THE ANGEL

I set the letter b ack in the box and pulled my knee s i nto my chest, burying my head int o m y thighs. My mind reeled as if in a d ream, where pieces of the day's puzzle are unraveled and rewoven into a n ew mosaic, defying the improbabilit y o f the cut edges fitting. Yet they did fit.

The meaning of Mary's question was n ow clear to me. The first gift of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas.

My body and mind tingled with the revelations of the day. Downstairs I hear d t he rustling of Keri's return. I walke d d own and helped her in.

"I came back to get Jenna some d inner," she said, falling into my arms.

"I am so exhausted," she cried. "And s o sad."

I held her tightly. "How is she?"

"Not very good."

"Why don't you lie down, I'll put on s ome soup and get Jenna ready fo r b ed."

Keri stretched out on the sofa while I dressed Jenna, fed her, then carrie d h er downstairs to the den.

It was dark outside, and in absence o f a fire, the room was bathed by th e p eaceful illumination of the Christma s t ree lights. Strands flashed on and of f i n syncopation, casting shadows of different shapes and hues. I held Jenn a i n silence.

"Dad, is Mary coming home for Christmas?" she asked.

I ran a hand through my hair. "No, I don't think so. Mary is very sick."

"Is she going to die?"

I wondered what that meant to my l ittle girl.

"Yes, honey. I think she will die."

"If she is going to die, I want to giv e h er my present first."

She ran over to the tree and lifted a s mall, inexpertly wrapped package. "I made her an angel." With excitemen t s he unveiled a petite cardboard ange l c onstructed with tape, glue, and pape r c lips.

"Dad, I think Mary likes angels."

I started to sob quietly. "Yeah, I thin k s he likes angels, too."

In the silence of the lights we faced t he death of a friend.

In the outer hall I could hear the r inging of the telephone. Ker i a nswered it, then found us downstairs.

"Rick, that was the hospital. Mary is d ying."

I wrapped Jenna up warmly and s et her in the car with Keri. We drov e s eparately, so that one of us coul d b ring Jenna home when the tim e c ame. We arrived at the hospital an d t ogether opened the door to Mary's r oom. The room was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. We coul d h ear Mary's shallow breathing. Mar y w as awake and looked toward us.

Jenna rushed to the side of the r eclining bed and, inserting her tin y h and through the side rails, presse d t he little angel into Mary's hand.

"I brought you something, Mary. It's y our Christmas present."

Mary slowly raised the ornament to h er view, smiled, then squeezed th e l ittle hand tightly.

"Thank you, darling." She coughed h eavily. "It's beautiful." Then sh e s miled into the little face. "You're s o b eautiful." She rubbed her han d a cross Jenna's cheek.

Painfully, she turned to her side a nd extended her hand to me.

I walked to her side and took it gently in mine.

"How do you feel, Mary?"

She forced a smile through the p ain. "Do you know yet, Rick? Do yo u k now what the first Christmas gif t w as?"

I squeezed her hand tightly.

"You do understand, don't you?"

"Yes. I understand now. I know w hat you were trying to tell me."

Tears started to fall down my c heeks. I took a deep breath to clea r m y throat.

"Thank you, Mary. Thank you for w hat you've given me."

"You found the letters in the Christmas Box?"

"Yes. I'm sorry that I read them."

"No, it's all right. I'm glad the letter s w ere read. They were meant to b e r ead." She fell silent for a moment.

"I'd like you to have the Christmas Box. It's my Christmas gift to you."

"Thank you. I will always treasure it."

The room was quiet.

"Andrea waits," she said suddenly.

I smiled. "She has been very close,"

I said.

She smiled at me again, then lifted h er eyes to Keri.

"Thank you for your friendship, dear. It has meant a lot to me."

"Merry Christmas, Mary," Keri said.

"God bless you, child," she said b ack lovingly. "Take good care of you r l ittle family." She looked at Ker i t houghtfully. "You'll do fine."

Mary closed her eyes and lay back i nto her pillow. Keri's eyes watered a s s he lifted Jenna and carried her out o f t he room. I stayed behind, caressin g t he smooth, warm hands for the las t t ime.

"Merry Christmas, Mary," I whispered. "We'll miss you."

Mary's eyes opened again. She l eaned forward toward the foot of th e b ed. A smile spread across her fac e a s a single tear rolled down he r c heek. She said something too soft t o h ear. I leaned my ear near to he r m outh. "My angel," she repeated. I followed her gaze to the foot of the be d b ut saw only the green cotton hospita l g own draped over the end rail. I looked back at her in sadness. She w as leaving us, I thought. It was the n t hat I heard the music. The gentle , sweet tines of the Christmas Box.

