Aaron Christianson sat absent-mindedly rubbing the cast on his right arm as Mr. Grimes, the Middle School principal, finished up his devotional to begin the second semester.

“Boys, it’s so wonderful to have y’all back with us.  I like holidays as much as anyone, but I also miss you young men when we aren’t in session.  For you 8^th graders, this is your last semester of Middle School.  Make the most of it.  I want to finish today with a ‘Christmas Miracle.’  I’ve gotten Andrew Smitherman’s permission to tell it. 

“Some of you will remember that Andrew lost his backpack right before exams. Well, two members of the Ames maintenance staff found the backpack during their big cleanup over the holidays. I don’t know where they found it, but they turned it in to Lost and Found.  When I called Andrew’s parents–now, men, you need to be proud of this–the Smithermans couldn’t believe it.  When Andrew and his mom picked up the backpack, his wallet and his money and his debit card and everything of value were still in there. They were so appreciative of our Honor Code.  It works, guys, because of you. I know the Lord works in mysterious ways, but I also know that your sense of honor makes our school community what it is.  Let’s pray.” 

Walking to class, Aaron wasn’t sure what role God played in the lives of backpacks.

Last semester, he had started Thanksgiving break with the second highest average in his 8^th grade U.S. History class.  Andrew, his best friend, had the highest.  When a couple of other boys were talking about their families going skiing over Christmas break, Aaron came home one night in late November and declared:

“I want to go skiing out West for Christmas instead of presents.”

His father didn’t say anything, but his mother, the attorney, and ever the motivator, was silent at first, then responded, “I’m sorry, Aaron.  There may not be enough time to plan such a trip.  Places will be mostly booked up by now.”

Aaron refused to show his disappointment.  He was a tall, awkward third-stringer on the basketball team, with his father was pushing him to become an athlete and him believing it could happen.  He could still be the kind of boy who skied.

“But we can try,” his mother said, “if it means that much to you.”   

Aaron nodded. 

“There’s a catch, though,” she said. “That will be an expensive trip, way more expensive than what we would normally spend on your Christmas.  So here’s my offer, Aaron, a quid pro quo we call it in the law:  you earn the highest grade on the history semester exam and we will go to Colorado or Utah.  I’ll try to book the trip tentatively.  You don’t make it, and we’ll run up to North Carolina where they also ski, more modestly.”

Aaron took the deal.  His parents were very athletic and had to be pleased.

Tuesday, the week before semester exams, he got up early from the lunch table.  “I’m going to the bookstore to look for a present for my mother.” 

His friends looked up at him.  They knew he and his mother were not close.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to charge it to her,” he said.

They laughed, and Andrew said, “Typical Aaron.”

On the way out of the dining hall, he stopped where they had left their backpacks and picked up Andrew’s, put it on as if it were his own, and, on the way to the bookstore, walked into the Fine Arts building, which kept its doors unlocked so that students could use the bathrooms. 

The building seemed to be empty, and the light in the Men’s bathroom was turned off.  He flipped the switch and went in.  He put Andrew’s backpack in the bottom of the trash canister and covered it with as many paper towel sheets as he thought would look normal.  He wet some of them.  He wiped the floor with the wet towels and put the dirty side up when he put them over the backpack so that no one would want to touch them.  Then he kept spitting on everything until he made himself stop.

When he returned to the dining hall, his friends were coming out. 

“Where’s your present?” Andrew asked.

“I couldn’t find anything.  The clothes looked cheap.  She wouldn’t wear them.”

As they were picking up their backpacks, Andrew couldn’t find his.  They all spread farther out, looking among the many packs for his blue one.  There were other blue ones, but not his.  Andrew started to panic.  Aaron thought he might cry. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll bet somebody picked up yours by mistake.  They’ll figure it out when they open it.  Let’s stop by the Middle School Secretary’s office on our way to class and get them to send out an email that it’s missing.”  He put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

Aaron got the highest grade on the exam.  Andrew did not get a A+ in a class for the first time. 

At the Breckenridge Ski Resort, Aaron broke his wrist on the morning of the second day after a miserable first day of trying to stay on his feet and to control where he was going.  He was glad not to have to ski anymore and, on painkillers, read in the lodge while his parents skied for three more days. 

In early February, his mother drove him after school to get his cast removed. “Aaron,” she began, “you had some bad luck skiing, but I’m proud of you for wanting to learn, all because you achieved your history goal.”  

That was her goal.  He sat silently.  The grade was meaningless to him.  And she was wrong.  He had enjoyed the pain.  Each throb reminded him of his misguided desire.  But he knew now that he could do what he had to do to get what he wanted.  That was better than a present.

– Bob Bires