By Jesse Jose

A Cup O' Kapeng Barako

Pasko na!

Those words fill me with gladness. Because to me that means joy and happiness and the laughter of children ... and sharing all those happy, joyful things with family and good friends.

It's a Christmas Tree, twinkling lights and of gift-giving ... and about those long-lost friends who surface once a year with their Christmas cards greeting us, Merry Christmas. 

It's the Midnight Mass and the Simbang Gabi, and greeting each other "peace be with you" in church. It's the noche buena, the mano po, ninong, mano po ninang ... and the lull in fighting between enemies. 

It's the arrival of the "good news" ... and  peace and goodwill to all men.  To me, that is PASKO.

"... For behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.  For today in the city of David a Savior has been born for you who is Christ and Lord.  And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in the manger. And suddenly there was a multitude of the heavenly host with the angel, praising God and saying:

                             "Glory to God in the highest

                             "And on earth peace to those on whom His favor rests."—Luke 2:1-4

Yes! Christ is the REASON for the season. I believe that with all my heart. I also believe that Christmas is about kindness ...

What follows is a story about kindness that was sent to me by a good friend Gerry that I wish to share with all my earthling-and-cyberspace friends, and that includes Don Azarias of Chicago, too. (Pare, pasko na, 'wag ka nang magalit). 

A nd, of course also, with all of you, my Dear Readers. Get your Kleenex or your hankies out, for Christmas can be sad, too, for some. This was written by a cab driver who preferred to remain anonymous and was titled "The Cab Ride (the Day Before Christmas)."  Enjoy: 

QUOTE.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn.

After waiting a few minutes, I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman who was probably in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued in a soft voice. "The doctor says I don't have very long to live." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As sunset was soon coming, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said. “Merry Christmas.”

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you. And have a Merry Christmas, too."

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the fading afternoon light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life . . .

UNQUOTE.

PS: And that to me is the heart of Christmas: the KINDNESS that that cab driver has shown to that dying old woman. A kindness that became a "little moment of joy" for that old woman. Joy to the world, the Lord hath come. Pasko na! JJ