Christmas presents.

Do you remember what it was like to be three years old? How you are always being told what to do and adults have very mysterious rules that you try to figure out?

Shortly after my third birthday, my parents moved from the country to the city for my Dad's new job. I hated it.

I no longer had the meadow to play in with bugs to watch or the neighbour's old dog to play with. Across from our city apartment was a park. Its grass was cut short, you could not touch the flowers, and there were ugly cold metal monkey bars instead of trees to climb. Besides, the older children hogged the play equipment, everything smelled of what I later learned was herbicide, and even at home I had to be quiet so as not to disturb our neighbours living downstairs. The only time I pointed out a bug in the apartment hallway, our next door neighbour screamed and stepped on it. Hmm... another rule: bugs outside are beautiful but bugs inside are not.

When fall turned into winter, my parents told me that the birthday of the Baby Jesus was drawing near. It seemed everyone had parties for him, but it also seemed that I was too young to attend them as most parties were held after my bedtime.

Then one day my parents explained that my Dad's boss was having a Christmas party that evening and since they could not get a babysitter (baby sitter! I was three years old--almost grown up and definitely no longer a baby!) I was to go as well. Because I was well behaved, I would be given a bedroom to sleep in upstairs, where I was to touch nothing!

So we went that night to the boss's Christmas party. The boss's house looked like a scene straight out of a Christmas card, snow on the evergreens, candles at the windows, and a welcoming stream of golden light that shone into the darkness as the front door opened.

I walked into the entrance hallway, dazzled by the sudden light after the darkness outside. As my eyes adjusted, I saw what must surely be a Christmas angel--after all, they had announced the Christ Child's birth so it made sense they would also attend his birthday party. There in the hallway was a beautiful graceful figure, tall--at least to a three-year-old--and swathed in a rainbow and glittering with gold. I stared, mouth open, as the adults smiled. "Are you an angel?" I asked.

"No, dear," she replied as she crouched down to talk to me at my own level. "I am a children's doctor and this is my special Christmas sari. Would you like to touch it?"

So I felt the gorgeous fabric, so vibrant in colour and so silky smooth. Surely an angel's wing would feel like this? Which thought brought me back to my main concern. "So where is the Baby Jesus?" I asked. After all, every birthday party I had been to so far had had the guest of honour present.

"He is in the living room", the boss's wife replied. "Come see him". And she led me by the hand past a beautifully decorated Christmas tree to the creche. I was very disappointed.

"That's not him," I announced, pointing at the figurine.

The hostess, a wisewoman, quickly said, "You are right, dear. He lives in our hearts and this crib scene is only to remind us of him."

A few fancy sandwiches before being led off to bed did not fully heal my disappointment. Still all adults. Still no child my own age to play with. I fell asleep in the bed almost at once, after once again being reminded not to poke or pry in the room and to touch nothing. I woke up to find another beautiful lady, holding a baby, seating herself on the bed.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"This is the Baby Jesus, the Christ Child," she replied.

"The party is downstairs," I informed her helpfully. "I am supposed to be quiet and asleep."

"We will go there next, and attend many other parties this night besides, but first we wanted to visit with you." She smiled. "You really want a baby brother or sister, don't you?"

I nodded.

"Well, remember that, no matter what, the Baby Jesus is always your big brother."

"He is too small," I said. After all, a three-year-old was almost grown up. Two-year-olds were no better than babies and this child was definitely smaller than that.

"He is older than he looks," she said mildly.

I looked closer to be sure. The sleepy baby stirred and smiled. On impulse I held out my hand and his tiny hand wrapped itself round my finger, very strong and very warm and very comforting and very trusting.

"No matter how old you are, he will always be older, your big brother," she said.

I was unconvinced. Once again adults were saying strange things. I wanted a real younger brother or sister, not some promise nor an older brother who looked a lot younger.

She continued, "Your parents know you are unhappy. They have been looking for a new house for you, one with grass and bugs. And when they find it, I will send you a real friend."

My mind was still confused, but I remembered my parents saying something about God being the Christ Child's father.

"Are you Mrs. God?" I asked politely.

She smiled gently and shook her head. "No dear, but your new friend will have my name. Now we must leave you and visit those other parties."

I fell back asleep.

Later the following spring, my parents moved into a house, one with grass and honest-to-goodness bugs in the garden. Two doors away I found my first real best friend, a girl my own age named Mary. And ever since, all my life, no matter where I moved, I have always had a real best friend, a real soul sister, named Mary.

As I grew up, I found out that the beautiful lady's other promise was also true, that I did in fact have a big brother who could be simultaneously older and younger than me, who was always warm and trusting, comforting and strong.

What's more, it turned out everyone else had the same big brother. And if we had the same big brother, that made them all my brothers and sisters too, right? Including you.