“The tree will be lovely, teacher said. Popcorn—and oranges—and things that shine—and angels—and stars.”
“And see”—he reached out and felt around. Yes, he found and held up a pretty angel figure. It was of paper and very light, but too heavy for Tim. “Angels like this, too.” He laid it down with a sigh.
“Wish I could be there.” A look of wistful sorrow passed over his face. He whispered almost rather than spoke. His papa, sitting by the bed, had to lean over in order to hear him.
“But Tim, you couldn’t see it anyway. Why should you be there?”
“Couldn’t see?” The lad moved quickly as he exclaimed, “I ought to hear them. Why shouldn’t I? Jesus came as a little child. He loved me. And when He came they put Him in a stable. And when He grew big, He went out and preached salvation, and they crucified Him. He died for me. And when I die, I shall go to heaven. Cause I ought to be there. All the little children should. If I was in church I could show Jesus how I love Him. He wants me to be glad on Christmas.” Tim fell back exhausted and was quiet.
The excitement seemed to have been good for the sick boy, for as he quieted down he fell asleep. Far into the night they sat by his bed, for the doctor had told them that Tim was very sick. Louise and Alex, Mama and Papa were there. Tim had mourned that he could not be in church for Christmas and show Jesus his love and joy. But that night the doors of a better church and a better home swung open for him. And with the little thin paper angel lying by him on the bed, the blind cripple slept away and went to keep holiday in heaven above. On that night, I think, he could see for the first time, and something better than a Christmas tree at that.
We might tell more of this story; of how Tim’s class in Sunday School walked by the coffin for the last time to see his face; of his sad burial on that cold winter day; of how sympathetic people said that it was better for the blind cripple to die than to live. We might say that his mama learned the way to church; that Mr. Rudiger became a better man; that Alex grew up to be a good boy; that Louise was one of the most faithful girls in that Sunday School. If we could, we should also be able to say that Tim had not lived in vain. Let us hope so.
And why does God so early take away from this world to Himself little boys and girls? Let us see. The farmer takes from the bin a handful of kernels. “Fine wheat,” says he, as he blows away part of the grain so as to take a better look at what is left. It is the lightest kernels that flee, and as he looks intently upon the few that yet lie in his palm, he observes that one is plump and fair and another shriveled. Yet the shriveled kernel might happen to yield the finest growth and bear the amplest fruit. So perhaps it was with the little blind cripple of No. 316 Blank Street.
The End.