Softly at first, then as if to fill the entir e r oom, strong and bright and joyful. I looked again at the weary face. It wa s f illed with peace. Her deep eye s s parkled and the smile grew. Then I understood and I too smiled. Andre a h ad come.

By the time I reached home it was w ell past midnight. Mary's brothe r h ad arrived from London and in deference I had left them alone to shar e t he last few minutes together. Jenn a h ad been put to bed and Keri, no t k nowing when I would return, ha d s adly laid the Christmas package s u nder the tree. I sat down in th e r ocker in front of the illuminated Christmas tree and lay my head in m y h ands. Somewhere between th e a ngel and Mary's house I had figure d i t out. The first gift of Christmas. It jus t c ame. It came to my heart. The firs t g ift of Christmas was love. A parent's l ove. Pure as the first snows of Christmas. For God so loved His childre n t hat He sent His son, that we migh t s omeday return to Him. I understoo d w hat Mary had been trying to teac h m e. I stood up and walked up th e s tairs where my little girl lay sleeping.

I picked up her warm little body and, cradling her tightly in my arms , brought her back down to the den. My t ears fell on her hair. My little girl. My p recious little girl. How foolish I'd b een to let her childhood, her fleeting , precious childhood slip away. Forever. In my young mind everythin g w as so permanent and lasting. My little girl would be my little girl forever.

But time would prove me wrong.

Someday she'd grow up. Someday s he'd be gone and I would be left wit h t he memory of giggles and secrets I might have known.

Jenna took a deep breath and s nuggled close for warmth. I held he r l ittle body tightly against mine. Thi s w as what it meant to be a father, t o k now that one day I would tur n a round and my little girl would b e g one. To look upon the sleeping littl e g irl and to die a little inside. For on e p recious, fleeting moment, to hold th e c hild in my arms, and would that tim e s tood still.

But none of that mattered now. Not n ow. Not tonight. Tonight Jenna wa s m ine and no one could take this Christmas Eve away from me but me.

How wise Mary had been. Mary, who k new the pain of a father sending hi s s on away on that first Christma s m orn, knowing full well the path tha t l ay ahead. Mary understood Christmas. The tears in the Bible showe d t hat. Mary loved with the pure, swee t l ove of a mother, a love so deep that i t b ecomes the allegory for all othe r l ove. She knew that in my quest fo r s uccess in this world I had been trading diamonds for stones. She knew , and she loved me enough to help m e s ee. Mary had given me the greates t g ift of Christmas. My daughter's childhood.

EPILOGUE:

It was around nine o 'clock Christmas morning that Mary's b rother called to tell us Mary wa s g one. The call found Keri and me holding each other on the couch in Mary's d en, surrounded by the aftermath of Christmas giving. I lifted the Christmas Box down from the fireplace mante l w here we had placed it in memory of Mary. I set the box near the hearth , then one by one, let the flames devou r t he letters as Keri watched in silen t u nderstanding. The Christmas Bo x w as at last empty.

Mary was buried next to the small a ngel statue that she had so faithfull y v isited. In the course of our assistin g i n the burial arrangements, the funera l h ome had asked Keri what the y s hould engrave on the headstone. "A loving mother," she said simply.

Every Christmas Eve, for as long a s we lived in the valley, we returne d t o the grave and laid a white lil y b eneath the feet of the angel wit h o utspread wings. Keri and I lived i n t he mansion for the space of severa l m ore Christmas seasons until th e f amily decided to sell the estate, an d w e purchased a home in the southern end of the valley. In the year s s ince, our family grew from three t o s ix, and though the demands of providing for such a family oftentime s s eemed endless, I never forgot th e l essons I learned that Christmas with Mary.

And to this day, the Christmas Box r emains a source of great joy to me.

For though it appears empty, to me it c ontains all that Christmas is mad e o f, the root of all wonder in a child's e yes, and the source of the magic of Christmases for centuries to come.

More than giving, more than believing, for these are mere manifestations of the contents of that box. Th e s acred contents of that box are a parent's pure love for a child, manifeste d f irst by a Father's love for all His children, as He sacrificed that which He l oved most and sent His son to eart h o n that Christmas day so long ago.

And as long as the earth lives, and l onger, that message will never die.

Though the cold winds of life may put a frost on the heart of many, tha t m essage alone will shelter the hear t f rom life's storms. And for me, as lon g a s I live, the magic inside the Christmas Box will never die.

It never will.