Molly walked along Fifth Avenue. Her expensive leather boots sloshed through the melting snow.

"Darn," she thought. "I should have worn the Totes rubber boots today. These leather boots will be ruined with all this slush."

She was glad to be out of the office, on her way home. She decided to walk to the train station, a distance of about 20 blocks. She could window shop along the way; check out the fancy Christmas displays at Saks and Lord & Taylor. Maybe that would put her in a better frame of mind. Tourists were milling about in front of the tree at Rockefeller Center. She had to admit it was a spectacular sight. Rockefeller Center always had the brightest, tallest, fullest tree anywhere. Silvery angels and their trumpets graced the sidelines. Ice skaters glided around at the base of the tree. The air was filled with the smell of freshly roasting peanuts, pretzels and chestnuts. She stopped at the corner of Fifth and 47th Street and purchased a hot, salty pretzel.

Molly had never liked Christmas and she didn't understand why. She had had a happy childhood and there were always gifts for her, so she wasn't deprived in any way. Someday she would visit a shrink who might be able to clarify her aversion to the holiday. She tried to tell herself that commercialism made the day a sham, but she knew it was more than that. Sometimes she'd take a self-righteous stance and proclaim that Christmas was not the important day-Easter was much more significant. You can't party around a Christmas tree and not think of the suffering at the Cross. But nothing really explained her depression that occurred every December.

As she neared Pennsylvania Station to catch her train, she once again saw the man and two young children sitting in a doorway. They sat on a piece of cardboard, huddled together for warmth. In the glow of the streetlight, the little boy read a very worn paperback book. The girl sat shivering with her head on her daddy's lap. She had seen this trio for months and often gave them whatever change she had. It depressed her to think that there was such poverty amidst the wealth of a big and prosperous city.

The hour-long train ride home was uneventful. She looked out the window, through the night darkness, and marveled at the beautiful light displays on the suburban homes. She sang Christmas carols in her head and tried to get into the spirit. She couldn't.

"Look at all those lights," she muttered to herself. "Most of these people probably haven't set foot in a church for years, haven't thought about God, yet they're celebrating Christmas. They seem to have more spirit than I do."

She arrived home, looked at the wreath that hung on her front door. She had put out the Nativity scene, but not a tree. A large silk poinsettia graced the coffee table and made the room seem merry. That's as far as she would go with decorations. "It's all so silly-put up decorations and then take them down. What a waste of time." She would be spending Christmas at her daughters' homes and didn't see any reason to go overboard with decorations.

Molly heated up some leftover spaghetti and ate by herself. It was sure quiet here since her husband died. Would she ever get used to it? She took a shower and went to bed. She always took a shower at night, letting the hot steamy water wash away the grime of the city before crawling into her sweet-smelling, crisp sheets.

She did not sleep well. She tossed and turned, thinking of the coming holiday-thinking of the overabundance of food and gifts, the good cheer (some of it false) and the fuss that would be made on Christmas Day. She thought of her own grandchildren, overloaded with toys and games and electronic gizmos. And then she thought about the father with two children sitting on cardboard in the snow-covered doorway. She could still see the forlorn look in the eyes of the little boy and girl. She could imagine the helplessness that the father felt, realizing he could provide nothing for his children. She tossed most of the night.

As she rode the train to the city the next day, a plan was forming in her mind. She had been giving change to this poor family for over a year. They often made eye contact and thanked her and said, "God bless you." She couldn't get them out of her mind.

When the workday was over and Molly walked back to the train station, she stopped in front of the young father with his two children and took time to talk to them.

"I know this must be a hard time of year for you," she began. "I've seen you out here for months, in all kinds of weather, but I'm sure Christmas time is very difficult." The father smiled. She extended her hand. "My name is Molly and I live on Long Island by myself. Would you let me share a special Christmas dinner with you? I am not wealthy, but I do have plenty of food and cheer to give." The young father looked at Molly and she could see tears in his eyes. "My name is Jim," he said, "and these are my children, Susan and Brian."

They walked over to a nearby McDonald's where she ordered hamburgers, fries and drinks for everybody. They sat and got acquainted.

"My wife died two years ago, very unexpectedly. The apartment we were renting was burned out and I had no insurance to cover the loss of our furniture and clothing. We escaped the fire with only the clothes on our backs. I do outdoor construction work, so it's seasonal. When the weather is bad, I do not get paid. It has been very, very hard. We spend most of our time at a welfare hotel, but that is not a place to raise children. We have just one room and no cooking privileges."

"I will get you train tickets for the day before Christmas. You can come out to Farmingdale and I will pick you up at the station," Molly told him. The plan was made and everything was set. She gave Jim her phone number and a supply of quarters in case he had to call her.

And suddenly, she understood what Christmas was all about. She rushed home that night, went to the basement and brought up the tree and ornaments that had been packed away for so many years. The following day she stopped at Toys R Us and purchased some things for the children. She also bought warm clothing and backpacks for everyone.

Now it seemed very important to have decorations, bake cookies, roast a turkey, and spread love all over the place. Christmas suddenly made sense. God gave his gift to the world. Now it was her turn to give a gift back to God.






~ © Frannie (Frannie516@aol.com) ~


December 4, 2003





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When Santa Was A Boy

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