The Christ Child Who Was Too Poor
by Adelee Wendel
Reprinted by permission of Polly Bowdoin.
It was christmas. all evening the snow had been covering the world with a soft white blanket. Holly and spruce hung heavy under its weight; the elms and sycamores and maples lifted bare arms etched in white against a gray winter sky.
Inside, there was warmth and the smell of apples baking. The television was bringing all the color and pageantry of the season into the room, filling the air with the sounds of lovely old Christmas carols and chiming silver bells.
Omar sat spellbound! He had never experienced a Christmas like this in his entire twenty-eight years. He had known well the dusty streets of Sebaco, Nicaragua, the village of his birth. He had tasted the poverty of the crowded streets of Managua and Matagalpa. He had heard the heartbeat of his people through their plaintive songs and felt their romance in the strum of their guitars and their swirling dances.
And now, he was in my living room in a great American city, Indianapolis-and Christmas was filled with light and color and song. Outside, the world was hushed with the magical snow which still drifted past the windows. The awe and wonder of it was like an unbelievable dream.
"Always before," Omar said, "I think my life was in black and white, like an old TV. But suddenly, it is full of color! Like a fairy tale, full of magic."
From the television came an old familiar tune, drifting into the room like a lullaby.
Away in a manger,
No crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus
Lay down his sweet head . . .
Omar spoke slowly -- almost forgetting I was there -- recalling a time out of the distant past. His English was hesitant and broken, but his soft Spanish accent made the words musical.
"Let me tell you about the first Christmas I ever remember. I don't know why it was the first, the day was like all the rest -- working in the onion fields, playing in the dirty streets, always a little hungry.
"My stepfather had died the year before. My Mama is etched in my mind -- dressed all in black, thin and pale, with hungry children clinging to her and crying. I was eight years old, the oldest of five children.
"On this day I heard some children playing in the streets talking about the Christ Child who would visit on this night before Christmas. 'He brings gifts to all the children of the world, and he hides them under the bed,' they said.
"I had never heard of this before. I had never had a gift. What would it be like? Perhaps my Mama didn't know about this either. I would keep it a secret, and in the morning I would share the excitement with her! I would go to sleep early, and when I opened my eyes on Christmas Day there would be a gift!
"I shut my eyes tight. I made myself sleep, but all night I dreamed of cold and hunger. It was a terrible night. At last I heard the roosters crowing, just before the first light of day. Perhaps it was not too soon to have my gift. I was wide awake!
"I turned back the covers and looked under the bed. There was nothing! I looked everywhere. There was no gift. Maybe the Christ Child didn't know where to find me. He had never been to our house before so perhaps he didn't know the way.
"Or perhaps he had forgotten me. Or worse yet, could it be that he didn't care about me? My heart was broken at the thought of being unloved, rejected.
"I began to cry. I ran to find my Mama who was making coffee on the open fire. 'Mama, the Christ Child forgot me,' I sobbed. 'He didn't leave a gift for me!'
"Suddenly my Mama was down on her knees and her arms were around me. She was crying also. When I saw her tears, I stopped my own crying and tried to comfort her. 'Don't cry, Mama. Don't cry,' I whispered. 'It's all right. Our Christ Child is poor like us. He didn't have a gift to bring me. It's all right, Mama.'"
In the twinkling light of my little Christmas tree, I brushed away a tear for all the children of the world whose Christ Child cannot leave a gift because, like them, he, too, is poor.
Omar reached out and touched my hand. "Don't cry, mi linda," he said "You see, I was just a little boy then, and I didn't know what a gift was. Now I know it is not always something that can be hidden under the bed or hung on a Christmas tree. It is something so beautiful in the heart. And no one is too poor to have it! Don't cry, mi linda."
Thirteen years have passed since that Christmas in Indiana. Today, I have a letter from Managua. Omar writes:
You reached out and took my hand and walked with me. Whether the road be short or long, we walk together. That is your gift to me. And that is joy!
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