Silent Night…Holy Night  

      It was an evening of uneventful slowness at the library service desk that week before Christmas. It was a silent night, quiet, if not a holy one, as the old hymnals read, and most of the regular library patrons were, no doubt, at the malls shopping, or home with their good books, tea or cocoa beside their fireplaces. It was teeth chattering cold out. I had scraped the ice off the windshield of my car that morning, and people had spoken of the winter’s chill throughout the day as they came into the warm building.  Breaking the quiet of the evening, an exuberant seven year old boy with, what appeared to be his grandma in tow, came bustling through the sliding glass doors from the dark of night. The little boy had on a short sleeved tee shirt, faded, with many holes in it. The shirt resembled a car washing rag at best. My mind flashed with thoughts of the lost and found drawer where I might find him something long forgotten to protect his frail thin arms from the cold. I lamented the fact that the drawer had recently been cleared, and its contents contained nothing I could pass on in good conscience.  

     As I greeted the child and the older woman with him, the thoughts inside my head seemed louder than the words I was speaking and contrasted by comparison like the book on civil rights and the children’s fairytale volume on the book returns cart beside me. There was no thought of logic in comparing them. The little boy was very bright and chatty. Although his hair was long and shaggy, it was clean.    His eyes sparkled like his exuberance. He wanted a new library card. The older woman reminded him that he already had a card. “Yes,” he agreed, but went on to say that his mom had taken it and he had not been able to use it. He had only gotten it recently.  The older woman then conveyed to me that she had come in to pick up an item we were holding for her, and didn't seem very concerned about the boy’s urgent stance on getting a card. I looked at the woman, then the boy, and stated I’d like to check up on the boy’s card just to let him know what was happening with it. She accepted this suggestion graciously.    I, then, looked into the computer to check the status of his card. I saw the boy lived in a low income area of his community, and that the he had fines on his card and one book lost. I shared with the elderly woman that a book was long overdue. Hearing this, the older woman reminded the boy that this wasn't his fault. His mom had forgotten to return the item. 

     "Please can't I have another card," he begged, and of course, that was not possible, given the missing item, so the older woman dismissed the idea. I did ask her to please see about retrieving the item on his behalf for the sake of his card. For the child’s sake, she agreed to do so.    I spoke with the little boy in a manner that conveyed his specialness. I commented to the woman what a smart boy he was and good looking too. When I asked the child his name I told him it was “cool” that his initials spelled a word. He told me he was seven years old, and added his date of birth to this information. “Two days after mine. Neat!” I had responded.    He mentioned he had seen a play with his school that morning at a local theater. Then he reached really deep into the pocket of his baggy two sizes too big pants and pulled out a wrapped candy cane. 

     "Here," he said. "This is for you". His smile was broad, and his hand extended the prize with boldness. I was taken aback. It was one of those tiny candy canes wrapped in plastic that department store Santa Clauses hand out. I concluded that, perhaps, it had been given to him at the play that morning. It was broken from riding around in his pocket all day, but well sealed from the warmth of the journey. I wondered why he had not eaten it. “Most children do not hold onto their candy like this,” I thought as I thanked him with a genuine smile of appreciation. He had been a sweet surprise in himself to a slow dreary evening.    After the older woman had received her item from the holding shelf and the pair turned to leave, the little boy looked up and said, "I'll miss you." The woman smiled at the boy and almost looked apologetic my way. As the two of them walked toward the door, the child stated he needed a drink, and ran quickly to the fountain, took a considerable one, then ran toward the sliding doors to the waiting woman and looked back once more toward me and yelled out, piercing the quiet of the library once more, "Bye! I'll miss you. Love you.” I wondered if, perhaps, this child had said many good byes in his life. That slow and somewhat silent pre Christmas night somehow became a holy night in it’s own way because of a selfless gift of love bestowed upon me by a humble child named Joseph, who had the true spirit of Christmas within his heart. It was a precious moment. One of life’s sweeter gifts in reflection.    From that day forth, no candy cane ever looked quite the same.

Jennifer Grant