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What child is this?

Olga Regehr

About 20 years ago, on a Christmas Eve afternoon, my husband and I were sitting in the living room waiting – waiting for the child that had been promised to us. What kind of child would it be? We did not know.


All was in readiness – a nine-foot tree with sparkling lights hugged the high cedar ceiling, presents were neatly stacked under the tree, and a wood fire had been lit in the fireplace. Added to all this was the aroma of Christmas baking and cooking.

Two days prior to this, my daughter Dorothy had telephoned and said, “Mom, I know that you won’t like this, but please say ‘Yes.’ You know that I am working at the St. Amant Centre for handicapped children. All the little boys and girls here have a place to go to at Christmas – except poor, little five-year-old Anthony. He has no family to go to. May I bring him home for Christmas? Please?”

I was caught off guard. I had envisioned a quiet Christmas, with just family and friends – certainly not with strangers. I was tired of computer printouts, arguments, people milling about and noise. Christmas to me meant stability, relaxation and bonding with the family.

But I also knew “the Jesus way”. I replied, ”Bring him home, Dorothy.” Even after my daughter warned me that this child was mentally challenged, I still insisted that it could be done. We would simply childproof our living room, and all would be fine. My daughter mumbled something about being forever grateful and hung up.

Now we were waiting. The doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was my daughter, her fiancé David and little Anthony, looking more like a three-year-old than a five-year-old. He looked at me with frightened brown eyes – his hair neatly combed, his trousers carefully pressed and a white shirt showing through his open parka. I took to him immediately.

“I am so glad you came, Anthony. We were waiting for you,” I said.

“Mom,” Dorothy explained apologetically, “Anthony cannot speak, and we don’t know whether he can hear.”

I stepped back in surprise and thought how dreadful it must be not to hear at Christmastime, not to hear the Christmas story or Christmas carols. Furthermore, how terrible it must be not to be able to speak up for oneself. And how terrible to be all alone. How could a small, homeless, voiceless child fend for himself in a big, hostile world? What chances did such a child have? None, I said to myself, practically none. I began to love this little child with his almost insurmountable challenges.

We went into the living room, and Anthony sat down ever so lightly on the couch, his terrified eyes looking at the tree, then at the fireplace and then at the presents. His eyes repeated this pattern over and over again. He was like a little trapped bird trying to find a way out. No one had been able to explain to Anthony beforehand where he was going and what was about to happen. He simply could not hear or understand.

By now, everyone in the room was in love with Anthony, and we were all prepared to give him the best Christmas possible. The kids took him tobogganing, played with him, watched television with him and even gave him a shining red fire truck. He was the centre of attention. When we went to the Christmas Eve program at church, Anthony was confused and cried. We took him back to the house early, even though it cut somewhat into our own enjoyment. At night, when he sat up in bed and stared relentlessly at the door, I sat with him for hours, gently talking and singing to him until he finally dozed off. I could appreciate that everything was new and unexplained to him and that he was afraid. On Christmas Day, when the festivities were over, Anthony was taken back to the St. Amant Centre.

After Anthony was gone, we asked ourselves, “What child was this?” He had been a child so powerful that he had been able to direct our attention from the glittering, gift-loaded Christmas tree to a tiny trembling heart. He had bonded our family in the act of sharing Christmas.

I can’t remember what gifts I received that Christmas, nor whether the turkey was done to perfection. All I can clearly recall is a little frightened child who came to spend Christmas with us. What child was this? Had the good Lord visited and blessed our home that Christmas as it says in Matthew 18:5: “Whoever welcomes a little child like this in My name welcomes Me”?

Olga Regehr shared this story on Christmas Eve, December 24, 1999, at Mclvor Avenue MB Church in Winnipeg.

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Last modified December 7, 2001.

© 2001 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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