A visit from the Magi

The Christmas that Claire was one, she came down with some sort of virus. So did lots of other children, so many in fact, that you had to have the advice nurse's permission to even go in and be seen by the pediatrician. As her temperature rose higher and her cough grew worse, I made nine visits in fourteen days, many on weekends or after hours. At $70 a visit, my funds were quickly depleted. Christmas loomed, bills threatened, and I was so scared I could hardly catch my breath. No one said a word, but I felt defensive about being a single parent, about thinking I could do this alone. Obviously I couldn't and it felt like I was getting ready to crash and burn. To make matters worse, I had gone through an experience earlier that year that had ripped my faith from me, leaving me raw and untethered. I WAS alone and it felt like me against the world.

I walked into my church office one Advent Sunday morning, and there was an envelope on my chair with a Christmas card addressed to me. In the card was a stack of twenty dollar bills. My first emotion was fury. Who said that I needed any help? I didn't want any one's charity! I could take care of myself AND my child.

Couldn't I?

I sat with the money in my hand, thinking of the water and the power that were to be cut off the next week, the insurance payment that was due, the tires the car needed. And like the twist of a kaleidoscope, the image changed. Where minutes before I had seen unwanted charity, a new image fell into place, one of love and community and a God who set a star to guide the Magi. As much money as it was, it didn't cover half my bills that year. But it was enough to remind me that while I might not have all that I want, my needs would be met. I was not alone. I was loved. I was cared for. I had enough.

Each year since, sometime before Christmas, a card with a stack of twenties and a loving note written in obviously disguised handwriting shows up. At first I tried to guess who it was. My first guess moved away, but the cards continued. My second guess, an elderly man, died, and still the cards came. I have no idea who it is; I suspect it's someone who stood as my children were being baptized, who said yes, we do take them on to raise. As the years have passed, I have felt less curiosity about the deliverer of the card. Most years I forget, and then, there it is, and I stop and offer thanks for all that I have.

This year has been a tough one. My work has been unsteady and uncertain. I have a child who needs more of my time and attention than most children do. The death of a friend, mounting bills, and an unpleasant school incident combined to feed the panic. I hid in the bathroom two nights ago while I called my sister. "Why did I think I could do this?" I cried.

Last night, Christmas Eve, I ran home after church to get something I needed for the party that followed. And there in the door was the white envelope. It's always a shock when I see it and it was again last night. My hands shook as I carried it inside. Once again it came back to me. I am loved. I am cared for. I have enough.

Can it be that one person's actions can so define another's view of the world? Is it really that easy? The first Magi gave of their time and riches, enduring hardship and danger to bring their gifts identifying Jesus as King. I don't know how much of a sacrifice this is for my Magi. But I know what a gift it is to me, practical help that comes with a life-changing story. I am loved. I am cared for. I have enough.

It also comes with a challenge, perhaps not from the giver but as part of the gift. The world is in need of more Magi, all bearing different gifts. Perhaps it's my turn to give a new story to someone in need of one.

photo by Claire