By Allie Lincoln
Love is the key to steps in a journey of hope.
The cotton fabric finally fills my icy hands with warmth as I pull on my purple gloves. The paper full of song lyrics flutters back and forth in my shaking hands. I glance up at the silvery glow of the moon. It added just enough brightness to provide the house in front of me with a single spotlight. Darkness crept through that very house. It seemed as if the entire neighborhood lay asleep. The chorus of angels standing in Mary Briscoe’s front lawn told otherwise.
Whispers float around, almost traveling as a soft breeze. Only the occasional flashlight sparks a flicker of color. We wait patiently for the signal. Soon, it comes, a ghostly hand waving from the porch. Voices begin to arise.
“Angels we have heard on high sweetly singing o’er the plains, and the mountains in reply echoing their joyous strains.”
Lights blink on from inside the now wide-awake house. A small smile reaches my numb lips. The curtain. A ever so slight movement catches my eye. The curtain pushes back to reveal a face-a face of hope.
“Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright.”
My attention transfers to the heavenly voices humming around me. Some people sing on perfect pitch, while other voices wobble to and fro. Love surrounds me. Children scream the familiar tunes and adults mouth the lyrics. It didn’t matter the way, everyone was showing their support.
A creak leads my eyes to the opening wood door. There sat my first grade teacher. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and a polka-a-dot scarf tied tightly around her now bare head. Her trembling hands clasp each other, and she sways slightly with the music. Her eyes, so full of memories, life, love, and hope, were now brimming with silent tears.
“We wish you a Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year.”
The last note echoes proud and strong. A gust of air sweeps over us, and an utter silence moves around the crowd. Finally, two arms of a stranger envelop my past teacher. A line forms, so that each individual gets an opportunity to spend a moment embracing and murmuring a sentence or two to her. When the time comes for me to go up, I bite my lip to keep the tears from falling.
“I love you, sweetie,” she sighs, her eyes beaming with thankfulness.
My teacher was diagnosed with brain cancer that Christmas. Our community came together to give her hope. She needed to understand that we would be there for her during everything she would have to endure. She was there for us, and now it was time for us to show our life-long mentor how she changed our lives. She will never be alone. Love is precious. It comes and goes, but it never entirely leaves our hearts.
Floyd Central Visionary 