Her name is *Eva.
Her frame is slight, her hair generally tangled chaos (I have literally pulled
debris from it on more than one occasion), and her untied laces drag behind
her, like the wake of a rowboat.
Her world
outside of the classroom matches her hair. It is full of upheaval, chaos,
uncertainty, and crushing disappointment. The burden of her day-to-day
realities are a boulder she staggers under daily.
I met Eva in my
role as a Title reading interventionist. She and I meet daily to work on
reading strategies to strengthen her fledgling skills. More days than not, her
mind and heart are busy trying to process the life waiting for her at the end
of the day. She cares little for my supports and strategies. It is not unusual
for her to lay her head on my work table and sob great tears of frustration. Frustration
because she cannot decode the words in my book. Frustration that I want her to.
Frustration that life is hard. I would love for her to read at a level of
proficiency, but more than that, I would love for her to love life.
I had small Christmas
gifts ready for each of my intervention students, this day. Small baubles and
inexpensive items I purchased at the school book fair a few weeks ago. Small
gifts mean a lot to these students. They have so little.
I allowed Eva to
pick her items from an array and she carefully considered which to claim as her
own. She finally chose her items and her face broke into a heartwarming grin.
We exited my office and headed down the hall toward her classroom.
Impulsively (and
uncharacteristically), she grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I tried not
to register my surprise and allowed her to steer me toward her backpack in the
hallway, where I had indicated she should deposit her gift before reentering
her classroom.
She dropped her
items into her dirty pink backpack and fished around in the bottom for a few
moments. Finally, she brought her hand up close to my face, holding a grimy
coin with both hands, as if she were afraid she would drop it. “I have a
quarter,” she announced quietly. A pause. “You can have it.”
I realized what
she was doing. I had given her a gift. She wanted to reciprocate. She had one
item on her person she felt would suffice. A coin dulled by layers of dirt. I
had a swift mental argument about whether I should accept it.
“Oh,
sweetheart,” I said, pulling her close, as my heart began dripping like hot
wax. “That is so sweet, and I am so grateful, but why don’t you keep it? You might
need it for something. But, THANK YOU! That means so much to me.”
She nodded,
relieved. She carefully placed the precious coin back into her backpack, then
stood, unsure what to do next. Suddenly, I felt thin arms wrap around my waist,
and found myself looking down at the top of that chaotic hair. I wrapped my
arms around her and whispered in her ear, “Merry Christmas, Eva.”
Without uttering
a word, her arms dropped. The moment had passed. She did not look at me again. She
grabbed the door to her classroom and entered, without looking back. The heavy
door shut behind her and I stood, transfixed by what had just transpired. It
felt a little miraculous, somehow.
This is essence
of Christmas, is it not?
A gift offered
to mankind. God gave the most priceless gift he had on that first Christmas,
two thousand years ago. He gave his only son, Jesus. Heaven came to earth in
the form of a baby.
I will forever
have a mental picture of that little face, with the quarter held up in front
it. Eyes searching mine. An offering of all she had, held out to me with love
and affection. It makes my eyes leak a little to think of it.
I see God the same
way. Standing there, holding out a gift of salvation and eternal life, through
the gift of his Son, Jesus. Looking at me with absolute love. A love I have not
earned. I do not deserve. Incomprehensible Love.
God, please bless
my little friend, Eva. Grant her a Christmas of peace and HOPE. Let her feel
your love the way I felt hers today.
Merry Christmas,
Eva…
*Not her
real name
