The Box -A Christmas Story-

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She slammed the book down on the table
                                                And let out a long huff.

Her patience couldn’t take much more,
                                                This night has been so rough.

Maybe if she stayed real still,
                                                And didn’t make a noise;

Then that crowd would go away
                                                With all those girls and boys.

But their incessant singing continued on,
                                                Along with their off-key tune.

All she could do was wait it out,
                                                And hope it would end soon.

Silent Night and Jingle Bells
                                                Seeped through every wall.

That joyous music filled the air,
                                                Filling every room and hall.

She closed her eyes and gave a sigh,
                                                It had gone on for quite a while.

So she went to open up the door,
                                                Pasting on her “Christian” smile.

She nodded at each caroler,
                                                Keeping every thought inside.

She longed to scream “Just Go Away!”
                                                But she still had her pride.

Finally they went to leave
                                                And she mumbled a reply.

But as she turned to go back in,
                                                Something caught her eye.

A single light across the street
                                                Glowed faintly in the night.

Illuminating a simple scene,
                                                Where all was ‘calm and bright.’

The woman sneered at the little thing,
                                                Parked on the church’s lawn.

She couldn’t wait ‘till this was over
                                                And that stupid thing got gone.

She eyed that cutout up and down-
                                                Made from inexpensive wood.

A man, a woman, and a baby;
                                                Not even very good!

She pulled her sweater tighter ‘round
                                                To fend off the bitter chill.

How could such a bustling town,
                                                Become suddenly so still?

She allowed a backward glance,
                                                Contempt written on her face.

And to think that she had once been
                                                A huge part of that place?!

As she went to go back in the house,
                                                Where her cup of tea grew cold.

She noticed something in the snow,
                                                An unusual type fold.

She went to shrug it off,
                                                It held no real value.

But just like the cold gets in your bones,
                                                Curiosity will too.

So she made her way down off her porch
                                                And stepped up to the lane.

She checked to make sure the coast was clear,
                                                Looking left and right again.

Then trudging up the church’s lawn,
                                                Wading through the snow.

She stood next to the manger scene,
                                                Eyes blinded from the glow. 

There sat a little cardboard box-
                                                Just lying on the ground.

It was perched right by the manger,
                                                As if waiting to be found.

It had a little ribbon tied,
                                                Made from a piece of string.

And on the top a tag was written-
                                                “To Jesus, Baby King.”

She yearned to walk away.
                                                She liked no parts of this

But something told her that this was
                                                A moment not to miss.

So with hands ever careful,
                                                She removed the handmade bow.

And gently lifted each soggy flap
                                                To learn what was to know.

On top was laid a written note,
                                                Done from a child’s hand.

She unfolded the paper.
                                                She just had to understand.

“Baby Jesus, You came as a king,
                                                But I’m just a little girl.

I’m not tall, and I’m not pretty,
                                                And I only have one curl.

But Jesus, I have a heart;
                                                And I hear you like that, too.

So in this box are the things I love.
                                                I give them all to You.

I’ve packed some hopes. I’ve packed some dreams.
                                                So now I guess I’ll say.

That I’m giving you my everything
                                                As a gift on Your birthday!” 

The woman now, with knees gone weak,
                                                Knelt in that drifted bank.

Her mind spun with what could be,
                                                But it only came up blank.

She laid the little note aside,
                                                Eyes filling up with tears.

As innocent as this child was,
                                                She was mature beyond her years.

She found a pair of ballet slippers,
                                                With a hole worn in the toe.

The little girl must’ve practiced hard,
                                                For such a mark to show.

The woman touched the scuffed fabric,
                                                Holding back the coming stream;

For long ago, she too had fought
                                                For a similar type dream.

But she pushed that thought aside,
                                                Her resentment coming new.

She couldn’t forget what had happened,
                                                Or Who allowed it to.

With a fresh frown on her face,
                                                She continued through that box.

She couldn’t have been more surprised
                                                When she pulled out that pair of socks!

