He lived across the street from us, sometimes peering out from behind the curtain of his window, sometimes observing the neighbourhood activity from the front porch. Stan kept to himself – not unfriendly, but nevertheless aloof. He was elderly and He lived alone. No cars ever seemed to enter his driveway.
As Christmas was nearing, my husband and I took some Christmas goodies to Stan’s next-door neighbour – an elderly lady whom we hadn’t seen since the weather turned cold. She was overjoyed at our visit. We learned she was nursing her brother who was sick, “dying of cancer”, she whispered, as if to not let him hear from the next room where he lay in a bed. She spoke of deep faith in God and how He gives strength to the weary.
She also spoke of Stan and how she prayed for him. I felt uplifted and thankful she knew the Christ whose birth we celebrated. We could not know as we left her home that in a few short years I would stand by her hospital bed as she would die of the same disease as her brother.
The week grew busier as Christmas approached, but I could not glance at Stan’s house without feeling we must visit him as well. Christmas Eve arrived, and as this was a year b.k. (before kids), we did not have the same bustling activity that we have known since then. Though the fire was cozy, and home was comfortable, we bundled up and made the trek across the street.
There was a dim light in the window and the sound of the television from behind the door. The shuffle of slippered feet followed the doorbell. Stan opened the door and his face lit up as he looked at his young neighbours standing with goodies in hand, wanting to visit him on Christmas Eve. He welcomed us almost with disbelief.
I do not remember if his home had any Christmas decorations or gifts, but I do recall how sad I felt that Stan wore a shirt and tie, dressed up as if expecting company but no one had come. He told us he had a grown son, but the two of them had not spoken in years. The bitterness was evident in Stan’s voice as he abruptly stated his son 'does not come home for Christmas'. He talked and we listened as time slipped by. He thanked us with tears in his eyes as we left, and how thankful we were that we had crossed the street to see him, and perhaps given him the only gift he would receive for Christmas. A short time out of our life had meant the world to him. Stan did not live to see another Christmas.......
Years later, I still think of Stan especially on Christmas Eve. Travelling with our children to Grandma and Grandpa's house that’s always filled with laughter, food, and gifts, Stan has become my reminder. As we drive down city streets, my eyes wander to windows which are darkened, lit only by the flickering light of a television. I wonder what heartaches lie in that household, and if someone sits alone at Christmas and throughout the year, wishing someone would bring some light, some hope, into their world.
Stan reminds me that I’m as busy as the town of Bethlehem was, when a Saviour quietly arrived on the scene… too busy doing nothing of importance to notice the only thing that matters. Christ was so willing to step into our world in spite of an unfathomable sacrifice on his part. Yet shamefully, I am often too busy to step outside my world into someone else’s, even though the sacrifice is miniscule and the reward so rich.
.........We heard a faint knock on our door the Christmas morning after we visited Stan. There stood Stan shivering in the cold, almost breathless, cheeks red, and eyes glistening. He stretched out his withered, trembling hands to offer us a box of chocolates which he had obviously bought that morning at the variety store down the block. “Merry Christmas”, he said, clasping our hands. “God bless you. Thank you so much!”.
A simple box of chocolates….but Stan could not know that years later his gift to us has been of more infinite worth than any others we have received!
