The Christmas Card

Marian bent to enter the one-room hut where she would eat Christmas dinner. She had not wanted to come, but Joseph, her teenage assistant at the dispensary, was bursting with excitement when he asked her. "Mama will fix a FAT chicken, and we want you to come!"

Marian knew that no matter how fat the chicken, it wouldn't go far among 9 mouths, and hers would make 10. But she could not disappoint them, and so she said she would come on one condition. "It's an American tradition," she said. "I will come only if I can bring yams." And so it was decided.

She had wanted to stay in her own home and imagine their Christmas back at home in Iowa. Christmas without her. She didn't want to admit that she was homesick, and she was resenting this place. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and she wanted to talk to someone who spoke English! And she wanted cold, the kind of cold that felt as if needles were piercing your legs. And she wanted turkey and dressing and pecan pie and divinity candy and a Christmas tree and poinsettias, and well, she wanted the whole American Christmas.

Now in the hut her eyes began to adjust to the dimness in the room--no electricity in the Belgian Congo in 1955. She saw the Christmas cards proudly displayed around the room. Mama's was in the place of honor as a centerpiece for the table. Others were adorning the walls. Little Nicia clutched hers in her two hands.

"Merry Christmas, Nicia," Marian said as she sank to the floor and sat by the child. She looked at the card. It was a recycled American greeting card depicting the nativity. The ladies of the church back home had cut off the face of the most beautiful cards they had saved from Christmas 1954 and had carefully glued red, green, or gold paper to the back of each. Marian had written personal messages on each one though most of the people could not read.

"Tell me again about the baby Jesus," Nicia asked.

"Why don't you tell me?" Marian answered.

The child hesitated and began in Swahili, "He left his beautiful home in heaven and came to live with us. He was born in a barn, and they wrapped him up tight, and they laid him in feedbox." She looked intently at the card. Then she looked at Marian for a long time before she continued, "Was it like you leaving Iowa and coming here to live with us?"

Marian felt the tears coming, and she could not stop them. She was strong; she could run the dispensary by herself, and she could even fix the generator when it broke down, but she could not stop the tears. She was humbled and ashamed. Ashamed of her own selfishness. Ashamed of how little she really knew of God's love. At that moment she came to realize just how much God loved these humble believers, so simple and unspoiled.

When she could finally talk, she put her arm around the little girl and said, "No, Nicia, I'm afraid I'm not very much like Jesus. But I will tell you this. There's nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here with you."

And it was true.