A tiny child’s Christmas joy
From the book of Mark
lessons he taught us all
It seemed the world’s sufferings dropped onto my desk in a noisy, busy newsroom.
Letters on official stationery mounted amid clatter of typewriters and police scanners. Each a message of desperation.
A cornucopia of hurt had spilled from a postal mailbag.
Families upended by illness, drug abuse, jobs lost, unpaid bills and homelessness. The common thread was aching, grinding poverty.
Social workers and religious figures vouched in every case. Testimony of dire straits and hand written notes from mothers, aunts and grandmothers vouched for need.
Pleas for help arrived like early snow during pre-Christmas season for my newspaper’s fund drive to aid the less fortunate.
Some letters had holiday art. Others in translations from languages. Flowers, winter scenes and yuletide tropes brightened dime store notepaper with tales of tragedy, hope and loss.
Nearly all came from a woman. Most often a mother.
I had a deadline to meet that long ago morning. My story was lurking somewhere buried in that bulging pile of Christmas charity appeals.