Just a simple blue-grey yarn,
                                                In an old-fashioned circle knit.

But what surprised her most of all
                                                Was the note attached to it.

The yellowed piece of paper read-
                                                “From Grandma, with love.”

It was placed inside the sock
                                                Like a hand inside a glove. 

Moisture threatened in the woman’s eyes.
                                                This girl had been loved well.

Then why go to all this trouble?
                                                She really couldn’t tell.

Why ever would a little girl
                                                Give all her things away?

And leave them in the snow bank,
                                                For a baby on some hay?

The woman, she had been there,
                                                She had filled that empty pew.

But giving her all to a far off god
                                                Was not something she would do.

No. She preferred the hatred
                                                To the love that could be there.

She like to have someone to blame
                                                For every woe and care.

The cold wind brought her mind right back
                                                To the monumental task.

Of trying to question a little girl
                                                Without a time to ask.

Her eyes went to the box again
                                                And her hand went to her chest.

A tiny, well-loved, dolly
                                                Was laid gently with the rest.

With a handmade dress and button eyes,
                                                This treasure wasn’t new.

It seams could talk, they’d have some tales
                                                Of all she had been through.

A little girl, gave up her doll?
                                                Her most precious earthly prize!

The woman couldn’t hold them back
                                                And hot tears came to her eyes. 

What was it about this manger
                                                That made people act so strange?

Why was it that this time of year
                                                Made people want to change?

This season was no spotless lamb.
                                                It had its soiled roots.

And this change could not have come from
                                                A fat man in red suits.

The woman sat there smiling;
                                                She had answered her own plight.

This had to be some crazy hoax
                                                To bring on a “Silent Night.”

But as she sat there, wet with snow,
                                                And that box perched on her knee.

She knew, deep down, there was something more.
                                                There almost had to be.

But she’d been to church, sang the songs.
                                                It wasn’t all that great.

It wasn’t magic; and besides,
                                                She’d already picked her fate.

She’d picked her fate that day
                                                When at God she shook her fist.

When the hurt and pain had been so bad
                                                She just could not resist.

When God, with judgments so unfair,
                                                Asked her to give her all

She looked right up and told Him-
                                                “My life is not Your call!”

And that girl, still so young,
                                                Might not get this yet;

But someday soon she would feel
                                                Just how bad the pain could get. 

And that little girl, when the time did come,
                                                Would know that she could not.

Call out to the very God,
                                                Who of her whole pain forgot.

She sat there feeling justified,
                                                Although her life a total wreck.

The wind whipped hard again,
                                                And a chill ran up her neck.

She went to put that box away.
                                                She was quite done for the night.

When she saw that there was one more piece
                                                Reflecting off the light.

It was a simple photograph-
                                                A proud fam’ly of three.

Attached was a piece of paper
                                                That read “Obituary.”

The paper and the picture
                                                Coincided all too much.

The woman couldn’t help it,
                                                She reached out her hand to touch.

And when she did she saw the words
                                                Handwritten on the page.

They seemed to match the little note,
                                                Mature beyond its age.

Just a single line of words-
                                                It couldn’t be that bad;

But the sloppy, homemade letters read-
                                                “Take care of mom and dad.”

This time tears poured freely.
                                                The woman felt like she’d been hit.

Her mind reeled and spun
                                                With the pure weight of all of it. 

This little girl had lost so much
                                                And gave up even more.

The woman couldn’t fathom
                                                The “why?” or “what for?”

A truck came down the roadway
                                                And its headlights cast a glow.

She found herself sitting
                                                In an oddly shaped shadow.

When she looked above the manger scene,
                                                Her mind was at a loss.

Right behind where the baby lay,
                                                There stood a wooden cross.

The woman couldn’t help but see
                                                That baby hanging there.

Her mouth hung wide and open,
                                                But she really didn’t care.

For the first time in her entire life
                                                The truth filled her eyes-

That God incarnate came to earth,
                                                Leaving paradise.

Yes, He came fulfilling prophecy.
                                                Yes, He came without a bed.

