By Ray Lenarcic
For Rebecca Cartright, Christmas was the most exciting time of the year. She loved everything about it, beginning with the family Christmas tree, which was twelve feet tall, covered with ornaments, and illuminated with lighted candles. She loved the wreaths which could be seen in each of the mansion’s windows and the garland wrapped around the banisters. She loved joining with her brothers and sister to write letters to Father Christmas asking for enough gifts to fill an entire toy store, knowing that, like years past, their every wish would be granted. She loved the colors of Christmas, red and green, the music sung by the wandering carolers, and the foods-especially the frosting-covered cookies. She loved the family gathering near the fireplace on Christmas Eve to hear her father read Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. And finally, she loved walking under a star-lit sky to the nearby church for the special Yuletide service.
For Elizabeth Spencer, Christmas was nothing but heartbreaking. Living in a three-room flat in the poorest section of town with her parents and seven brothers and sisters, she could only dream of Rebecca’s Christmas realities. The lighted trees she saw were in other people’s houses, and the one thing she wanted year after year was the doll she spent hours gazing at in the window of Grant’s Toy Store. Whenever she walked the streets downtown, she also stopped in front of Springer’s Bakery, imagining what a frosted cookie tasted like. And at Wilson’s Clothing Shop, she could only wonder what it felt like to have a warm winter coat.
One of the holiday traditions in 18th century England was a manifestation of Christian charity-“Goodwill Night.” Every December 22nd, at village squares throughout the country, the well-to-do children gathered to provide those less well-off with a gift. It was a strange and sobering sight; the wealthy kids dressed in their finest mingling with urchins garbed in rags; the former feeling good about themselves for their philanthropy and the latter feeling grateful that they did.
That “Goodwill Night,” Rebecca Cartright went to the square with a small doll to give away. As she made her way through the crowd, she noticed a girl her age standing alone, shivering in the cold of the evening. She walked over and handed her the doll. Elizabeth Spencer held the one thing in the world she wanted close to her chest and, with tears forming in her eyes, quietly said-“thank you.”
Later, at the Christmas Eve service, the pastor’s sermon dealt with the subject of giving; giving in the spiritual, not material sense. He was careful to opine that the giving of presents, especially to children, at Christmas time was not a bad, albeit superficial, thing. But the truly enduring gift we can give each other is the gift of love; the one gift which keeps on giving; the gift given with the expectation of nothing in return.
As he was finishing the service, he heard whispering among the congregants. Looking up, he noticed a little bundle of rags with curly hair and rosy cheeks making her way down the aisle. She walked up to the crèche in front of the altar, took the small doll she was clutching and placed it at the foot of the manger. Looking up at the pastor, she whispered-“This is for baby Jesus.” She turned and walked away into the night.