To My Magnificent Fellow Life Travelers:
“It’s the most beautiful time of the year!” the classic yuletide tune proclaims. As a prelude to Christmas, I love sharing seasonal stories I have gathered over the past seven decades. This one I found in William Bennett’s book, The Moral Compass. He aptly describes this beautiful old story as a reminder to us all that, despite the season, “in homes where love is, God is.”
Once upon a time, long, long ago, on the night before Christmas, a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of a great city. There were many people in the street, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, and even gray-haired grandfathers and grandmothers, all of whom were hurrying home with bundles of presents for each other and for their little ones. Fine carriages rolled by, express wagons rattled past, even old carts were pressed into service. All things seemed in a hurry and glad about the expectation of the coming Christmas morning.
From some of the windows bright lights already beginning to stream, until it was almost as bright as day. But the little child seemed to have no home and wandered about listlessly from street to street. No one took any notice of him, except perhaps Jack Frost, who bit his bare toes and made the end of his fingers tingle. The north wind, too, seemed to notice the child, for it blew against him and pierced his ragged garments through and through, causing him to shiver with cold. Home after home he passed, looking with longing eyes through the windows in upon the glad, happy children, most of whom were helping to trim the Christmas trees for the coming morrow.
“Surely,” said the child to himself, “where there is so much gladness and happiness, some of it may be for me.” So, with timid steps he approached a large and handsome house. Through the windows he could see a beautiful Christmas tree already lighted. Many presents hung upon it. Its green boughs were trimmed with gold and silver ornaments. Slowly he climbed up the broad steps and gently rapped at the door.
It was opened by a tall and stately footman. He had a kindly face, although his voice was deep and gruff. He looked at the little child for a moment, then sadly shook his head and said, “Go down off the steps. There is no room here for such as you.” He looked sorry as he spoke. Through the open door a bright light shone, and the warm air, filled with the fragrance of the Christmas pine, rushed out from the inner room and greeted the little wanderer like a kiss. As the child turned back into the cold and darkness, he wondered why the footman had spoken thus, for surely, thought he, those little children would love to have another companion join them in their joyous Christmas festival. But the little children inside did not even know that he had knocked on the door.
The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly forward, saying to himself, “Is there no one in all this great city who will share the Christmas with me?” Farther and farther down the street he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and balls and tops and other wonderful toys hung upon them.
In one window the child noticed a little lamb made of soft, white wool. Around its neck was tied a ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one of the younger children. The little wanderer stopped before this window and looked long and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of all he was drawn toward the white lamb.
At last, creeping up to the windowpane, he gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window and looked out into the dark street where the snow had now begun to fall. She saw the child, but she only frowned and shook her head, and said, “Go away and come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you now.” Back into the dark street he turned again. The wind was whirling past him and seemed to say, “Hurry on, hurry on, we have no time to stop. Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry tonight.”
Again, and again the child rapped softly at door or windowpane. At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might have some ugly disease which her darlings would catch, another father said he had only enough for his own children, and none to spare for beggar brats. Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not to trouble other folks.
The hours passed; the night grew later, and the wind colder, and the street darker. Farther and farther the little one wandered. There was scarcely anyone left on the streets by this time, and the few who remained did not notice the child. Suddenly ahead of him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shown through the darkness into the child’s eyes. He looked up, smiling, and said, “I will go where the light beckons. Perhaps they will share their Christmas with me.”
Hurrying past all the other houses he soon reached the end of the street and went straight up to the window from which the light was streaming. The house was old and small, but the child cared not for that. The light seemed still to call him in. From what do you suppose the light came? Nothing but a candle which had been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain or shade at the small, square window, and as the little child looked in, he saw standing upon a neat, wooden table a small Christmas tree. The room was plainly furnished, but it was very clean. Near the fireplace sat a sweet-faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and older child beside her. The two children were looking into their mother’s face and listening to a story. She must have been telling them a Christmas story, I think. A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.
The little wanderer crept closer to the windowpane. So sweet was the mother’s face, so loving seemed the little children, that he took courage and tapped gently, very gently, on the door. The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. “What was that, Mother?” asked the little girl at her side.
“I think it is someone tapping at the door,” replied the mother. “Run quickly and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep anyone waiting in this storm.”
“Oh Mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping against the windowpane,” said the girl, “Do please go on with our story.”
Again, the little wanderer tapped upon the door.
“My child! My child!” exclaimed the mother, rising. “That certainly was a rap on the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in the cold on Christmas Eve.”
The child ran to open the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head and almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the warm, bright room. “You poor dear child,” was all she said and putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. “He is very cold, my children,” she exclaimed. “We must warm him.”
“And” added the little girl, “we must love him and give him some of our Christmas, too.”
“Yes,” said the mother, “but first we must warm him.”
The mother sat down beside the fire with the child on her lap, and her own two little ones warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother smoothed his tangled curls, and bending low over his head, kissed the child’s forehead. She gathered the three little ones close to her and the candle and the fireplace shone over them. For a moment the room was very still. I think she must have been praying. Then she whispered to the little girl, who ran into the other room and returned with a bowl of bread and milk for the little stranger.
By and by the little girl said softly to her mother, “May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it looks?”
“Yes,” replied the mother. With that she seated the child on a low stool beside the fire and went herself to fetch a few simple ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children’s Christmas tree.
And as they busied themselves about the tree, they noticed that the room had filled with a strange and wonderful light. Brighter and brighter, it grew until it shone like the sun; from floor to ceiling all was light as day. And when they turned and looked at the spot where the little wanderer had sat. The child was gone, but the light was still in the room.
“Children,” the mother said quietly, “I believe we have had the Christ Child with us tonight.”
And she drew her dear ones to her and kissed them, and there was great joy in the little house.
Jesus stands at the door knocking (Rev. 3:20). In total reality, he comes in the form of the beggar, of the dissolute human child in ragged clothes, asking for help. He confronts you in every person you meet. As long as there are people, Christ will walk the earth as your neighbor, as the one through whom God calls you, speaks to you, makes demands on you. That is the great seriousness and great blessedness of the Advent message. Christ is standing at the door; he lives in the form of a human being among us. -Dietrich Bonhoeffer, God is in the Manager: Reflections on Advent and Christmas
Have an AWE-full Weekend!
William “Bill” Bacque