I know the Christmas season is swiftly approaching, but this got stuck in my head and I’m sharing it with you. Hope it makes sense. The Gift That Holds the Love On
As we move into the season of celebration, I want to share with you two things.
First, a child.
And then, a gift.
At least, that is how I used to tell the story.
But the older I get, the more I realize they were never really two separate things.
The child taught me what the gift meant.
And the gift taught me something about Christmas I have never forgotten.
Many years ago, I had the privilege of leading a puppet ministry at a church here in Miami.
Every Sunday, we put on something that looked a little like a Christian version of Sesame Street. There were puppets, songs, Scripture, laughter, and a room filled with children who came in on the church buses.
On any given Sunday, there might be three hundred and fifty or four hundred children packed into that chapel.
That is a lot of little faces.
But every now and then, one of them finds a place in your heart and never really leaves.
For me, that child was Erin.
Erin was five and a half years old.
She had bright blonde hair, almost always pulled back into a ponytail that seemed to bounce wherever she went.
And Erin rarely walked anywhere.
She hurried.
She skipped.
She bounced from one thing to another with the kind of excitement only a five-year-old can sustain.
Everything interested her.
Everything deserved a question.
Why did the puppet say that?
Where did the music come from?
Did angels really watch us?
Could Jesus hear her if she whispered?
She had a way of looking at the world as though something wonderful might happen at any moment.
And I cannot remember ever seeing her without a Band-Aid somewhere.
A scraped knee.
An elbow.
An arm.
Something was always healing.
Which made sense.
Erin moved through life a little faster than her balance could keep up with.
But she never seemed bothered by it.
A Band-Aid was simply part of the adventure.
There was something else about Erin that made her unforgettable.
Every Sunday, when she walked into the chapel, she would suddenly stop.
All that energy would become still for just a moment.
She would look upward, smile, lift her hand, and wave.
“Hello, angels.”
Then, just as quickly, she was off again to find her seat.
And when church was over, she would do the same thing on the way out.
She would stop at the doorway, look up, wave, and say,
“Goodbye, angels.”
Then off she would go, ponytail bouncing behind her.
I never quite knew what she saw.
But she seemed completely certain that someone was there.
And somehow, when Erin waved at the angels, the room felt a little more holy.
I did not know it then, but one of those little Band-Aids would one day teach me more about Christmas than a shelf full of theology books ever could.
A true gift is really a simple thing.
It says:
I know you.
I thought of you.
I chose this for you.
A gift is freely given. Once it changes hands, it belongs to the one who receives it.
And a real gift always costs the giver something.
That is what makes a gift personal.
Someone has paid attention.
They know what you need.
They know what makes you smile.
Sometimes they even know what your heart wants before you know how to say it yourself.
And that is what makes Christmas so astonishing.
The first Christmas gift came from a Father who knew us completely.
The gift was Jesus.
The Incarnation is the mystery of God entering our world in human flesh.
The One who made the stars was carried beneath them.
The hands that formed mankind became the hands of a child.
The One who sustains all creation knew hunger, weariness, pain, and rejection.
He did not stop being God.
He humbled Himself.
He came close enough to enter our weakness.
Close enough to carry our sorrow.
Close enough, in time, to bear the cross.
That is what love does.
It comes near.
It gives itself.
It costs something.
And now we come back to Erin.
One Christmas, we wrote a puppet skit about a character named Walter the Christmas Candle.
Walter was the one candle on Jesus’ birthday cake.
His greatest desire was to shine as brightly as possible for Jesus because Jesus had healed his broken heart.
The puppet even wore a Band-Aid over his heart.
At the end of the program, I noticed Erin walking toward the door.
But Erin was not simply walking.
She had one hand stretched above her head, holding her blonde ponytail straight up like a candle wick.
She had that determined little look children get when they have decided something important and see no reason to discuss it further.
I watched her for a moment.
Then I asked,
“Erin, what are you doing?”
She looked at me as though I had missed the entire point of the program.
“I’m going to find somebody to light my wick.”
Her ponytail was the wick.
She wanted somebody to set her hair on fire so she could shine for Jesus.
That got my attention.
So I sat down with her quickly.
“Erin, does Jesus live in your heart?”
She nodded eagerly.
I said, “Then you don’t have to set your hair on fire.”
She blinked.
Thought about it.
Then looked visibly relieved.
I told her,
“The light is already in you. Jesus shines through the way you love people. Through your eyes. Through your words. Through the good things you do.”
She listened very carefully.
Then her face lit up.
“Whew. I like that a lot better.”
So did I.
Then she did something I have carried in my heart ever since.
She looked down at one of the Band-Aids on her arm.
She studied it for a second, as though another idea had just arrived.
Then she peeled it off.
Held it out to me.
And said,
“Here. You can use this to heal somebody else’s boo-boo.”
I took it from her.
Then she leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice as though she were letting me in on a secret.
“My mommy says it holds the kiss on.”
That stopped me.
Her mother had kissed her wound.
Then covered it with a Band-Aid.
And in the heart of this excited, curious, wonderfully literal little girl, that Band-Aid had become more than something covering a scrape.
It was holding love in place.
It was keeping the kiss close to the wound.
And now Erin wanted to give that love to someone else.
She had received something good, and immediately wanted to pass it on.
She stood up.
Her ponytail dropped back into place.
Then she headed toward the door.
But before leaving, she stopped.
Looked up.
Smiled.
Waved.
“Goodbye, angels.”
And then she was gone.
I have thought about her many times through the years.
Erin understood something profound.
She had been loved.
And because she had been loved, she wanted somebody else to feel it too.
That is the heart of Christmas.
God loved us first.
He came near.
He gave Himself.
And now He calls us to carry that same love into the lives of others.
Maybe that is the real gift we are meant to give.
Not something expensive.
Not something impressive.
Maybe it is mercy.
Kindness.
Forgiveness.
A meal.
A phone call.
A hand held in a hospital room.
A chair pulled close to someone who is grieving.
Something that quietly says,
I see you.
You are not alone.
You are loved.
And maybe, after all these years, Erin was right.
Maybe the wrappings were never the important part.
Maybe they are only there—
to hold the love on.
Selah.
