story CS4S

The Christmast I Loaned My Son

Let us not be satisfied with just giving money. Money is not enough, money can be got, but they need your hearts to love them. So, spread your love everywhere you go; first of all in your own home. Give them to your children, to your wife or husband, to a next-door neighbor.

Mother Theresa

                 Is there any place where we can borrow a little boy three or four years old for the Christmast holidays? we have a nice home and would take wonderful care of him and bring him back safe and sound. We used to have a little boy, but he couldn't stay, and we miss him so when Christmast comes. -N. Muller

                As I read the above appeal in our local newspaper, something happend to me. For the first time since my husband's death, I thought of grief as belonging to someone else. I read and reread the letter to the editor.

               Some month before, I had received word from Washington that my husband had been killed in the service overseas. Grief-Stricken, I had taken my little son and had moved back to the tiny village of my birth.

              I'd gone to work to help support my son and time had helped to erase a few scars in my heart. But there were special times when the ache would return and loneliness would engulf me- birthdays, our wedding anniversary and holidays.

             This particular Christmast, the old pain was returning when my eyes caught the appeal in the newspaper column.

             we used to have a little boy, but he couldn't stay and we miss him so..

     I, too, knew what missing was, but I had my little boy. I knew how empty the sparkle of Christmast is unless you see it in the joyous eyes of a child.

            I answered the appeal. The writer of the letter was a widower who lived with his mother. He had lost his beloved wife and his little son the same year.

            That christmast, my son and I shared a joyous day with the widower and his mother. Together, we found a happines that we doubted would ever return.

            But the best part is that this joy was mine to keep throughout the years and for each of the christmases since. You see, the man who wrote the letter, months later, became my husband.

Mrs. N.H.Muller,

Chicken Soup for the soul.