Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas (25 page)

His mother was a single parent who struggled with many personal problems. Duane and his three younger sisters were often taken by Social Services when life got too tough for her. Thinking that maybe he had had a bad night, I walked over to him to see what was the matter. As he looked up at me with dark brown eyes, I could see his hurt and disappointment.

“Mrs. Brown, aren't you going to open my Christmas present?” he asked. “I put it on your desk.”

As I looked at my desk, all I could see was an avalanche of papers, stickers, and books. Seeing my puzzled look, Duane went to the front of the room and retrieved his gift from my desk. As he handed it to me, I noticed the wrapping paper was a napkin from the lunchroom. Carefully removing the napkin, my gift appeared to be a matchbox.

Although I had only been a teacher for three months, I had learned the important lesson of asking a child to explain a picture or, in this case, a gift, instead of disappointing him with a wrong guess. So I asked Duane to tell me about his gift.

First, Duane instructed that I had to use my imagination before opening my gift. He then began to tell me that this wasn't really a matchbox, but a jewelry box. Inside, if I would use my imagination, I would find two precious gems.

As I opened my jewelry box, I was surprised by the sight as well as the smell of two beer caps. Duane informed me that, instead of beer caps, they were really two precious silver earrings. He had noticed that I never wore earrings and wanted me to have some pretty ones.

My eyes began to tear at the thoughtfulness of this child's precious gift. Since birth, one of my ears was slightly deformed. Fearing that wearing earrings might draw attention to the ear, I never wore them. But how could I not wear these precious earrings given by this special child? As I placed the earrings on my ears with masking tape, my class clapped, and Duane stood proudly beside me.

Every year after that, the matchbox remained on my desk. It reminded me of this child's kindness and the wonderful lessons he taught me. Much like the widow and her two mites, Duane gave all he had, his heart. Although his situation at home was not the best, Duane continued to see the good in life. The beer caps were an ugly reminder of some problems in his neighborhood, but Duane had made them into something beautiful—two precious gems.

Although my ear was deformed, Duane still wanted me to have pretty earrings. Even though the matchbox had held the matches that lit cancer-causing cigarettes, his surprisingly tender heart allowed us all to see it as a treasure box instead of a dangerous weapon. Although Duane did not have much money, he still wanted to give. Whenever I see Duane's gift on my desk, it encourages me. If I am having trouble reaching a student, I try to be like Duane and give that student a piece of my heart. When I am having a trying day, one glance at the matchbox reminds me of the small boy who had a trying day every day but still could find the treasures among the trash.

Out of the good heart of a second-grade boy, one teacher will always have a gift to treasure. Many holiday seasons have come and gone, but the memory of my matchbox gift never fails to warm my heart or be extinguished from my mind.

May we never fail to let even the littlest souls teach us. They are more than willing to teach, but we must be willing to take the time to truly listen.

Stephanie Ray Brown

“Thank you, Charlie. A snowball and you made it yourself! How thoughtful.”

Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2004 Stephanie Piro.

When Good Things Happen to Bad Children

Y
ou can learn many things from children.
How much patience you have, for instance.

Franklin P. Jones

When I remember my favorite Christmas gift as a young girl, I see a porcelain ballerina posed en pointe on an ivory and gold pedestal, with fragile arms softly framing her heart-shaped face. Wearing a short rose and cream tutu, she gazed at me from a store window as Mother and I shopped for Christmas.

At my insistence, we entered the small, musty store to examine her. The salesman informed us that the hand-painted ballerina wore a tutu of authentic cotton lace dipped in porcelain. The hand-sculpted pink flowers inset into her tutu and chestnut hair were exquisite. Such work made the figurine very expensive, but I begged my mother to buy her for Christmas, even if she were my only gift.

Each day, I asked my mother whether she had purchased the ballerina. “Wait until Christmas and find out,” she replied.

Finally, Christmas was just one week away, and my mother went grocery shopping, leavingme and my twelve-year-old brother, Charles, to mind the three younger children. The opportunity was too tempting to miss.

Charles didn't hesitate to use his authority to boss us around while Mother was absent, but, of course, since I was a cocky eleven-year-old, I ignored everything he said.

To his horror, I announced my intention to find the hidden
Christmas gifts and look for my ballerina.

The search began underneath my parents' double bed. Lifting up the chenille bedspread, I saw nothing but dust balls and a snoring cat. Then I peered into their bedroom closet and found only clothing and shoes. Finally, I grabbed a wooden stool and headed for the hall closet.

Behind the cotton blankets on the top shelf were several packages in brown paper bags. My heart began to race as I retrieved the bags one by one to investigate them.

Charles warned me to stop and steadfastly refused to look into any of the bags himself. However, he reluctantly agreed to hold the stool while I reached for one last package on the highest shelf.

