When I was a little girl, Santa Claus not only brought new toys, he mended beloved old ones. Every year early in December I would write a note to the jolly old saint, “Dear Santa, please fix Rosie!”
Rosie was an old rag doll, much battered, whose kind embroidered eyes viewed the uncertainties of my childhood with calm reassurance. I had other dolls, but none was so close to my heart as Rosie. I took care of the other dolls. Ragged though she was, Rosie took care of me. So every December with a parting pang, I would place her on the table with my note to Santa pinned on her torn dress and go to bed lonely but hopeful. I never knew exactly what happened to Rosie on those pre-Christmas trips. All I knew was that every year she came back, torn dresses mended almost as good as new.
I still have Rosie with her limp cotton arms. On her sweet embroidered face is a relaxed and sleeping look as if she knows her mission in this world is over. She now dreams those dreams sacred to faithful retired rag dolls.
And now at Christmas time when once again the world turns to the ancient story of rebirth, when the exchange of presents among friends expresses our longing for a peaceful world I find in my heart among all these things a place for the memory of Rosie’s annual restoration.
Surely in the renewed blossoming of a little child’s favorite doll lies the meaning of the miracle behind the Christmas story, through which we too can be reborn…the simple miracle of understanding love.
- by Frieda Marion