“Hello,” said the woman who answered the phone. Her voice, raspy and gruff, was as chilly as the rainy Seattle evening. Understandable, really. After all, who wants to answer the telephone at 4:56pm on Friday afternoon in dark December? But at least she did answer, however reluctantly. And what the Parks and Recreation staff person did next, after I explained the situation, was exactly the right thing.
In the end, a little boy’s Christmas wish was saved, his dad’s heart a little less broken.
It all started with a promise to walk Frodo (my dog, not the hobbit). At 3:50 p.m., with the looming darkness approaching, that Frodo and I headed to Magnuson, our favorite close-by park. Bundled up against the cool wind, I breathed in the fresh air, thankful we’d come.
This day, with the golden light of evening backlighting darkened clouds in the distance, I walked, remembering my mom, whom I love greatly and miss mightily. Mom died in our home on December 21st several years ago, breathing her last breaths bathed in love, surrounded by family, listening to Panis Angelicus.
Distracted by grief, eyes gleaming with unshed tears, I almost missed them. Over by the water, with the sun’s last hints shining just beyond them, was a father holding his son up to an evergreen tree. Something in the scene struck me.
I stopped and noticed.
The Dad had a name tag, like those given to parents at nearby Children’s Hospital. And the little boy, about five, was bundled against the cold. As he turned to look up at his Dad, I could see a tell-tale yellow mask, the ones little children with leukemia wear when they are being treated with chemotherapy.
The Dad lifted his little one once more so he could reach the top of the fir tree. In that motion, I recognized a scene played out over the years in our own home with our four children: The tree was being festooned for Christmas. Red and silver ribbons draped its branches, covering deep green boughs. Tiny red ornaments hung gracefully, the fading light catching them, reflecting.
The mom and the hospice nurse in me knew what I was witnessing. The little one, sick and perhaps far from home, wanted a real tree to decorate this Christmas, one which looked and smelled like a real Christmas tree, rather than the sterile, artificial trees found in the oncology unit of the nearby hospital.
The scene was poignant and beautiful, exceedingly sad, and very private. I couldn’t intrude, other than to wave and to call, “Good job: it looks great!” as if all was well and this was normal. And to continue on my way, tears no longer unshed. When Frodo and I returned via the same path, some fifteen minutes later, the dusk had deepened and the tree was alone again, though beautiful and well-loved.
Some years ago, I, too, was far away for Christmas, with a young son who needed medical treatment for many months. I will never forget the kind people who helped us then, from the hotel manager who brought us a feast, complete with home-baked turkey, to those who looked the other way, allowing us, in violation of hotel policy, to decorate and light our tiny Charlie Brown tree in our otherwise sterile hotel room. The image of my son decorating that tree then and this little boy reaching up to decorate his park tree now, touched me, as did each boys determined focus on living the essence of Christmas, even in the midst of suffering.
As I drove home, I wondered what would happen to the tree, whether it would be there for the boy and for his Dad next time they needed to it. I worried, imagining how quickly the tree decorations could be cleaned up by an efficient grounds crew, themselves having no idea of the meaning and importance of this one tree to this one very sick little boy.
I called as soon as I got home. And she answered, understandably irritated. Until I told her about the little boy and his tree. Then, in that raspy voice now blended with kindness, she said, “I know just what to do. I’ll email those grounds keepers now and tell them to leave that tree alone. So it’ll be there for them. When they come back.”
It was a small thing, the saving of the tree. As was the turkey given by strangers to a little boy far away for Christmas, or the dinners friends and family dropped by for me when I was caring for my dying mother. A stable offered as shelter to a pregnant woman and her husband as they journeyed long ago might have seemed insignificant at the time, and humble gifts presented by shepherds might have seemed meager to anyone who missed their true meaning.
But in the fabric of connections between peoples, in the small ways of great love, these gifts loom large, lighting the way for peace, lifting our hearts towards joy.
Copyright © 2019 Eileen Geller - All Rights Reserved. The information on this website should not be relied upon for diagnosis or treatment or as a substitute for professional medical, mental health, counseling advice. Always seek the advice of your doctor or other qualified health provider or mental health professional. Thank you.
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