| Time for a Story |
An old-fashioned Christmas story...and a poem
The Poinsettia’s Blessing
“Poinsettias”, the little sign quietly proclaims. It bounces and jounces as the wagon rumbles along, towed by the little girl in the dark blue coat. So early in the morning she starts out! So hard she works each morning to ready the plants!
She takes twenty, no, this day it is twenty-two, pressed firmly into dark green plastic boxes garnished with shiny white ribbon, and patiently she hawks these, her special wares, ‘til all are sold.
Then she returns home. But before she sets up in the busy downtown street, she pulls her burdened wagon to the mighty cathedral whose brownstone turrets rule the city, conquering even the modern architectural wonders that vie for the public’s attention. Up the flagstone she walks, puffing softly with the effort of tugging the wagon over the stones.
She halts her wagon at the side door and reaches up to pull the old-fashioned bell-pull. After a moment or two, the curate peers out expectantly.
“Oh, it’s you,” he says, as if in surprise, opening the door wide enough to step out.
“The Blessing, Father,” her solemn voice requests.
The elderly priest raises his hand and speaks gravely of the lilies that toiled not. The sacred Cross is pantomimed above the flowers, and the door shuts behind the curate.
Satisfied, the child proceeds to her own special marketplace.
Why, we ask, a blessing?
Why indeed? Could she know, this little one, where her flowers go? Is it perhaps that she has them blessed so that these red starbursts may bring a special Joy of the Good Season into the lives of their recipients?
By mid-morning this day, one flower has been presented at the door of a tiny over-run apartment in an old section of the city. Mrs. Gianelli’s daughter accepts it, at first in prayerful apprehension, from the boy who stands there so sternly. Then she asks him in and listens while he pledges to her his love. The flower is a token of peace and a promise of a father for their unborn child.
Another poinsettia is brought to old Mr. Voldspar. Once he created clever toys for his grandchildren--bright and merry trinkets that shared magic and love and laughter. Now his arthritic hands no longer can bend and mold or hammer and nail. Instead, as he sits in his chair, those very children for whom he labored bring him a gift of the living colors of Christmas to delight his eye and cheer his heart. It seems the sharing has not stopped after all.
Just before noon, a young man speedily purchases a flower. As he firmly counts out pennies to the child, he explains. He is a student hastening home from his morning class to surprise his wife with a hot-cooked lunch when she comes in from work. He must be there before her, but the flower caught his eye. She has sacrificed so much to put him through school; this is just the thing to brighten her day.
A fourth plant is given to young Carlton as he sits in his wheelchair. War can do so many terrible things, and from Carl it as taken his legs. His spirits have sunk lower with the Advent Season, for what joy is there for him?
Yet, as he gazes in melancholy, he begins to think, perhaps, if he can recreate that flower on canvas.... As his imagination takes flight and he sets to work, the flower radiates its warmth throughout the room, passing it onto the very canvas on which he paints.
To the end of the day at the little poinsettia wagon: a flock of the cheerful harbingers of goodwill are purchased to decorate the altar in a rest home.
Can it be the child knew what would come of insisting the Father bless her flowers?
Perhaps, for she is never surprised at the glow that brushes the faces of her customers as they lovingly carry off their new treasures. A gentle smile, seemingly of inner knowledge, glimmers across her round face at each purchase.
Nor does it seem strange to her that every year on Christmas Eve, she finds herself with two plants left over when the time comes for her to close and prepare for the coming day.
The day has ended, and with it the Advent Season, for it is Christmas Eve--that most Holy of nights--once more. She takes down her little sign to lay aside for next year, and going home, stops again at the old cathedral. She pulls the bell, patiently waiting. When at last the priest comes, she hands him one of the two remaining plants.
“Merry Christmas, Father.”
“Merry Christmas, child.”
Home she trundles, pulling her wagon with the single brilliant flower glowing scarlet in the fading light, like a bright and loving Star.
Poinsettia
Red star of holiness
Raised in climates warm
to venture out into the cold
unwelcoming world, to cheer,
and raise the warmth,to highlight the good,
to save us from
our melancholy selves.To be
that symbol of Christmas.
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