the christmas present

The little girl sat pensively in the front seat as a purplish sunset faded. Her new white fur coat framed her tired face. A day of birthday parties and Christmas pageants—a day to tax even the energies of a four-year-old. She had just sung her first public Christmas carols, then alternately squirmed and sat transfixed as older children enacted a version of the Christmas story. One of the characters was an orphan.

"Dad, do you think there are orphans in heaven?"

"I'm sure there are many of them, but I bet they're not lonely anymore"

"Dad, a good thing would be if we wrote a letter to Santa to tell him that orphans need toys"

"I think you're right—maybe we could also think about giving some of our toys to kids like orphans"

She thought quietly about that for awhile—her mother and baby sister exchanged coos in the back seat.

"Maybe I could give one of my old toys that still works OK—I could give one to orphans"

Her father stated that this was a fine idea—but mentioned in passing that he had heard of families that also gave up a preferred toy each year too—something not so easy to part with.

"What do you mean?" she asked, not liking the direction that the conversation was taking.

Traffic on the interstate was picking up.

"Imagine what it would be like to give one of your favorite things to an orphan for Christmas".

Her face clouded. She slowly came to terms with the statement and the profound issue at hand.

"It would be like giving away blank" she said—in an almost hushed tone—referring in singular to one of her several security blankets.

When her father saw the depth of her understanding, he sensed the need to frame the point in more ancient terms.

"Sweetheart—do you know what that makes me think of? I think of God being willing to give his favorite thing to us—giving us Jesus to die on the cross for us—that would be like you giving your blank to orphans."

The little girl looked at her father, at first silently considering the point. She then softly spoke the unimaginable truth, her words barely audible above the sound of the wind,

"It would be like you giving me away..."

This Christmas season had brought both tender moments and unexpected tears to the little girl's mother and father, more than ever in the past. Perhaps it was because they were growing wiser—maybe it was because they were more tired—probably it was because they were rediscovering the richness of life and eternity through the eyes of a child.


12.12.93

little sister

Little sister—
someday if you see a small face,
eyes barely open,
peering for the first time into a new world
that seems all too bright—
kiss that little one on her soft forehead.

If you hear those first cries that tell the story of breath traveling a new course—
reach out tenderly
and look up with an aching joy that will echo forever.

If you sense the helplessness of a tiny form,
insufficient to wipe her eyes
or clean her quivering chin,
let feelings of mercy and compassion reach back through time
to resound and take their strength from the forgotten memories of one who once reached for you—
in the tender way that only she could offer.

If one day you feel the warmth of a head resting beneath your chin,
remember what you can never remember—
the touch of a hand,
the drop of a tear,
the sounds of silent praise.

Little sister—
then you will be the very image of love
that I have today seen in your mother.


9.17.93