When he was still up in heaven, waiting to be born, the child wondered what he might bring with him down to earth to help him through the ordeal he knew awaited him. He looked around his father's grand and heavenly home. Arches of the purest gold supported a roof of clouds. Floors of downy cloud muffled the sound of his footsteps. A chandelier glowed with the radiance of his father's voice. But these things he surely could not bring with him down to earth for they were far too grand for the son of a carpenter.

The child walked through his father's gardens. A bush burned infinitely with the fire of his father's wrath. No, that would not do. A white dove cooed from her perch on the branch of an olive tree, her feathers shone like brilliant snow. But it would be cruel to remove her from her peaceful retirement, for she had already weathered quite a storm and her job on Earth was done.

The child knelt down on the pebble path. Perhaps a pebble would do. A tiny drop of stone, a tiny remembrance. But when he scooped up the pebbles in his hands, they melted into salty tears and fell through his palms like rain back onto the path.

No. There was nothing he could take from the garden.

Out behind the garden lay his father's barn. The child walked through the barn in wonderment. It was as tall as the heavens and as long as the earth and in it lived every animal his father had ever imagined: winged horses and flying serpents, owls with golden feathers and giraffes with two necks - an infinite menagerie of impossibilities. Perhaps in this place he could find some small token: a naked mole rat that glowed neon blue, a tiny sparrow that caused the sun to rise and set every time it sang. But none of these precious wonders would survive in the world of men.

The child's father, who had been watching him this whole time, approached him as he emerged from the barn.

"What is it you seek, my beloved son," the father asked.

"Oh, Father," the child said. "I seek but one tiny bit of remembrance to take with me before I go."

"But you can take nothing with you, for you will arrive into the world naked and helpless."

The child hung his head and his father's heart, which was already breaking in two could not bear any further sadness.

"Here is what I shall give to you," he said. "I shall give you two tiny hands with five fingers each so you can reach out and grasp those who love you most.

"I shall give you two eyes, shining and clear so that you may gaze upon those who love you most.

"I shall give you two ears, sharp and true so that you may hear the words of love from those who love you most.

"And, my dear son, I shall give you two parents, to whom you shall be most precious and through them you shall always know my love.

"This is all I can give you."

The child nodded and was happy. He closed his eyes, stepped forward into his father's embrace and awoke in a manger.

Resa Randolph is a singer/songwriter, writer, artist and woodcarver living in Rockport.

Transformations
We tell stories.
We tell stories to make sense of our lives.
We tell stories to communicate our experience of being alive.
We tell stories in our own distinct voice. Our own unique rhythm and tonality.

Transformations is a weekly story-telling column. The stories are written by community members who are my students. Our stories are about family, love, loss and good times. We hope to make you laugh and cry. Maybe we will convince you to tell your stories.
— Kathrin Seitz, editor, and Cheryl Durbas, co-editor

"Everyone, when they get quiet, when they become desperately honest with themselves, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there." — Henry Miller

Kathrin Seitz teaches Method Writing in Rockport, New York City and Florida. She can be reached at kathrin@kathrinseitz.com. Cheryl Durbas is a freelance personal assistant in the Midcoast area. She can be reached at cheryldurbas@tidewater.net.