It was the day before the day before Christmas Eve and I was in my Boise apartment recuperating from a week of jet lag and traveling from Europe. After visiting crowded Christmas markets in Vienna and other ancient German cities stretched along the Danube River, after the overload of all things Weihnachten in hundreds of vendors’ booths, after feeling like I was in a swirling glass globe filled with memories of my own German childhood, Christmas here seemed,  well pale in comparison.

I was not at all prepared for the actual Christmas holiday which I was going to spend in Boise with my daughter and son-in-law. I had a few gifts, but nothing to wrap them in. I headed to the nearest Dollar Store for Christmas bags and ribbon – and whatever caught my last minute fancy.I certainly didn’t need another ornament or trinket made in the “people’s republic”, but the attraction of these so-called Dollar Stores stores is that everything looks good, is dirt cheap and disposable . Surprisingly,  the store wasn’t crowded, the lines were short and I could be out of there in a flash.

Ahead of me in line was a young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, buying a small gift. He was disheveled as if comb and brush were foreign objects, his shoes were untied and he reminded me of one of Dickens’ street urchins.As the cashier rang up his purchase, the boy placed two dollars on the counter with hopeful look. It became obvious that the gift cost more than two dollars. The cashier, a teen with unusual patience, waited as the boy emptied his pockets onto the counter. Still not enough! The boy’s predicament agitated him , but still he waited, not knowing what to do.

“Do you need some help with that,” I asked, but I don’t think he heard me. . Just then, the young cashier took out his credit card and swiped the card reader. He never said a word, but when the boy tried to give him all his money, he simply handed it back.
“Is it a gift for your mother?” I asked? The boy’s face lit up like a newly lit candle. He smiled, nodded and left the store with his precious “purchase.”

I thanked the cashier for his kindness, but he didn’t really need my thanks. I suspect this wasn’t the first time he’d helped someone out of his own pocket. I thought about the fact that the teenager was working for barely minimum wages and couldn’t afford to be generous. Yet he was.He had compassion for a boy much like himself. And he gave from the little he had. I felt truly humbled, knowing how much more of everything I have available to me.

In the encounter with the boy, I understood once again the real power and gift of Christmas. It isn’t found in centuries old cathedrals or decorated market square vendors selling thousands of beautiful Christmas items. It isn’t in abbeys set like fortress on the hills, guarding priceless  treasures. It definitely isn’t in Santa or any holiday image or story or song. The spirit and gift of Christmas is Jesus who loved me and the two precious boys enough to be born into humanity. It is, was and always will be Jesus. His love shows up in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes the Prince of Peace stands in line with empty pockets at a Dollar Store.!

Frohe Weihnachten to one and all!