施予者
作者：麥克．梅遜 中文翻譯：楊光
一九九五的聖誕節早晨。
海德爾那時才八歲。我們一起圍著客廳里的聖誕樹坐著還沒開始開禮物，但海德爾卻一邊把爸爸送她的禮物拉出來一邊喊：“我要這個！”
“海德爾，把這個禮物留到最後開好嗎？”我一次又一次地說道。
“可我現在就要開！”她哇哇大叫道。
她已經扯開了禮物上的彩帶兒。怎麼辦？把禮物搶走？我的腦海里浮現出我們激烈地爭奪一件聖誕禮物：一個小女孩兒滿面淚水，生氣的跑出屋子，凱倫用責備的眼光看著我─這聖誕節就被糟掉了。
同時，我又在考慮盒子裡的東西。這是一個非常非常特殊的禮物，把它留到最後對我來說是很重要的。海德爾更不能以她現在的狀況去開禮物：又貪心又撒嬌又冒失。簡直是慣壞了!
“海德爾，不要現在開那份禮物好嗎？我求你了！”
“爸爸，別開玩笑了。這是我的禮物，我想開就開。”
包裝紙被撕破了。
“海德爾，不要！”
已經太晚了。盒子露了出來，蓋子也被掀開了。現在紗紙被掀開了…
沒事兒，我告訴自己:「放鬆，深呼吸，沉住氣!」雖然特殊的禮物不特殊了，但是天還沒有塌下來！
突然間，一個奇蹟發生了！誰會想到這種事兒會發生？
海德爾在哭！抽抽噎噎地哭泣著。當盒子裡的東西露出來時，她哭得幾乎心都要碎了似的。
我和凱倫靠到她身邊，抱緊她。我們一起朝盒子裡的東西望去，海德爾的哭聲仍舊不停止。

我回想起昨晚聖誕夜的事情。快到夜裡十二點了，雖然忙碌的一周使我疲憊不堪，想馬上睡覺，可是還有一件需要做的事情。這本來是一個很容易處理的事兒，可就像大多數我嘗試的手工，它突然變得很離奇複雜。
我坐在曾祖父的老橡木桌前，檯燈將光芒撒在桌面上。我一手拿著一個十八英寸長的木製十字架，另一手拿著一個塑料製成的耶穌像，身纏腰布，手臂伸展開來。我正在想辦法把這兩樣拼到一起。桌上放著一管子水泥膠，旁邊有一小瓶環氧樹脂。可這兩樣東西全都不管用。我正準備到樓下拿熱膠，但我現在就可以告訴你，那也沒用。
問題是「耶穌」的身體是彎曲的，它的手和腳不在同一個平面上。所以我每次把它粘下去，它又彈起來了。這塑料挺結實的嘛！
最後我氣得幾乎要用釘子釘這要命的東西。我把這個亂攤子交給凱倫。手巧的她，很容易地便弄好了這件事。
現在可以睡覺了。