But It wasn’t about the night He came,
                                                But the day He died instead.

He didn’t come with sword drawn
                                                Ready to slay every vice.

He came instead to take your place-
                                                A perfect sacrifice.

The woman sat there, in the snow,
                                                Her heart now torn in two.

Tears were falling and she couldn’t
                                                Quite figure what to do. 

A cardboard box and a little girl-
                                                One she’d never even met!

Had rocked her world with such a force-
                                                That it hadn’t settled yet.

And now she sat, soaked to the bone,
                                                Half frozen in place.

At the crossroads of her old life,
                                                And a new, amazing grace.

She took her stand from the frozen ground,
                                                That drifted bank of snow.

That choice she had, which did she make?
                                                Well, I guess we’ll never know.

I Don't Date

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I don't date.

Maybe I should rephrase myself. I don't play the culturally-outlined dating game.

Before you close this internet tab and write me off as a psycho, hear me out.

69 Years

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It was just a little grocery store cake. It was just another couple holding hands.

But it was not just another anniversary.

Purity Is Not Just Virginity

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“How can a young man keep his way pure? By guarding it according to Your Word.”  (Psalm 119:9)

                Christian culture avoids it. Many pastors will never even mention it at the pulpit. You won’t hear your peers talk about it. Yet it is one of the highest requirements the Lord instructs us in; Purity. To announce the biblical principle of saving intimacy for marriage offends people. Sex has become a bad word among believers. Overall the church (not a capital ‘C’) has fallen into the same rut as our near-pagan society. Nevertheless, guys and girls alike, The LORD still asks us to be pure. Paul writes to the Church to be waiting, spotless and without blemish, pure, for the return of Christ. [2 Peter 3:14] Now before you get too overwhelmed with this heavy knowledge, you need to know one more thing. Purity is so much more than just virginity. By the time we’re done, saving sex for marriage might just be the easy part. To be and stay pure as the Lord requires we must be wholly outwardly pure, inwardly pure and mentally pure.

I'm Different

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This day, six years ago, was just one more day with one more doctor's appointment.  I had been sick for about a year and a half, and still they found nothing. Each time was more tests, each time was more questions and prodding into my personal life. No, I don't do drugs. No, I'm not on any weird prescriptions. Um, NO! I haven't even so much as kissed someone. No, no, no. Each time I went they tried a different bandaid to fix a symptom or two, but still I was ill. 

This is why I shoved a single piece of chocolate into the pocket of my jacket. It had become a ritual of mine. A prize, if you will, for successfully enduring yet another torturous appointment. That single piece of candy, a round chocolate shell filled with with a solid chocolate center that would melt as soon as your tongue touched it (if I recall correctly...), would soon enter my mouth the moment I returned to the passenger's seat upon the completion of that nasty event. If I would've only known then what lay ahead of me...

A couple hours later, as I sat atop the examining table telling the doctor about the particular ailment for which I came in, my mom was insisting that something else was the matter with me. She had been saying this for months now, with no one actually listening. She was completely right though. Me, her little 13 year old girl at the time, was just that-- too little. I weighed only 65 pounds back then. You could literally count near every bone in my body. My eyes were sunken, my face pale, and I had absolutely no energy. For what should've been a spunky pre-teen, I was the bottom rung on my soccer team. I fell way behind all the other girls in every practice; I could hardly manage to complete a lap, let alone give force behind my kicks, and I would end each night with painful cramps in my lower legs and feet from the strain. 

There were other signs too, not as noticeable to most, but my mom knew. She saw the extreme thirst. She saw the lethargy. She saw the shaking and dizziness. My family knew. My dad carried me once, after a soccer practice when my legs were so tired and my feet cramping so badly that I couldn't even stand. They knew, they felt it. My mom cried out, but no one would hear her. And thus we were back at the doctor's office. 

One test. That was it. One test was all it took. A simple urine test, one that no one had thought to use before, answered all our questions. 

"She has Type One Diabetes." 

