On a dark Christmas Eve long ago, a little boy knocked on a cottage door in the snowy woods. Looking out the window, Marie thought the boy had lost his way. Since he was so young, a family member must surely be searching for him. Fourcès was a small village in France, and someone must be able to help him find his way home.
“Can I please come inside?” cried the little child freezing in the sharp cold. He peered through the frosted kitchen window of the home of the poor woodcutter.
“Come sit by the fire,” said Valentine, the woodcutter’s only son, as he opened the cottage door. The flames crackled in the night. “It’s Christmas Eve, and you can’t be alone!”
“Oh, you poor thing!” said Marie, the woodcutter’s younger daughter, gently brushing snow from his cheeks. “You must be freezing!”
His cheeks were rosy, and his lips were bright pink. She looked deep into his eyes as if to catch a bit of his soul. She found the boy curious and brave.
The wooden floorboards creaked as the little boy entered the cottage.
Then, the wife of the woodcutter warmed the last of their supper stew for the boy. The scent of thyme and rosemary filled the home. It only had vegetables in it, and the boy could have probably used some meat, but it was the only food that the family had to share. The mother also gave him a warm cup of tea.
Sitting on the wooden side table was a bûche de Noël, set aside for Christmas dinner. Marie watched her mother make the Yule log cake earlier in the day. She was looking forward to eating the special treat filled with chocolate and buttercream.
Ten-year-old Marie knew that her parents did the best they could to provide for her and her brother. She was always happy when there was extra money for sweets and cakes. At age 12, Valentine was growing up so fast. He grew taller every day.
“Thank you, kind people,” the little boy whispered. He nibbled on day-old bread from their table. Marie wished that she had butter to give him. “I am far from home,” he said.
“So, what are you doing so far from home?” the mother asked. “Were you visiting your grandparents?”
“I’ve been on a journey. I know where I’m going,” the boy said. “It’s been lonely, but I’ve had angels with me.”
Marie looked at her mother, who didn’t seem to know what to say.
“I like to go on walks through the woods, too,” Marie said. “I would have felt scared if I got lost, but don’t worry. We’ll find your family somehow.”
Then, the woodcutter walked into the kitchen and noticed the young boy with a surprised look. All day, the woodcutter had been working in his workshop attached to the house. Sales were up, so he had been quite busy. He made the best wooden creations in town by hand: everything from tables, chairs, chests, bedframes, candlesticks, and more.
“Aren’t your family missing you, young man?” the woodcutter said with concern. “It’s too late to go looking for them tonight. Maybe they will find you tomorrow.”
“Papa, we saw him through the window, and he looked so cold,” Marie said.
“He doesn’t seem to know much about where his family is or why he is lost,” the mother said. “He might be too young to understand what we are asking.”
“Well, we must pray for his safe return,” the woodcutter insisted. “Now gather around the table for evening devotions. Usually, we would attend midnight Mass tonight, but it’s too much of an undertaking with our special visitor.”
Marie always looked forward to nighttime prayer, especially during the holidays. She felt warm in her heart when she heard her father pray for their family.
“Dear Heavenly Father, please bless this young boy, and lead us to his family,” the woodcutter prayed. “We ask for his safe return at Christmas. In Your Name, Amen.”
Then, Marie held hands with her brother and the young boy as her father read the scriptures. She always liked to hear the stories of faith and courage in the Bible.
“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost,” the father read from Isaiah 55 by candlelight.
The mother poured the last of their milk from the icebox for the young boy. Marie hoped the family cows would give more milk in the dawn.
“Let’s join in a round of ‘Silent Night,’” the mother suggested. She quietly sang the first verse of the carol. The rest of the family joined in with harmonies.
As the family and little child finished the carol, the father cheered: “Christmas Day is tomorrow! Now time for bed.”
Marie knew that her father and mother had saved money all year for the candies and treats the children would find in their stockings over the fireplace in the morning. The woodcutter had also carved each of them special toys.
“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” Marie said to the little child. “I will sleep on the kitchen bench instead.”
“How very sweet,” the child agreed. “You are so kind.”
“Our father made the bedframes and benches,” Valentine bragged. “He made all the woodwork. It’s so beautiful!”
“Thank you,” the little child said. He crawled into Marie’s bed beneath a soft, hand-stitched quilt, its raised patterns warm against the winter chill.
As the family settled into their beds, Marie tried to sleep on the hard bench with one pillow and a blanket.
“This definitely isn’t like sleeping in my bed,” Marie said. “I will hardly get any sleep at all . . .”
Unable to fall asleep, she watched the snow out the window with a star shooting into the distant night sky. She finally drifted to sleep.
Hours later, she was awakened by faint music floating through the walls.
The cottage felt different—warmer, somehow, as though lit from within by something more than firelight. Not a dream, Marie thought. The bench was so hard that she was sure she was awake. She sat up.
“Is that singing with harps?” Marie asked. “Who is singing?”
Valentine slipped into the kitchen to peer through the window. The children realized they were visited by angels. Their large wings and halos glistened as they floated in the night sky.
“Angels! Dressed in silver robes with golden harps and lutes,” Marie whispered to Valentine as her heart leapt.
While the cherubim and seraphim sang, a group of child-like angels gathered beside them in silver robes. Then, Marie and Valentine turned to see the little child standing next to them in a golden robe and crown. Light glowed all around him.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy,” the little child announced. “I am the Christ Child, the one of whom the angels sing.”
He opened the front door of the poor woodcutter’s home in the breaking dawn to sing and dance with the angels. Amidst the excitement, the woodcutter hurried to the front porch with his rifle. His wife stood beside him in a robe with her hair in a handkerchief.
“What is going on?” the woodcutter yelled, stunned at the gathering in front of his home.
“They are angels, Papa,” Marie said to her father in awe. “The little boy that we took in is the Christ Child. Don’t be afraid!”
After a moment, the woodcutter and his wife fell to their knees in reverence.
The angels continued to sing and dance with the Christ Child on the early Christmas morning in the French countryside. Marie, Valentine, and their parents joined in the celebration. They made merry music with the angels’ harps and lutes.
Then, the Christ Child broke a main branch of a nearby fir tree from its trunk.
“I bless you with the bough of this fir tree. Let this tree be a symbol of eternal life and joy,” the Christ Child declared. He planted the bough in the ground. “It will be the first Christmas tree. May its branches shelter love, and its roots grow deep in faith.”
The fir branch burst forth into the sky and grew into a full fir tree, decorated with golden apples, silver nuts, and wooden toys. Then, the child who was also God disappeared into the early morning air.
“Glory to God,” the woodcutter called into the fields. “Who am I that you would choose me, a humble servant?”
Marie knew that her father was the kindest, most honest person in the village. He never cheated anyone from money. Once, someone overpaid him, and he gave them the money back without hesitation. He also always gave to people in need, even when he had very little.
Marie and Valentine took the gifts from the tree and delivered them to the other homes in the town. They kept a few of their favorite gifts for themselves. Marie knew she must always remember the visitation of the Christ Child. What if she had left him outside in the cold?
“We must never forget what just happened, even if no one believes us,” Marie told Valentine on their way home.
“No one may believe us,” Valentine said, “but that doesn’t make it any less real.”
“I know he is real,” Marie said, as she pinched herself. “I gave him my bed, and the bench was very hard for the night.”
To this day, children everywhere decorate Christmas trees in honor of the little child. They remember the faithfulness of the woodcutter and his family, who welcomed the Christ Child as a stranger and received him as one of their own.
Copyright 2021, 2025 Jennifer Waters
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