The Memory that Stands Out

As Christmastime nears, we who have lost a child have only our memories to carry us through. Although my mind reels with memories, there is one that stands out …

It was a cold, snowy December that year, 1976. Frigid temperatures had me piling more and more wood into our wood burner in the living room. Andy, my son, wanted to go outside and build a snowman. I told him no, it was too cold. He then wanted to go over to John's trailer and visit. I said no.

John lived on the adjoining property. An elderly man who had never had any children of his own, he had taken a shining to my son. Every time Andy was over at John's house, I could hear his giggles as they planted a garden or as Andy "helped" John work on some project.

John didn't have much. His trailer was old and ragged looking. Andy didn't see the old trailer, he only saw a man who loved kids, and who could bring a smile to a child's face. Andy didn't notice the tattered clothes John wore, but I did. Andy didn't notice the hands that were calloused from years of hard work, only I did. I didn't want Andy to go over to John's house. Maybe I was afraid he'd pick up germs. Maybe I was afraid John's shabbiness would rub off onto Andy.

It was Christmas Eve day when the knock came at the door. I was baking cookies, so Andy went to the door. I heard his squeal of "John!" as he opened the door. John had never been to my house before, and I wondered why he was there standing with his hat in his hand, head bowed in a blinding snowstorm.

"I've made something for Andy for Christmas," he said. Behind him, in the snow, sat the most beautiful woodcrafted toy chest on wheels that I'd ever seen. Andy jumped out the door and hugged John's neck. I helped John bring the toy chest into the house. I noticed how smooth the corners were sanded, and how much work had been put into the crafting of the toy chest.

The three of us sat down, and I offered John a piece of cake and a glass of milk. I saw the old gray eyes lovingly look at Andy, and I saw the love and admiration in Andy's eyes as he looked up at John. After John left to go home, Andy went into his room and dug out a piece of wood he'd painted and told me he wanted to give it to John for Christmas. I watched as my little boy trudged through the snow to John's trailer to share the true meaning of Christmas with his friend.

A month later, on January 22, another knock came at the door. Andy opened the door to see John standing there holding a cake he'd made, with crooked letters on it saying, "Happy Birthday Andy and Andy's mom." I asked him to come in to share the cake, but he declined. He handed Andy a paper sack and hugged him before he left. I will always remember Andy reaching in the bag and pulling out the finest crafted little car I'd ever seen.

In 1977, two months before Christmas, I sat in a funeral home, my heart broken, as my little boy lay in the casket. Oblivious to everyone who was near me, only knowing I could not go on without my son, I didn't look up when I felt hands placed on my shoulder. And yet they stayed there. I remember turning my head to see John standing there, those gray eyes filled with tears as he looked at me. John had lost his little friend that day. I had once been blind to the love between a little boy and an old man. But that little boy taught me to look beyond tattered clothes and old shabby trailers. He taught me to see the beauty in an old man's eyes.

John joined Andy in heaven the following winter. God bless you John. Take care of my little boy for me until I get there.

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