Posted on 12/17/2003 1:06:51 PM PST by Soaring Feather
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
when I spied a young man who seemed out of place. His eyes showed compassion, his hair a bit short, but his head was held high and his body was strong. His air was confident, his uniform smart, but what impressed me most was the size of his heart. For he embodied honor, one of this country's best, and the words U.S. Army showed large on his chest. As I stood there in wonder and gazed into his eyes, the words that he spoke took me quite by surprise. "What's wrong Santa, haven't you ever seen a Medic before?" I sensed something special and longed to know more. "To be honest, this field thing wasn't part of my plan, but the Army didn't give me a hospital or garrison." The words he spoke next surprised me all the more, "But I'm as proud of my Unit as I am of the Army!" "Don't worry Santa, that I'm a Medic you see, for when a Soldier goes down they will still call on me. They'll forget I'm a Soldier, they'll call in my stock. At the top of their lungs they'll yell ,"Medic!" "And I'll answer that call, anytime, anywhere. Though I know I'm a target I really don't care. I'll face incoming fire as I race cross the land, and use my very own body to shield a downed man." "Working long hours and into the night, my unit's battle is over, but I'm just starting to fight. For the life of every Soldier is sacred to me. I refuse to surrender them to death, and in that I'll find victory." "And yet I'll take the time to comfort a dying man, to sit down by his side, to reach out and hold his hand. For it takes as much courage to care as to fight. For just as the poem says, many don't "go gently into that night." "Santa, it's not any one uniform that makes you a man, but rather it's those ideals for which you choose to stand. I draw my line here, it's long and it's plain. For pain, hurt and suffering are the things I disdain." I know very well that I may lose my life, So that a Soldier may see an unmet child and young wife. So Santa, it really doesn't matter if they don't like my hair. I'm a Army Medic, their Doc, and I'll always be there." "I follow the brave docs who have come long before, from North Africa, Korea, and Vietnams shore. As history proudly shows, they all gave their best, and for those who have died, surely they're blessed." "At Inchon, the gulf and times during Tet, our brothers have fallen, but we carry on yet. For we carry their honor and legacy still." As I held back my tears it took all of my will. I had to leave him there for I had other plans, but I knew in my heart that the Army is in good hands. As I flew away I heard his laughter, it rang so loud and clear. "Hey Santa, how 'bout a nice pair of boots for the 26 miler next year?" *All Rights Reserved* |
Viking Clubs, of course!!
LOL
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