There was a little crippled boy who ran a small newsstand in a crowded railway station. He must have been about twelve years old. Every day he would sell papers, candy, gum, and magazines to the thousands of commuters passing through the terminal

One night two men were rushing through the crowded station to catch a train. One was fifteen or twenty yards in front of the other. It was Christmas Eve. The train was scheduled to depart in a matter of minutes.

The first man turned a corner and in his haste to get home to a Christmas cocktail party plowed right into the little crippled boy. He knocked the boy off his stool. Candy, newspapers, and gum were scattered everywhere. Without so much as stopping, he cursed the little fellow for being there and rushed on to catch the train that would take him to celebrate Christmas in a way he had chosen for himself.

It was only a matter of seconds before the second commuter arrived on the scene. He stopped, knelt, and gently picked up the boy. After making sure the child was unhurt, the man gathered up the scattered newspaper, sweets, and magazines. Then he took out his wallet and gave the boy a five-dollar bill. "Son," he said, "I think this will take care of what was lost or soiled. Merry Christmas!"

Without waiting for a reply the commuter picked up his brifcase and started to hurry away. As he did, the little crippled boy cupped his hands together and called out: "Mister! Mister!" The man stopped as the boy asked, "Are you Jesus Christ?"

By the look on his face, it was obvious the commuter was embarrassed by the question. But he smiled and said, "No son, I am not Jesus Christ, but I am trying hard to do what He would do if He were here."

And that, my friend, is what it means to be a Christian, even on Christmas Eve. It's a matter of impersonation.

-- by Tom Anderson
American Opinion, 12/71