One
day, shortly before Christmas, our third child and first son, Bay, was
born. As I said good-bye that evening to my exhausted but joyful wife
and left the hospital, the warmth and joy that accompanied the birth of
my son overwhelmed the cold chill of that clear December night.
The
following December we celebrated the first birthday of our dark-eyed,
dark-haired son. The day after Christmas, during an evening of games at
the home of my in-laws, our revelry was interrupted by an awful shriek
from my mother-in-law: “He’s not breathing!” She had gone to check on
Bay, who had been sleeping on her bed, and discovered his cold, lifeless
body. We immediately rushed our son to the hospital, attempting CPR on
the way. We were grief-stricken to learn that nothing could be done to
save his life. He had died from sudden infant death syndrome.
Since then, Christmas has been filled with a much deeper meaning for our family.
Each year on Christmas Eve when we take down our other children’s
stockings to fill them, one solitary stocking is left on the fireplace
mantle. Throughout the remainder of the holiday the stocking serves as a
reminder of Bay.
Each
year, around the time of Bay’s birthday, my wife and I drive to the
cemetery where he is buried. At each visit we find that someone else has
arrived before us and placed something on our son’s grave: one year it
was delicate, small flowers; the next year, a stuffed bear; the next, a
little Christmas tree decorated with miniature ornaments. We have no
idea who is responsible; the gifts, which touch us deeply, are never
accompanied by a note or card.
When
I hinted to my mother-in-law that I knew her secret, she denied
responsibility. The following year while she and my father-in-law were
serving a Church mission abroad, we again found that someone had placed a
gift on our son’s grave. Even after inquiring with other family members
and friends, we were unable to solve the mystery.
Ten
years after our son’s death, a series of snowstorms prevented us from
traveling short distances. As a result, our annual visit to our son’s
grave site was delayed until several days after Christmas. When we
finally made it, we saw a small, decorated Christmas tree, mostly buried
in the snow, standing bravely at the head of Bay’s small grave. The
effort it must have taken for someone to get to the cemetery through the
heavy snowfall overwhelmed us. Tears streamed down our faces as we
realized that someone still shared our grief and loss.
After
that, we were more resolved than ever to discover the identity of our
benefactor and thank him or her for showing us such compassion. But as
we reflected more, we realized that whoever was doing these acts of
kindness did not want to be identified. We decided to allow our friend
to remain anonymous. We replaced our need to thank our friend with a
desire to simply live better.
It
is now harder for us to speak ill of or criticize any of our friends or
family members, because any one of them may be our anonymous friend.
Often
while doing service, my wife and I pause to examine our hearts: are we
doing good things to be seen by others or for the pure love of Christ
and of our fellowmen?
For
us, charity—humble and never seeking its own—is symbolized by a
beautifully decorated Christmas tree, half-buried in snow, resting in a
quiet cemetery.
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