Story of the Day
"Mother
& Child"
It
was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my
twenty-seven bright-eyed, bushy-tailed third graders eagerly anticipated the
great day of gifts and giving.
A tree covered with
tinsel and gaudy paper chains graced one corner. In another rested a
manger scene produced from cardboard and poster paints by chubby, and sometimes
grubby, hands. Someone had brought a doll and placed it on the straw in
the cardboard box that served as the manger. It didn't matter that you
could pull a string and hear the blue-eyed, golden-haired dolly say, "My
name is Susie."
"But Jesus was
a boy baby!" one of the boys proclaimed. Nonetheless, Susie stayed.
Each day the
children produced some new wonder - strings of popcorn, hand-made trinkets, and
German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hung from the ceiling.
Through it all she
remained aloof, watching from afar, seemingly miles away. I wondered what
would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn.
I hoped the festivities would appeal to her. But nothing did.
We made cards and
gifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents, and for
each other. At home the students made the popular fried marbles and vied
with one another to bring in the prettiest ones.
"You put them
in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, and then you watch
what happens inside. But you don't fry them too long or they break."
So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students a little pouch for carrying
their fried marbles.
And I knew they had
each made something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimes
pasted together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies,
hand-fringed, of course.
The day of
gift-giving finally came. We oohed and aahed over our handiwork as the
presents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. I
had made a special pouch for her, red and green with white lace. I wanted
very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly and
carefully. I waited but she turned away. I had not penetrated the wall of
isolation she had built around herself.
After school the
children left in little groups, chattering about the great day yet to come when
long-hoped-for two-wheelers and bright sleds would appear beside their trees at
home.
She lingered,
watching them bundle up and go out the door. I sat down in a child-sized
chair to catch my breath, hardly aware of what was happening, when she came to
me with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box, unwrapped and slightly
soiled, as though it had been held many times by unwashed, childish hands.
She said nothing.
"For me?"
I asked with a weak smile, suddenly feeling very insecure for my thirty-odd
years.
She said not a
word, but nodded her head. I took the box and gingerly opened it.
There inside, glistening green, a fried marble hung from a golden chain.
Surprised, I knew I'd never wear this inexpensive "jewelry."
Then I looked into
that elderly eight-year-old face and saw the question in her dark brown eyes.
In a flash I knew — she had made it for her mother, a mother she would never
see again, a mother who would never hold her or brush her hair or share a funny
story, a mother who would never again hear her childish joys or sorrows. A
mother who had taken her own life just three weeks before.
I held out the
chain. She took it in both her hands, reached forward, and secured the
simple clasp at the back of my neck. She stepped back then as if to see
that all was well. I looked down at the shiny piece of glass and the
tarnished golden chain, then back at the giver. I meant it when I
whispered, "Oh, Maria, it is so beautiful. She would have loved
it."
Neither of us could
stop the tears. She stumbled into my arms and we wept together. And
for that brief moment I became her mother, for she had given me the greatest
gift of all: herself.