The earnest innocence with which an entirely impractical gift was offered has long made The Little Drummer Boy a favorite of mine. I can imagine it going something like this:
He had the look of every boy who’s been roused from play and made ‘presentable’, his hair hastily tamed with limited success. He carried with him a small drum – a scrap of sheepskin on a simple wooden frame. Something to keep him occupied.
He had arrived with his mother – apparently the nearest thing to a midwife in the neighborhood – who had come after being summoned by the innkeeper after he found a woman giving birth in his stable.
The birth, with its attendant sights and sounds and fluids, hadn’t seemed to bother the boy; this clearly wasn’t his first go-around. His eyes got wide, however, when the Easterns walked in.
Their dress was odd but clearly of fine cut and quality – a stark contrast to the rough homespun field clothes of the shepherds who had come and gone earlier. If the visit and story of the shepherds was strange, that of the Easterns was doubly so.
Something about a special star they had seen and followed for many days until they arrived here. I wish I could remember the details, but one can only send so much across the language barrier, and I was also exhausted from the trip and labor.
One thing I do remember is the exotic smell of their gifts. Expensive aromas that cost more than all we had. They treated us like we were royalty, though I don’t why really know why. Something about the baby.
I don’t know if the boy was prompted by their presentation of gifts, but after they left he stood before us with his drum.
The boy asked Mary if he could give the baby a gift. After a quick glance of confirmation to the boy’s mother, Mary gave a tired smile and nodded. I thought he would lay the drum alongside the incense from the Easterns, but instead he began tapping out a rhythm of sorts.
He didn’t sing to accompany his playing, though he did hum quietly and intermittently, as if drumming along to a melody only he could hear.
His face screwed up in concentration, he played with the solemnity of a performance in the grand halls of Jerusalem, and when the last beat sounded, he looked at the baby, then up at Mary, his face holding an expression of fragile and innocent pride, awaiting confirmation that his gift was received with the spirit in which it was given.
Mary smiled at him and laid a tender hand of thanks on his cheek. “That was wonderful.”
His mother stepped forward then. “Let the baby sleep now.” She ushered him to the far corner of the stable where they sat to have a bit of bread to eat. As I settled Mary for a rest I could hear the boy recounting in excited whispers to his mother the details of his performance.
I never did get his name.
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