The Perfect Gift

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

BY: Sandra Wood

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
~Jean Anouilh

Two weeks before Christmas, I left my suburban neighborhood with a small group of friends, and followed an urban minister through the streets of Los Angeles. "Silver bells, silver bells. It's Christmas time in the city...." I sang to myself as we walked busy sidewalks. Contrary to the lyrics of the classic carol by Livingston and Evans, I did not see "children laughing and people passing, meeting smile after smile."

Instead, I saw hundreds of homeless people, shattered by addiction and abuse, crowding the streets of a wealthy city. They carried plastic bags containing their meager possessions, while blocks away, busy shoppers rushed home with treasures from designer boutiques.

The contrast was sobering and did nothing to improve my holiday funk. I longed for God to provide a divine interruption and remind me of the real reason for celebration.

On the second day of our reality tour, the guide invited us to observe a mobile street ministry called Metro Kidz. We followed their lunch wagon, painted with holy graffiti, as it circled poor neighborhoods. Bright music blared from the speakers and drew hundreds of local children to a quiet cul-de-sac. Ranging in age from toddlers to teens, they raced to hug the pastor as if he were the Pied Piper. He opened his arms and braced himself for a wave of energy. Within minutes, volunteers spread plastic tarps on the asphalt and a human huddle formed on the ground.

"Who wants to play some games?" the young pastor yelled to the attentive crowd.

"I do, I do," said one young boy who popped to his feet with confidence.

"Let me, let me," a chorus of voices responded.

Their joy was contagious and I started to smile on the inside.

"Okay," the pastor said. "We'll play some games and pass out some prizes. Then I want to tell the Christmas story. How many have ever heard the story of baby Jesus?"

Almost every brown arm shot into the air.

I was seated cross-legged between wiggling, giggling children when a small boy crawled into my lap and fell asleep. His candy cane smeared sticky sweetness all over my jeans. A warm weight pressed against my side and I turned to find a pretty young lady with dark curly hair. Her braids were clipped with a rainbow of many colors and framed her large brown eyes.

"Hello, my name is Sandy. What's your name?" I asked.

"Erika," she whispered shyly and glanced down.

"How old are you?" I asked, and put my arm around her shoulder.

"Five," she told me with a smile.

"Do you want to play one of the relay games?" I queried.

She grabbed my arm, shook her head vigorously and said, "No please."

"That's okay, we can just sit here and watch together," I said and felt her relax.

Experienced volunteers helped the children have silly fun. Prizes of food, toys, candy and books were given to the competitors for as many categories as the leaders could concoct. Winners snatched the rewards and raised them overhead like victory trophies.

"Look what I got!" they yelled to their peers.

Finally, it was time to hear the Christmas story and to learn a new memory verse.

"Listen up," the pastor said to hundreds of squirming kids. "We have a few more rewards to give away. Adults will watch the group and pick out eight boys and girls to receive a quiet prize for the best listening skills during the story."

A sudden hush came over the crowd, but lasted only a few seconds. The harder the kids tried to be quiet, the more they wanted to laugh. A giggle started inside of me and I had to swallow a snort before it escaped.

Seated among poor children in the streets of Los Angeles, I felt joy! I felt celebration. I listened to the story of two parents who were forced to seek shelter in a stable, because there was no room for them at the inn. I felt the sleeping boy in my lap and could picture a child, wrapped in swaddling clothes, embraced at the breast of his mother.

Erika listened carefully to the brief version of Christmas Eve and never moved an inch. She watched, and waited patiently for the memory verse competition.

"Today's memory verse is from James 1:17. I'll read the words and you repeat after me," the pastor instructed. "Every good and perfect gift comes from God the Father," he said in English and then repeated the verse in Spanish.

"Every good and perfect gift comes from God the Father," they repeated.

Moments later, an adult volunteer tapped Erika on the shoulder.

"Thank you for listening so well, for so long. You have earned one of our quiet prizes," she said and handed the little girl a gift wrapped in red and green tissue paper.

"Thank you," Erika responded and hugged the gift without another word.

I watched her face grow a big smile. Other children tore the paper off their prizes to see what treasure they had earned, but not Erika. Instead, she looked down at the child still asleep in my lap, pressed her lips close to my ear, and whispered words that took my breath away.

"Now I have something to give my brother for Christmas," she said. Without examining the contents, or knowing if there would be something else for her, Erika gave her gift away.

Tears welled in my eyes when I recognized that my own prayer for a divine interruption had just been answered. Erika's Christ-like generosity, and unselfish love for her brother, showed me the true spirit of Christmas. At five years old, Erika understood that love is the perfect gift, and that the best gift of all is the chance to give love away.

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