I sighed heavily and sat on the hamper, hands clasped between my legs. It was the easiest way to keep my hands warm. I glanced at my parents' bedroom door. My dad hadn't come out for awhile now, and I was worried. Like I had been for the past few weeks. I ran my hand through my dirty blonde hair, and wiped the grease on my ripped jeans. My sweater was too big for me as it was Caleb's. Caleb was my older brother. The fifteen­year­old had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, like our dad. He was walking down the narrow hall. He wore a threadbare sweater that had holes in the elbows and his light blue jeans were stained and dirty. He stopped by me. "Dad come out yet, Malachi?" Caleb asked. I shook my head. Caleb stared at the door intently. "She'll be okay. Don't worry about it," he said finally. He ruffled my hair and went into the living room. How could I not worry about it? My mom was sick, perhaps dying, and Caleb was telling me not to worry about it? Just because I was the "little bro", only seven­years­old, didn't mean I didn't know stuff. Like how Martha, my sister, was probably getting sick too. And how Dad had lost his job and was worried how he was going to feed and clothe three growing children. "And how there's not going to be a Christmas this year," I muttered. A tear ran down my dirty cheek. Feeling embarrassed, though no one was around, I wiped it away hurriedly. Christmas had always been my favorite time of the year. It was the one time of the year where Mom and Dad were actually smiling real smiles. Not those fake smiles to make us kids "feel better". We were still poor, and our house was still cold. There was still not enough food and hardly any presents. But it was the warm, cozy feeling that I always felt was what made Christmas so wonderful. I jumped a little, startled by the creaking of the door. My dad came out of the bedroom, carrying the smell of medicine and sickness with him. He looked surprised to see me sitting on the hamper. "Malachi," he said, frowning a little. "What are you doing?" "Waiting for you." "How's Mom?" Caleb asked, having suddenly appeared by me. "Not good," Dad sighed. Seeing the crestfallen look on his sons, he quickly added, " But not worse either. She might make it." He gave us a reassuring smile, and then walked into the living room. He plopped down on the couch, and stared into space. I slid off the hamper, and stood by Caleb, who was standing behind the couch. Dad stood up and paced the floor for awhile. Then he knelt by a chair, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed. Caleb nudged me, indicating that we should leave Dad in peace to pray. I looked up at my brother, and nodded mutely. We went into the room we shared with our sister. The twelve­year­old was at her desk, writing as usual. Her light brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. Her jeans and shirt were thin and tattered. The jacket she wore had seen much better days. "How's Mom?" Martha asked, when she noticed us come in. Her voice was raspy, like she had been recently been coughing. She insisted it was nothing ­ just the typical winter cold everyone got. But the rattling in her chest said otherwise. "Not better, but not worse," Caleb replied. "According to Dad." I sat in a bean bag chair that had lost most of its beans. Caleb lay down on the bed. The bed was lower in the middle than the rest of it, for most of the wooden boards that supported it, had broken. "We should do something for her," Martha said. "Like what?" Caleb said skeptically. "We can't cook. We can't make her better. There's nothing." "We could get her a present for Christmas." "With what money?" That quieted Martha. For a few minutes at least. "You're always so pessimistic," she said finally. Caleb shot up. "No, I'm honest. I know we don't have money, and there's nothing we can do for Mom, so just be quiet about it!" he snapped. He lay back down on the bed, face turned away from Martha. Martha sighed and turned back to the desk. Her shoulders shook as she cried. Then there was silence, and then she started to pray. "Dear Lord Jesus," she whispered. "Please make Mom better. I know I've prayed this for weeks now, but You haven't done anything. Please help Dad get a job so he can buy medicine. We need You to help us through this difficult time. Please. Amen." I felt my eyes well up with tears, and I rubbed them. I stood and left the room. I wandered down the hallway, and peered into the living room. Dad was still praying. