A Christmas Miracle

The season of Christmas has its own special meanings for each of us. For me, a blind child growing up in a world I couldn't see, it was a season filled with sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile impressions. Even now, I have only to let my senses go to become a lad of thirteen, whisked back into a fairyland of remembrances, so real I can still feel the bite of icy wind on my cheeks. I can still smell the heavy sweet odor of newly cut pine, as my father lifts the tree into place by the fire.

In those years, time itself seemed to be framed by the sound of old familiar Christmas carols. We, a neighborhood of formerly tone-deaf men, women, and children, formed with our mouths the words of peace. And we discovered, much to our amazement that on this night of Christmas Eve, we at last could sing. Buttoned up from stocking cap to boot, we wander through the streets of town, our voices raised; accompanied only by the sound of newly fallen snow, so cold it squeaks beneath our feet. Pausing a while in our caroling, we stop to warm ourselves at the home of a friend. Standing as close to the fire as we dare, we listen contentedly to the sound of dry wood warming the night. The pungent odor of hot apple cider mixes with the sounds of laughter and makes us even warmer.

There are plates piled high with Christmas cookies of all shapes and sizes, cut out by the hands of children who sense the magic in the air. There are cookie elves and cookie stars, Christmas trees and snow white bears; baked, batch after batch, in ovens which must surely cease to work from overuse, save that it is Christmas Eve. There is a ham so large I can hardly reach from end to end, set close by a turkey whose warm, earthy smell reminds me of the forest in autumn where it must have lived. There are pumpkin pies and jelly rolls and doughnuts big as saucers. At one moment their smells all seem to be interwoven into a fountain of scent; then only to separate, competing one with another, to see which of them will be eaten first.

On this Christmas Eve, the carolers in this rural hamlet are taking part in a custom which has existed for longer than any of them can remember. After gathering in the center of town, they sing their way through the streets to a different home each year. There they prepare a banquet feast large enough to serve King Arthur's army with plenty left over for themselves. And after dinner they shower the hosts with presents and good wishes for the year to come.

On this particular night, the festivities are taking place in the small red brick house which my family calls home.

How vividly I remember that Christmas. I can still hear the sound of feet on the wooden floor as the guests bring cauldrons of soup and platters of meat and vegetables, piping hot, to the table. The sound of our laughter mingles with the hissing of steaming kettles, the clink of silverware on plates, and the bell-like tones of glasses touching each other in a salute to peace. I hear my mother sigh. She is warm and filled with contentment. My father groans, for he has eaten too much and dessert is still to come.

Finally, when all the dishes are cleared away, we all go into the living room. My sister and I sit on the floor at our parents' feet while everyone else looks on. We are surrounded by boxes of all sizes; wrapped and ribboned and filled with dreams about to be made real. Unlike my sister, who longs to see what is inside each of them, I like to handle them all one by one. I sit for countless minutes tracing the shape of the box with my hands or letting the ribbon slide through my fingers or wind itself around my wrist. Placing my ear quite close to the box, in case whatever is inside makes the slightest noise, I tap it, shake it, and feel its weight. Satisfied at last that I think I know its contents, I untie the ribbon and remove the paper very slowly, listening to the crackling, swishing sound it makes as it slides to the floor. And then, to the total consternation of everyone in the room, for they are all watching now, impatient with my dawdling and dying to know what treasure lies within, I stop to notice the texture of the box. Smooth and hard beneath my hands, or grainy as the sands of deserts whose barren wastes I have crossed in the bed-time stories of my childhood. And now finally to everyone's relief, the box is flung open. The high treble sound of tissue paper fills the air as the most beautiful hand knit sweater one could hope to touch unfolds in my arms. Those who see it softly suck in their breath; an audible acknowledgement of its visual perfection. But I do not hear their sounds of praise. For I am lost somewhere in the folds of the fabric. My fingers are lovingly tracing the threads knit by my Granny as she sat in her favorite chair by the fireplace on long winter afternoons. I rub the sleeve against my cheek and know its softness. Thrusting my hand inside, my fingers are warmed by the heat that it will provide during the long winter days to come. The warm, slightly musty, smell of my Granny's house lingers in the yarn. I put it carefully back into its box, secretly hoping that the smell will still be there tomorrow when I wear it to church.

Since all good things must come to an end, it is now time for the guests to leave. With fond farewells and sincere wishes for a very merry Christmas, they brave the cold and head for home. And long after they have gone, the sound of their singing floats back to us on the wind from across the open fields.

For a time after everyone has gone to bed, I stand by the slightly open window, feeling the crisp night air and listening to the sound of snow falling gently against the shutters. I feel very content. I'm too young to know it yet, but on this night, I have learned to "see." Not with my eyes as others do. This is not the story of a miracle culminating in the rebirth of my vision. This is a story of a young boy, blind from birth, who was beginning to discover that sight is only what you make of it. Perhaps the only miracle is that I do not see as others do, and that I have learned to accept the fact that that is as it should be.

At length, I close the window on the night and creep quietly to bed. As I make a little nest in my blankets, my mind goes back to Granny and the sweater lying softly in its box beneath my bed. She knit into each stitch everything I would ever need to feel to know that it was beautiful. I slip my hand outside the blankets and reaching down, I touch it gently one more time before I go to sleep. And I know that all is well.