A brother like that

Vincent, my archbishop, told us this little story by way of a Christmas tale about a rich man and a poor child. The man had just come out of a shop, carrying a small package, bound in festive ribbon.

Vincent, my archbishop, told us this little story by way of a Christmas tale about a rich man and a poor child. The man had just come out of a shop, carrying a small package, bound in festive ribbon. A little boy stood near by, looking at the man with the pretty gift in his hand. At last the child mustered courage and asked, 8220;What is in the gift box?8221; The man was taken aback. Perhaps the child wanted a little gift for himself. 8220;It is a watch I am buying for my brother,8221; he said. Waiting for a normal response, the man was taken aback when the boy replied 8220;I wish I was a brother like that.8221;

Perhaps he had not heard it right, the man thought. But he had. The child had indeed said 8220;was8221;. The man bent down to the level of the boy and asked him what he meant. The boy told his story. 8220;My brother cannot walk. It is my dream to grow up and work so that I can buy him a wheelchair, take him around and show him this beautiful town.8221;

It was Christmas Eve and Christmas Eve, is about little boys, specifically one little boy born in a manger in a stable. 8220;We cannot wait till you grow up,8221; he told the boy. He asked the boy to join him in the front seat of his car. They drove to the slum. The man picked up the tiny child with legs that would not move, and clutching the elder boy by the hand, he came back to the car, his tear-blinded eyes barely noticing the dung and the filth in the narrow lane. He put the two children in the car. And then he drove them around the pretty town, till it was near midnight. Then he bought them some cake, and took them home.

Christmas is not about celebrations alone. It is in realising that someone, God as we call Him, so loved us all in our spiritual slums that he sent his own Son to cheer us up. We call it Salvation. I am touching sixty, Vincent is past seventy. We both had moist eyes.

Or was it just the fading light in this fog-bound city? God knows.

The writer is national president, All India Catholic Union