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and went to my parents' bedroom. I turned the doorknob and glanced inside the room. "Malachi. Close the door and come over here." I obeyed and shut the door behind me. I walked slowly over to the bed. My mother, skeletal and pale, lay in the midst of thin blankets. She reached out a bony hand. I clutched it, tears threatening again. She looked so weak and helpless, that I could hardly take it. "I love you, Malachi," she rasped. I could only nod. I pressed the hand that held my mother's against my cheek. "I might see Jesus tonight," Mom said. "What do you want me to tell Him?" I didn't answer; I couldn't. A weary smile crept across my mother's lips when she felt tears run over her hand. "W­what do you w­want for Christmas, M­mom?" I whispered shakily. "Just your love," she replied. I shook my head. "No. Something real, something you can touch or hold." "I don't want anything sweetie. I've got everything in the world right here." I nodded glumly. I just stood there with my mom, taking in her features, in case I might never see them again. "Can you tell Jesus to take good care of you until I can come be with you?" I asked, voice thick. "Of course," she replied, her own voice thick. She gently touched my shoulder, and pulled her hand back to the bed. "Now be a good boy and go tell Daddy I want him," she said. "Okay." I started to leave the room, when I noticed something. A bare foot was peeking out from underneath the blankets. I took a quick look around the room. No shoes or socks around. Deep in thought, I left the room, and saw Dad standing by the door. I started to stammer an apology for being in there without permission, but he interrupted. "It's okay, son," he said. He hugged me tightly, and then let me go. "Does Mommy want me?" "Yes." Dad opened the door and shut it behind him. I gazed at the door thoughtfully. An idea was beginning to form in my mind. * * * I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, impatient. Would this line ever move? Someone bumped me from behind, and the box threatened to fall out of my hands. I grabbed it tightly, and turned around to see who hit me. The man behind me didn't look angry or impatient. He was just staring off into space, humming a little. I decided it couldn't have been him, and so I turned back around. I was at the shoe store ­ the third one today. In the box I held were the softest, warmest shoes I could find. I wasn't sure what size my mom wore, but I tried to guess. I moved the box to one hand so I could reach into my pocket with the other. The five dollar bill was still there. I had been keeping that money for a long time. I had found it under a dumpster almost a year ago. I hadn't wanted to give it to my dad, in case I found a better use for it. So here I was now, standing in an impossibly long line to buy my mom some Christmas shoes. "Next!" It was finally my turn. I placed the box on the counter, which was only a few inches shorter than me. The clerk looked down at me. He had a round, red face, and the shirt he wore looked a little snug. He looked at the man behind me. "This kid yours?" he asked. The man looked down at me too, and shook his head. I decided to speak up. "Sir, I want to buy these shoes," I said. The clerk just stared at me with a skeptical look on his face. "For my mama, please," I added. "You see, she's been sick for quite awhile, and I know these shoes will make her smile." "Look kid, you're gonna have to pay for these. I'm sorry for your mom, but I still need money for these shoes," the clerk said. I smiled and reached into my pocket. "I know. Here," I said, handing him the worn, dirty bill. The clerk examined the five dollar bill, wiping some of the grime away from it. He looked at me, then the bill, then at me again. "I'm sorry, kid. This ain't gonna cover it," he said, almost regretfully. I was taken aback. "But ­ but ­ but why?" I stammered, not understanding. "It's not enough money," he replied, bluntly. "But I want her to look pretty for when she meets Jesus tonight!" I cried. I don't know why I said that; I must have been desperate. The clerk didn't say anything, and he didn't look at me. I felt so disappointed, that I didn't look at him either. I reached for the shoes to take them back to the shelf. Suddenly a hand was placed on top of the box, preventing me from taking it. I looked up. "How much are these shoes?" the man behind me asked. I was so overcome by surprise that I couldn't speak. "Er… Twenty dollars with tax," the clerk replied, also surprised. The man pulled out his wallet. I examined him. I didn't want someone poor to pay for these shoes. But he didn't look poor. He had a loose­fitting beige sweater and dark blue jeans. His face and hair weren't dirty, and he smelled like nice aftershave. "Here you are," the man said, handing some bills to the clerk. The clerk shook his head, bemused by the whole situation. He placed the money in the register, and put the shoes into a bag. He handed the bag to me. "Thank you!" I exclaimed to the man. I felt like hugging him, but even though he had helped me, he was still a stranger. "You're welcome," the man replied. His voice was soft and pleasant. "I know your mama's going to look beautiful for Jesus." I nodded, too happy to speak. I walked, rather quickly, to the front of the store to leave. I glanced back behind me. The man was making his own purchases at the counter. Still smiling, I ran out of the store for home. The bag banged against my legs as I ran, and the cold snow seeped into my old, worn out shoes. But I didn't care. My mom was going to be so happy with my present. Just the thought of her happy, smiling face, made me run even faster. I threw open the rusty door of my house, yelling: "Mama, mama! Look what I got you!"