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"It's the hap-happiest time of the year," I grumbled. It was a single's nightmare—Christmas Eve and I was spending it in my freezing garage apartment in Greenville, Texas—alone! All my 20-something friends in the singles group at church had left for the holidays.

The garage apartment was all I could afford on my salary as a drafter for an aeronautical company. The only warm spot was in front of a small gas heater. I pulled a chair as close as I could without scorching my jeans and held my hands over the rising heat.

This is not how Christmas Eve is supposed to be, I thought. I stared into the twinkling lights laced around a little cedar tree in a corner of my dark apartment. I had always envisioned spending Christmas Eve curled up in front of a cozy fire beside a handsome husband; stockings hanging from the mantle; beautifully wrapped packages beneath a giant Scotch pine; and children anticipating a visit from Ol' Saint Nick.

To make matters worse I was going to spend Christmas morning in the hospital. When my friend, Beth, cornered me a few days before Christmas and discovered I wasn't going to my folks until noon Christmas day she said, "Have I got a ministry opportunity for you!"

"W-what is it?" I said.

"There's the sweetest little boy with blue eyes and cotton blonde hair. He's about 18 months old, and he's in the hospital," Beth explained.

The little boy's foster family attended my church, Ridgecrest Baptist, but I didn't know them. They needed someone to sit with him in the hospital for a few hours Christmas morning so they could open presents with their other children.

"So you want me to stay with him Christmas morning?" I asked.

"Yes! Only for two or three hours."

"What would I have to do?"

"Nothing!" Beth sang. "Just be there in case he cries. There's nothing to it. His name is David."

"Okay—why not. I've got nothing else to do."

On the eve of my promise, I regretted my decision. Some Christmas this was going to be.

The tiny survivor
At 6 a.m. the next morning I hit the snooze button on my alarm and pulled the blankets over my nose. The last time I remembered getting up this early on Christmas I was dragging my parents out of bed to open presents.

The alarm went off again. I dashed through the frigid apartment and into a hot shower.

The hospital parking lot was practically empty and a skeleton crew manned the nurses' stations. I found David's room, knocked lightly on the door and stuck my head in. A woman sitting in a rocker reading a magazine looked up and motioned to me. On the bed next to her a little boy lay on his stomach with a pillow propping up his left leg and hip.

"I'm Mary," I said, "I'm here to sit with David."

The woman smiled. "He's sleeping right now. He had a restless night."

I looked at the baby. "How'd he get those?" I pointed to several little pink circular marks on his arms and legs.

"Cigarette burns," she said.

I stroked the mass of cotton on his head and pushed a lock of hair from his face to reveal thick and grossly misshapen ears.

"He may sleep the whole time you're here, but if he cries he likes to be held. You'll have to be very careful when you pick him up, though. His left hip is broken and his right collar bone and ribs are cracked."

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"His parents used him for an ash tray and punching bag. Now he's with a really nice foster family."

I looked down at the sleeping baby's smooth white skin and rose-colored cheeks. His brow was furrowed and his lips were pursed.

"Why would anyone do that?" I asked.

"Nobody knows." She picked up her purse. "I've got to go. If you need anything you can call the nurses' station. Merry Christmas."

Thinking of two babies
I sat in the rocker and surveyed the tiny room with its pale green pictureless walls. Why didn't I bring something to read? I chided myself silently. I tried to nap, but couldn't get comfortable in the rocker. I rocked and fantasized about my ideal Christmas.

The sleeping baby groaned.

"It's okay. I'm here," I said, realizing he had no idea who "I'm here" is. The groan turned into a whimper, then a cry. I reached out to pat his back but drew my hand away remembering his cracked ribs.

"Please don't cry," I whispered, and reached out to gingerly stroke his head.

He opened his tearful blue eyes and looked at me. I wondered if he was getting used to strangers or if he was in so much pain he just didn't care who touched him anymore. He shut his eyes again and kept crying. Should I call the nurse? I decided to be brave.

"Okay, David, I'm going to try picking you up." I scooped up both him and the pillow and drew him close to my body.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said responding to his groans as I eased myself back into the rocker. The room became quiet except for the rhythmic creaking of the chair.

I began to hum "Silent Night, Holy Night" and "Away in a Manger," throwing in the words I remembered. David looked at me as I pieced another verse together. I stroked his blond hair and swollen ears. My throat tightened and the words refused to come out.

I thought of another Mary who almost 2,000 years ago held a newborn in her arms. A little baby with unbattered ears, unbroken bones, unblemished skin—a perfect baby boy.

"David," I said. His eyelids fluttered. "I'm going to tell you about the very first Christmas. About a baby born in the City of David."

He lay still in my arms while I spoke softly. His muscles relaxed and his face softened. I told him about a manger in a stable and about angels and shepherds and wise men, " … and that was the first Christmas. The day the Christ child was born."

As I held this precious battered and broken baby, I realized how selfish my "pity party" had been the day before. It didn't matter that my apartment was small or I couldn't spend Christmas with friends; I had parents who loved me dearly and would never have treated me like David's did.

The door opened. Two women, one whom I knew from church, and a teenage girl came in. "How's David?" the teen, who was introduced as a member of the foster family, asked.

"He's doing okay."

One of the women leaned over to see him. "Hi, sweetheart. He looks much better than yesterday," she said to the teen and lifted him out of my arms.

My shift was over. I picked up my purse and walked to the door.

"Thanks for staying with him," David's foster sister said, "and Merry Christmas."

"My pleasure," I replied.

As I walked to my car, I breathed a quick prayer of thanks. God knew I needed to spend those three hours with David to let me see my own ungratefulness. I couldn't wait to get to my parents' house and tell them about the other Christmas baby I had come to know.

Copyright © 1999 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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