There it was. There was my bottom line. The doctor said it so matter-of-factly; not a hint of sympathy to be detected. My mom started crying and I just sat there stunned. I had no idea. 

For those of you unfamiliar with the label "Type One Diabetes," I will offer a brief overview.  All I ask is that you erase a preformed ideas that lay in your head. Type One Diabetes (or T1D for short) is not the overweight-can-be-fixed-with-diet-and-exercise kind of disease that your grandma has. No, T1D is an autoimmune disorder. What I mean by this is that one's immune system, instead of attacking an invasive germ or virus or bacteria, actually begins to attack its own cell structures- namely organs. Now there are thousands of different autoimmune disorders, but to be T1D specific, your pancreas is the affected organ.

The pancreas is responsible for the production of various hormones. For those with T1D, the islet cells that produce the hormone insulin are almost entirely destroyed. Your cells are fueled by glucose- sugar from the food you eat, but the glucose cannot enter the cell by itself. Insulin is the key that unlocks the cells aids the glucose in entering.  Without insulin your cells starve for lack of that fuel, and the glucose (sugar) builds up in your bloodstream. If this is allowed to go unchecked, that sugar will turn into a deadly poison inside your body. 

This is what I was diagnosed with. Type One Diabetes has no cure. There is no end in sight to this awful disease. Managing T1D comes at the hands of manual injections (shots), multiple times a day. It requires countless blood sugar checks throughout the day, and gives the recipient an ever-present knowledge that their life will never be the same. 

After the doctor had walked away to inform the specialist of our impending arrival, I quietly slipped my hand into my coat pocket and my fingers touches the crinkly foil of the candy that awaited me. I pulled it out, not even yet knowing the full extent to which this disease would change my life, and held it out to my mom. 

"I guess I won't be eating this anymore."

The next couple hours were a blur. I was told that I had to get to a specialist within the hour or I would be transported via ambulance. So we went. My dad, mom, and I headed to the specialist; where they proceeded to pump me with synthetic insulin. I was told that my blood sugar count was so high that the meter only read "HIGH". (That's not good.) There was some speculation as to whether I would have to be admitted into the ICU and I'm pretty sure all the staff was just waiting for me to go into a coma. 

Yet I survived. The next couple of days I was overwhelmed with so much information. What was this disease? How will it affect my life? What happens next? It was very hard to process everything. I was prescribed 4 injections of insulin A DAY, for the rest of my life. I really can't describe what it feels like to give yourself a shot, knowing that you may never be able to stop. You may never be able to go back to the life you once had. It's depressing honestly. And I began to ask God "why?" 

"Why this? Why me? Why now?" 

It was a long struggle for me. I kinda went through a battle with God over His whole plan for my life. I journaled. I prayed. I was frustrated, to be honest. Yet through this whole thing, through every tear and frustrated moment, the Lord revealed Himself to me in a new way. I could almost hear Him ask me "Why not you? Why not now? Don't you trust what I'm doing in your life?" 

Trust. That's a big thing for me. Did I trust God? I've learned to. I mean, every day I wake up with the reality that I need to, yet again, poke and prod myself with more needles. Every night I face the reality that my sugars may get messed up and I may not wake up- like ever again. It's scary! I still don't trust my Lord like I should, but I'm learning. 

Ladies, to bring this back to a more normal blog theme for a moment, the thought does cross my mind that a guy may never want me for this disease. Medically speaking, I'm a lot of work. Monthly prescriptions aren't cheap and the constant management required is stressful. Mr. Right may never want me and I couldn't really blame him if he didn't.  But that's still something I'm praying on. I'm still leaning to trust, remember? 

A couple weeks after I was diagnosed, I found that piece of candy in the refrigerator drawer. I pulled it out and I ate it. I savored every moment of it. Was my life ever going to be the same again, absolutely not! But hey, I'm still a girl that loves her God, her family, and chocolate- no disease can stop that. I just have to learn to do this a little differently. So there you have it- I'm Elecia. I am a Christian. I am a Type One Diabetic. And I am different. Yep, different.