Then We Found
The Rocking Horse
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he house was very quiet. My wife and three teen-age daughters had gone
to the first of the end-of-year sales in search of clothing bargains. I sat alone in a deep armchair, an unread
book on my knees, looking at the snow-covered lawn where we had found the
rocking horse fifteen days before. I was
remembering those ten hectic days before Christmas when a simple Family Home
Evening resolution had opened so many hearts in what had seemed an iron-hearted
town.
We had sung and
we had prayed; and then Wendy had said from the pinnacle of her twelve years,
"Christmas isn't like it used to be, is it? There used to be a funny feeling around the
house, all warm and cozy and safe, but I can't feel it any more." The
others chimed in with their remarks and a pattern began to emerge.
Christmases had
failed because of too much eating, too much television watching, too much
wrangling over petty things, too many late nights and late risings, and too
much concern for self.
And it looked as
though the coming Christmas was going to be the same—a spiritual and family
failure. The days would pass and again
we would have that terrible, dried out, flat feeling. Was there no way to change the nature of the
season in our home? No way to recapture
the true spirit of Christmas?
A pause came in
the council, and then my wife began to tell us about some young patients at the
school for mentally handicapped children where she worked as a physiotherapist
several hours a week. She spoke of emotional
deprivation, of uncaring parents, of pinching poverty in many homes, of being
forgotten because "they only smash things, don't they?" and of little
hands empty at the time of giving....
My wife proposed
that we as a family gather toys for those forgotten children at the
school. Approval of her suggestion was
unanimous.
The following
day we put our plan into effect. We
explained to our friends about the children at the school and asked them for
any little gifts they might care to contribute.
We received one
or two stony stares and some half-promises—beyond that, nothing. We had only recently moved to that
neighborhood, and had scoffed at remarks that the town was a hard town, full of
seemingly materialistic, hard-hearted people.
Now it seemed to be more than true.
Disappointed at
the lack of contributions, we decided that at least we would make a
contribution of our own; and so for the next few evenings, after supper was
over, we set to making little dolls' beds out of plywood and hardboard, which
we then painted in bright gloss paint; my wife supplied miniature mattresses
and covers. The kitchen began to look
like a Lilliputian army supply base! We
made six beds in all.
Still nothing
from others; yet we continued to ask.
Only six days left to Christmas.
On the fifth day
we found a rocking horse standing on the back lawn, shimmer-ing in sunshine and
frost, his mane worn but triumphant, his eyes wild with the sight of battle,
and in his ears the thunder of the captains and the shouting. On the ground beside him stood a cardboard
soapbox full of assorted toys. To this
day their coming is a mystery to us. And
yet it seemed to be a sign, for that very day people began arriving at the
front door with gifts for the forgotten children at the school.
One distant
neighbor, a single man, lonely and stiff, a man not even invited to contribute,
crossed the street to my wife and blurted out:
"Look here,
I haven't anything moneywise; but I have been saving little toy motor cars in
matchboxes. I get them from the
garage. Every time I buy six gallons of
petrol they present me with another motor car.
I've got 20 altogether. Well, no
man has ever asked me to help in something like this, so I'd like to do my bit
now. I'll bring the motor cars along to
your house tomorrow night and you can be Santa Claus for me." And he turned away to hide his embarrassment;
but when the following evening came, he was there on the step with his 20 motor
cars.
An even greater
surprise waited at my office. One young
man had been reared in London's harsh East End—a man of prejudice and heated
temper to whom my attempts to live my religion were a waving flag to a bull. But that day he came to me and said:
"You and I
are no great friends—in fact, I wouldn't help you to the end of the street if
you had both big toes fractured; but those children at the school are something
different. I see their faces every time
I close my eyes. Ginny and I were
talking about them and wondering how we could help; and we've decided to give
the best we have. In my spare moments, I
model and paint airplanes. We hang them
from the ceiling at home and admire them from time to time; but beyond that
they do nothing, so we thought we would give those. And what does it matter if the kids do smash
them up playing with them? An hour’s
pleasure for such a child is well worth the loss of a few models to us."
That very
afternoon he produced a large selection of model airplanes.
When I arrived
home that evening, my wife and children had similar experiences to relate—of
shy strangers and generous enemies—and of friends, too—all of whom were haunted
by visions of the empty-handed children; our front room overflowed with their
gifts.
The following
day the school van called at our home, and the gifts were loaded on board and
delivered to the headmistress to distribute to the children. And that was that.
None of those
who contributed gifts ever asked for or received recognition or thanks. At the
school only the headmistress ever knew from where the gifts had come. The rest was silence.
But as I sit
here in the twilight after Christmas, I wonder if the spirit that permeates our
home permeates theirs. For we as a family found again in service to others the
real spirit of Christmas. The very walls are alive with sweetness and calm.
And as the
winter day moves toward its early close, and the cold stars stare down and the
snow upon the lawn reflects back the light from my windows, I think upon the
true nature of the universe; for from this small miracle at Christmas, I have
learned that every act of man reaches out into the universe. Wheels turn, the
gears mesh, eternal balances are set in motion, and the earth is changed by the
little secrets of kindness that have no significance at all to any earthly
historian.
Derek Dixon, The
Ensign of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Dec 1973
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