took out her purse and began to
count out the money, all of it in coins. I was happy to see a few left. She
handed over the money, and I helped her get the trike out to the street.
We were smiling now, but the little girl never relaxed her slight reserve. I
wanted to apologize to her, but there were no words that would do. I looked
at her, hoping my eyes would tell her. She looked at me and said shyly,
“Well . . . goodbye.”
She took the trike by the handlebar and, walking along beside it, guided it
away. Pride and triumph showed in every line of her back.
I felt overwhelmed at all I had discovered in this brief time. She hadn’t
been a real person before, and now she had revealed herself as a human
being–one who loved her family.
And one little girl–I could never call her a “Meanie” again–had taught me
that what she thought of herself was more important than what I thought of
her.
I watched until she disappeared around the curve.
Boy With A Doll, The
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last
minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled
to myself. I would be in here forever, and had so much to do.
Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I sort of wished
I could just sleep through it, but I hurried the best I could
through all the people to the toy department. Once again I
mumbled to myself at the prices of all the toys, and wondered if
the kids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll
aisle.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about 5, holding a
lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and held her so gently. I
just kept looking over at the little boy, I could not seem to
help myself, and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him
turn to a woman whom he identified as his aunt, and said, “Are
you sure I don’t have enough money?”
She replied rather sadly, “Honey, I’m sorry, but you don’t have
enough money for it.”
His aunt told him not to go anywhere, to stay and look at all the
toys, that she had to get some other things, and would be back in
a few minutes. The boy continued to hold the doll. After a
moment, I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, “It is
the doll my sister wanted real bad for Christmas. She just knew
that Santa would bring it.”
I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said, “No,
Santa can’t go where my sister is…I have to give the doll to my
Mama to take to her.” I asked him where his sister was. He
looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, “She has gone to be
with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be
with her.”
My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again
and said, “I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told
him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store.” He then
asked me if I wanted to see his picture.
I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures that had
been taken at the front of the store in one of those quick photo
booths. He said, “I want my Mamma to take this with her so she
won’t ever forget me. I love my Mama so much I wish she did not
have to leave me, but Daddy says she’s going to go be with my
sister.”
The little boy lowered his head and grew very quiet. While he was
not looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out some money. I
asked the little boy, “Shall we count that money one more time?”
He grew excited and said, “Yes, I just know it has to be enough.”
As we counted, I carefully slipped the money in with his. Of
course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, “Oh, thank
you, Jesus, for giving me enough money.” Then the boy said, “I
just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Mama
can take it with her to give to my sister. And He heard my
prayer. I wanted to ask him for enough to buy my Mama a white
rose, but I didn’t ask Him, and He gave me enough to buy the doll
and a rose for my Mama! She loves white roses a whole lot.”
In a few minutes the aunt came back, and I went about my
shopping.
I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished
what I needed to do in a totally different spirit than when I had
started. I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper
several days earlier, about a drunk driver hitting a car, killing
a little girl, and leaving the Mother in critical condition, and
the family with the decision as to whether to remove the life
support or not.
Surely this little boy did not belong with that story. Two days
later, I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the
life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget
the little boy, and kept wondering if the two were somehow
connected. Later that day, I went out and bought some white
roses and took them to the funeral home where the young woman
was. There she lay, holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful
doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left
there in tears, my life changed forever - overwhelmed by the love
that little boy had for his little sister and his mother, and how
cruel it seemed that in a split second, a drunk driver had ripped
the life of that little boy to pieces.