Suddenly, the phone rang, and Charles ran to answer it. As the stool tipped, I lost my balance, and the package in my hands hit the tile floor with a bang.

With my heart pounding, I carefully withdrew the white cardboard box inside the bag and opened it. Then I unfolded layers of crisp white tissue paper. Nestled in the bottom of the tissue was my dream gift, the porcelain ballerina I craved so desperately, but now she was a one-armed ballerina. The other one lay beside her.

“I knew that would happen,” declared my brother.

“It's your fault her arm's broken,” I wailed. “You shouldn't have let go of the stool when the phone rang.”

Guilt, remorse, and panic overwhelmed me as I stared at the broken figurine.
What had I done? Could I glue the arm
back on before my mother returned?

This accident was partly her fault, I rationalized. She often peeked at her own Christmas gifts. Obviously, this was a genetic tendency. I had inherited her gift-peeking genes.

Mother returned from the store with a car full of grocery bags to find me weeping hysterically at the back door. I grabbed her skirt and instantly confessed my crime, begging her forgiveness.

“Oh, Judy,” she cried. “When your father comes home, we'll see if he can glue the arm back on, but don't you dare look at any more Christmas gifts.”

Gratefully, I nodded my head as I wiped my dripping nose on my sleeve, relieved that the catastrophe hadn't netted me worse punishment.

Somehow, my father managed to glue the arm back in place with the hairline fracture barely visible, and the Christmas gift disappeared once more from my sight.

The ballerina made her official debut on Christmasmorning, much to my relief and joy. I tenderly removed her from her wrappings and gazed at the delicate beauty that had almost been destroyed by my childish impatience.

She promptly took a position of honor atop a crocheted doily on my scratched-up mahogany dresser. There she remained for many years, a vivid reminder that occasionally, at least, good things happen to bad children.

Judy Lockhart DiGregorio

Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi. © 2007 Mark Parisi.

In-Law Survival Hot Line

This is my Christmas nightmare come true—my husband, David, our two-year-old, our newborn, and I crammed into David's sister's spare bedroom for the Christmas holidays. Our routine is topsy-turvy. No one can sleep. Molly won't nurse. Haley throws potty-training right out the window.

The house is impeccably decorated and far from childproof. Breakable Christmas decorations fairly call to Haley from every nook and cranny. The conversations are about people I don't know and inside jokes I don't get. With no sleep, I feel like I could cry at any minute. To make matters worse, David is magically transported back to his childhood, when his mother and sisters catered to his every whim—forgetting that his wife and kids are even here.

My in-laws' unsolicited advice is flying atme fromevery direction. Haley is contending with a new sibling and a very nervous mother. David's family enthusiastically supports spanking. This feels like parenting on a stage in front of opening-night critics.

As David sits at one end of a sumptuous dinner (none of which Haley recognizes or is willing to taste) with his mother and sisters worrying that he's not sleeping or eating well at home, I am forgotten on the other end, with Molly in my arms and Haley squirming on one knee. Molly starts to cry. I excuse myself to nurse her and, as if on cue, opinions begin ricocheting off the walls.

“That baby can't be hungry. You just fed her.”

“You're going to spoil her if you pick her up so much.”

“How do you even know anything is coming out when
you nurse her?”

I politely thank them and try again to escape.

That's when Haley makes a puddle on my sister-in-law's new carpet. And here we go again.

“She's too young to be potty-trained. Just stick her back in diapers and let her be a baby a while longer.”

“Are you kidding? Mine were all potty-trained by that age.”

I'm about to cry. I apologize about the carpet, grab Haley and the baby, and excuse myself to a back bedroom.

I indulge myself with a good, long cry. I can still hear the forum outside.

“Why don't we just buy her some formula? She might want some later.”

“It's her baby. Let her feed her what she wants to feed her. We could buy some diapers, though.”

That's when the answer hit me: The Holiday In-Law Survival Hot Line. This is how it works. When you just can't take it any more—when you've smiled, bitten your tongue, and feel as if you might explode—you slip away to a telephone and dial. An automated voice details the options: “If your mother-in-law has just offered to teach you to cook your husband's favorite meals, press 1. If she claims to have potty-trained all her kids by age one, press 2. If your perfect sister-in-law and her perfect husband have just arrived with their two perfect children, press 3.

If your mother-in-law has come over for a holiday dinner and just pulled out your washer and dryer to clean behind them, push 4.”

The hot-line volunteers will be seasoned veterans of the in-law infantry—women who've been through it and lived to tell about it. They'll listen sympathetically and offer a gentle, “Hon, just kill them with kindness and pray they leave soon.”

“Hey, if the woman wants to clean behind your dryer, point her to your refrigerator, too.”

“Sugar, you don't really want to strangle your husband, do you?”