在海德爾的生命中，我只聽過兩次像那樣的哭聲。一次是那個聖誕節早晨，另一次是我們在教會裡唱讚美詩的時候。其實只有我和凱倫在唱，那個年齡的海德爾只會看書、畫畫、做小動作、說話或找吃的。
突然間，她毫無理由地哭了起來。孩子不同的啼哭有不同的聲音，我馬上就知道這不是因為一個疼痛的手指頭，或一個被拒絕的請求而發出的平常哭聲，這是悲痛的哭泣。你是否聽過一個孩子悲痛的哭泣？我想天使的哭聲也不會比這更意外、更神聖、更令人斷腸地聖潔。
哭泣聲持續了很久，當它停止時，我們的女兒就像一朵在晨曦中被露水洗□的、含苞初放的玫瑰。
後來，我們問她發生了什麼事，她簡單地回答道：“我看到了天使的光輝。”在那時，我正在寫一本關於天使的書，其中提到，有的人所看到的天使不是人形，而是彩色的光。那天早晨，海德爾朝教會的陽台望去，看到一道五彩繽紛的亮光。這觸到了她的心，因此她後來經常說那是她的“異象”。
在那個是聖誕早晨，我又一次聽到了女兒悲痛的哭聲。這次她所看到的不是異象，而是一個堅硬的，可觸摸到的東西。
海德爾在為一個十字架而啼哭，那上面掛著耶穌。
她的哭聲是深情的、猛烈的，帶有溫柔而痛苦的懺悔。
十字架是她一直都想要的，多次向我請求過。我的書房裡掛著一個，是在我十五歲時在聖公會的堅固禮上得到的禮物。可我在十四年後才成為一名基督徒，其間做了不少亂七八糟的事。然而，不知為什麼，我走到哪裡都會把這個十字架掛在牆上。
海德爾有一天看到了，就向我要一個掛在她的屋裡。我很高興，幾乎欣喜若狂了。我當然樂意給她耶穌，勝過給她芭比娃娃。
所以，我就興致勃勃的去天主教書店(其實更像是個珠寶店或五金店)，站在「哭牆」面前尋找著合適的十字架，但沒有一個中意的。畢竟，還有兩天就是聖誕節了，根本不是季節嘛。也許他們復活節的貨少了吧。
最後，我只好分開買十字架和「耶穌」了，也就是我為什麼在聖誕夜那天費勁地想把「耶穌」安在十字架上，卻發現安不上去。
第二天，我迫不及待地等海德爾打開她特殊的禮物。可那必須是在最後，等到所有物質主義的期盼消退之後。那樣的話，我琢磨著，我們可以自然地進入家庭靈修時間。每年的此時，為了讓海德爾在知不覺間從禮物回到聖經里，對我都是一個挑戰。
今年，我不準備從路加福音讀聖誕故事，而是讀關於受難節和復活節的故事。這將會是一個不同的，難以忘懷的聖誕節。
可我萬萬沒有想到這次聖誕節是這麼不同，這麼難忘。
海德爾繼續哭著，一直不停。
我們三人擠在沙發上，直到哭聲終於平息了。海德爾尚未把十字架拿出來，現在她開始輕輕的，探索式地摸著它，最終把它取了出來。
這時，整個屋子裡很明顯的被一種溫馨、濃厚、金色的榮光充滿著。我們每個人都感受到了，每人都含著熱淚、身心柔和、眼神明亮、內心深處被深深的感動了。彷佛上帝親手將我們像聖誕禮物一樣打開，用他仁慈的手撫摩著我們，打開我們真正溫柔的內心。
後來發生的不是一個重複多遍的靈修時間，而是我經驗過最美好的自然而然的崇拜。當上帝在我們當中時，我們除了感謝讚美他還能作什麼？我們放聲高唱著聖詩和頌讚主誕生的歌，我們甚至起來圍著聖誕樹興高采烈地手舞足蹈起來。
是的，在那一天，耶穌才不會呆在十字架上呢！他才不會被粘上去，被釘在牆上呢！一個八歲的小女孩，在將近一個鐘頭里，完全忘記了其他需要打開的禮物，只慶祝著那麼一件禮物，一件令她突然知道比世界上所有的禮物都好的禮物!
那個聖誕早晨從盒子裡出來的不是一個十字架，而是耶穌自己─活著，像君王般的美好，充滿喜樂的耶穌。這不僅僅是一件微小的禮物，而是施予者他自己！
□1995 版權所屬，經作者允准刊登，特此鳴謝。(真理報2002年12月號)

The Giver
Author: Mike Mason Chinese Translation by: Linda Yang
Christmas morning, 1995.
Heather is eight years old and we’re sitting in the living room around the tree. We’ve barely begun to open the presents, but already Heather is dragging out the one from Daddy crying, “ I want this one.”
“No, Heather,” I say for about the tenth time. “That’s a special one and I’d like you to save it until the end.”
“But I want it NOWWWWWW!” she wails.
Already she’s grabbing at the ribbon. What to do? Snatch the box away? In my mind I picture a vicious physical struggle over a Christmas present, a little girl hot with tears bolting furiously from the room, Karen glaring at me reproachfully, Christmas Day in ruins.
At the same time, I’m thinking about the contents of this box. This is a very, very special gift, and it’s important to me that it is left until last. It’s especially important that Heather not open it in her present condition: grasping, whining, impudent, spoiled rotten.
“Heather, please don’t open that now. I beg you.”
“Daddy, don’t be silly. It’s my present; I can open it if I want.”
Already the paper is being torn.
“Heather─Stop! Please!”
But it’s too late. The bare box is exposed, and now the lid is coming off. Now the tissue paper is parting卲ar Okay, okay, I tell myself. Lean back, take a deep breath. Get a grip. The special present is ruined, but it’s not the end of the world.
And then, all at once─a miracle! Who would have dreamed that such a thing could happen?
Heather is crying! Sobbing, in fact. As the contents of the box are laid bare, she’s sobbing and sobbing as if her heart would burst.
Karen and I lean closer, put our arms around her. All together we gaze at the object in the box, still the crying goes on and on卲ar
Now let me back up to the night before, Christmas Eve. It’s getting on to midnight, and after a busy week I’m aching for bed, but there’s one more job I have to do. It’s a job that was supposed to be easy but like most manual tasks I undertake, it’s developed a bizarre complication.
I’m seated in a halo of light at my grandfather’s old oak desk. In one hand I hold a wooden cross about eighteen inches long, and in the other plastic figure of Jesus in a loincloth with His arms outstretched. I’m trying to get the two to fit together. On the desk is a tube of contact cement, and beside it a small bottle of epoxy. Both substances have utterly failed to accomplish their intended purpose. I’m about to go down to the basement to get the hot glue. But I can tell you right now, that’s isn’t going to work either.
The problem is that Jesus is warped. His hands and His feet are not on a level plane, so every time I try to stick Him down, He pops up again. This plastic is really tough stuff!
Finally I get so exasperated with the darned thing that I’m about to ready to use nails. At that point, I turn the whole mess over to Karen, who of course with her womanly arts accomplishes it easily.
And so to bed.

