"An Exchange of Gifts"
(By Diane Rayner)
I grew up believing that Christmas was a time when strange and wonderful
things happened; when wise and royal visitors came riding, when at midnight in
the barnyard animals talked to one another, and in the light of a fabulous star,
God came down to us as a baby. Christmas to me has always been a time of
enchantment, and never more so than the year when my son Marty was eight. That
was the year that my children and I moved into a cozy trailer home in a forested
area just outside of Redmond, Washington.
As the holidays approached, our spirits were light, unhampered even by the
winter rains that swept down Puget Sound, dousing our home and making our floors
muddy. Throughout that December, Marty had been the most spirited, and busiest
of us all. He was my youngest; a cheerful boy, blond-haired and playful, with a
quaint habit of looking up at you and cocking his head like a puppy when you
talked to him. Actually, the reason for this was that Marty was deaf in his left
ear, but it was a condition which he never complained about.
For weeks, I had been watching Marty. I knew that something was going on
with him that he was not telling me about. I saw how eagerly he made his bed,
took out the trash, carefully set the table and helped Rick and Pam prepare
dinner before I got home from work. I saw how he silently collected his tiny
allowance and tucked it away, not spending a cent of it. I had no idea what all
this quiet activity was about, but I suspected that somehow it something to do
with Kenny. Kenny was Marty’s friend, and ever since they found each other in
the springtime, they were seldom apart. If you called to one, you got them both.
Their world was in a meadow, a pasture broken by a small winding stream, where
the boys caught frogs and snakes, where they searched for arrowheads or hidden
treasure, or where they would spend an afternoon feeding squirrels peanuts.
Times were hard for our little family, and we had scrimped and saved to get
by. With my job as a meat wrapper and with a lot of ingenuity around the house,
we were much better off than Kenny’s family. They were desperately poor, and
his mother struggled to feed and clothe her two children. They were a good,
solid family. But Kenny’s mom was a proud woman, very proud, and she had
strict rules.
How we worked, as we did each year, to make our home festive for the
holiday! Ours was a handcrafted Christmas of gifts hidden away and ornaments
strung about the place. Marty and Kenny would sometimes sit still at the table
long enough to help make cornucopias or weave little baskets for the tree. But
then, in a flash, one whispered to the other, and they would be out the door and
sliding cautiously under the electric fence into the horse pasture that
separated our home from Kenny's.
One night, shortly before Christmas, when my hands were deep in Peppernoder
dough, shaping tiny nut-like Danish cookies heavily spiced with cinnamon, Marty
came to me and said in a tone mixed with pleasure and pride, "Mom, I've
bought Kenny a Christmas present. Want to see it?" So that's what he's been
up to, I said to myself. "It's something he's wanted for a long, long time,
Mom." After wiping his hands on a dish towel carefully, he pulled from his
pocket a small box. Lifting the lid, I gazed at the pocket compass that my son
had been saving all those allowances to buy. A little compass to point an
eight-year-old adventurer through the woods.
"It's a lovely gift, Martin," I said, but even as I spoke, a
disturbing thought came to mind: I knew how Kenny's mother felt about their
poverty. They could barely afford to exchange gifts among themselves, and giving
presents to others was out of the question. I was sure that Kenny’s proud
mother would not permit her son to receive something that he could not return in
kind. Gently, carefully, I talked over the problem with Marty. He understood
what I was saying. "I know, Mom, I know! But what if it was a secret? What
if they never found out who gave it?" I didn't know how to answer him. I
just didn't know.
The day before Christmas was rainy and cold and gray. The three kids and I
all but fell over one another as we elbowed our way about our little home,
putting finishing touches on Christmas secrets and preparing for family and
friends who would be dropping by. Night came. The rain continued. I looked out
the window over the sink and felt an odd sadness. How mundane the rain seemed
for a Christmas Eve! Would wise and royal men come riding on such a night? I
doubted it. It seemed to me that strange and wonderful things happened only on
clear nights, nights when one could at least see a star in the heavens.
I turned from the window, and as I checked on the ham and bread warming in
the oven, I saw Marty slip out the door. He wore his coat over his pajamas, and
he clutched a tiny, colorfully wrapped box in his hand. Down through the soggy
pasture he went, then a quick slide under the electric fence and across the yard
to Kenny’s house. Up the steps on tiptoe, shoes squishing, he opened the
screen door just a crack; placed the gift on the doorstep, took a deep breath,
and reached for the doorbell, and pressed on it hard.
Quickly Marty turned, ran down the steps and across the yard in a wild
effort to get away unnoticed. Then, suddenly, he banged into the electric fence.
The shock sent him reeling. He lay stunned on the wet ground. His body quivered
and he gasped for breath. Then slowly, weakly, confused and frightened, he began
the grueling trip back home. "Marty," we cried as he stumbled through
the door, "what happened?" His lower lip quivered, his eyes brimmed.
"I forgot about the fence, and it knocked me down!" I hugged his muddy
little body to me. He was still dazed and there was a red mark blistering on his
face from his mouth to his ear. Quickly I treated the blister and, with a warm
cup of cocoa, Marty's bright spirits returned. I tucked him into bed and just
before he fell asleep, he looked up at me and said, "Mom, Kenny didn't see
me. I'm sure he didn't see me."
That Christmas Eve I went to bed unhappy and puzzled. It seemed such a cruel
thing to happen to a little boy on the purest kind of Christmas mission -- doing
what the Lord wants us to do -- giving to others -- and giving in secret at
that. I did not sleep well that night. Somewhere deep inside I think I must have
been feeling the disappointment that the night of Christmas had come and it had
been just an ordinary, problem-filled night, no mysterious enchantment at all.
However, I was wrong.
By morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone. The streak on Marty's
face was very red, but I could tell that the burn was not serious. We opened our
presents, and soon, not unexpectedly, Kenny was knocking on the door, eager to
show Marty his new compass and tell about the mystery of its arrival. It was
plain that Kenny didn't suspect Marty at all, and while the two of them talked,
Marty just smiled and smiled. Then I noticed that while the two boys were
comparing their Christmases, nodding, gesturing and chattering away, Marty was
not cocking his head. While Kenny was talking, Marty seemed to be listening with
his deaf ear.
Weeks later, a report came from the school nurse, verifying what Marty and I
already knew: "Marty now has complete hearing in both ears." The
mystery of how Marty regained his hearing, and still has it, remains just that
-- a mystery. Doctors suspect, of course, that the shock from the electric fence
was somehow responsible. Perhaps so. Whatever the reason, I just remained
thankful to God for the good exchange of gifts made that night.
So you see, strange and wonderful things still happen on the night of our
Lord's birth. And one does not have to have a clear night either, to follow a
fabulous star.
"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to
prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you
will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will
seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.'" Jeremiah
29:11-13 (NIV)
One starlit night
One couple in distress
One shabby stable
Only one place to rest
One group of shepherds
One night long ago
One angel's message
Only one place to go
One Wiseman's journey
One king did they seek
One Son of David
Only one child so meek
One reason for coming
One goal on earth's sod
One death that redeems
Only one way to God.
(Myra Dye)
"Suddenly a great company of the
heavenly host
appeared with the angel, praising God
and saying,
'Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace to men on whom his
favor rests.'"
Luke 2:13-14 (NIV)
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