Only once before in her life have I heard Heather cry the way she cried that Christmas morning. The other time, we were in church singing worship songs. At least, Karen and I were singing. At that age, Heather was more likely to be reading, drawing, fidgeting, talking or rummaging around for food.
All at once, for no apparent reason, she burst into tears. Different kinds of crying have different sounds, and instantly I knew that this was no ordinary crying over a pinched finger or a thwarted desire. This was weeping. Have you ever heard a child weep? The crying of angels, I suppose, could hardly have a sound more surprising, more holy, more heartrendingly pure.
It went on for a long, long time, and when it ceased, our little girl looked like a freshly bloomed rose washed in dew in the first light of the morning.
Later, when we asked her what had happened, she said simply, “I saw an angel light.” Around then I was working on a book about angels, and I’d mentioned the fact that some people see angels not in the form of figures, but as colored lights.
Glancing up toward the church balcony that morning, Heather had seen a circular light composed of many beautiful colors. This is what had touched her heart, and for long afterwards, she referred to this experience as her ‘vision’.

Now it’s Christmas morning, and once again I’m hearing the sound of my daughter weeping. Only this time it’s not a vision she’s seeing; it’s something solid and tangible. An object.
The object Heather is crying over is a crucifix. Jesus on the cross.
Her crying was deep, savage, tender, wrenchingly repentant.
The crucifix is something she wanted. Asked for. I have one in my study, which I received as a gift at the age fifteen on the occasion of my confirmation in the Anglican Church. I did not become a Christian until fourteen years later, in the meantime sowing a lot of wild oats. But for some reason, wherever I went I kept that crucifix hanging on my wall.
Heather, looking at it one day, asked if she could have one for her room. I was pleased. Overjoyed, in fact. I’d far rather give her Jesus than Barbie.
So off I went to the Catholic bookstore (really more of a jewelry or hardware store) to stand in front of the “wailing wall” inspecting the crucifixes. I couldn’t find one that I liked. After all, it’s two days before Christmas, hardly the right season. Maybe their Easter stock was low.
In the end I had to buy the cross and the figure separately, and that is why I spent Christmas Eve trying to affix Jesus to His cross and finding out that He didn’t want to go.

The next day I could hardly wait for Heather to open her special present. But it had to be at the end, after the orgy of materialism was spent. That way, I reasoned, we could move easily into a time of family devotions. Every year this is a challenge, trying to slip the Bible in among the presents without Heather noticing.
This year, instead of the Christmas story from Luke, I planned to read the story of Good Friday and Easter. It would be a different sort of Christmas, a memorable one.
Yet never in my fondest imaginings could I have predicted just how different and memorable this Christmas was to be.
Heather’s sobbing went on and on卆nd on and on卲ar The three of us sat there huddling on the couch until, finally, it subsided. Heather still hadn’t taken the crucifix out of the box. Now she began to touch it, delicately, exploratively, and eventually she took it into her hands.
By this point it was clear that room was filling up with a kind of warm, rich, golden glow. All of us felt it. We were all teary, softened, bright-eyed, touched to the core. It was as if God Himself had opened us up like Christmas gifts, run His tender fingers all over us, and exposed our soft and real hearts.
What happened then was no canned devotional time, but the most beautiful spontaneous worship I have ever experienced. With God right there in the room, what else could we do but thank and praise Him, lift our voices in hymns and carols, and even get up and dance around the Christmas tree for pure joy!
Oh yes─Jesus would not stay on His cross that day! He would not be glued down and hung on a wall! For close to an hour, an eight-year-old girl completely forgot all the rest of her presents still waiting to be opened, and celebrated one present only, the one gift that she suddenly knew to be better than all other gifts in the world put together.
What came out of the box that Christmas morning was no crucifix, but Jesus Himself─Jesus alive, royally well, and bursting with happiness. This was more than a mere gift─it was the Giver Himself!
□Used by author’s permission