It was Christmastime 1974. I was ten years old, but I was not looking forward to Christmas. The previous spring my mother had moved our family from rural Alabama to sunny Southern California. My little brother Todd, and I were leaving behind all of our extended family. This would be my first Christmas away from Alabama.

I was a fat, awkward child with a high-pitched voice and a heavy southern accent. My first day at my new school, I went to the front of my fourth grade class to introduce myself. All I said was my name and where I was from. The class burst into laughter with jeers of “He talks funny”. It took the teacher two minutes to restore order.

I was so disappointed that I went to a gas station afterschool and used the phone booth (亭子) there to place a call to my grandmother. I was going to ask her whether I could return to Alabama and live with her and whether she would send me the money for a bus ticket home. But the line was busy, and despite several attempts, I didn’t get through.

My Granny was everything good about Christmas. Her language of love was food. She would spend weeks cooking for Christmas Eve when all of her children and grandchildren would gather at her house. Every favorite dish dessert and cakes was made. Her table and sideboard groaned (发吱嘎声) under the weight of the food. My cousins, my brother and I would burst through her backdoor, our arrival announced by the rhyme of five silver bells, which hung on the door. Her house was tiny but to us children, it was glorious.

She sewed new night dresses for all of her grandchildren. She searched catalogs, newspaper advertisements, and stores all over town to get us exactly the toys we had requested. She was my comfort. She was magical. I missed her desperately.

Fortunately, there was only one week left before the Christmas break. I was longing for my familiar southern Christmas.

The next morning, a large enough package from Granny was delivered to our new house.

Just then the phone rang.

Mike was a big fan of football. When he was ten years old, he was admitted to join his first football team. As soon as he got home that day, he put on his uniform and admired himself in front of the mirror.

“I’m a real football player!” He said to himself and pretended to practise football.

“What are you doing, silly boy?” asked his older sister.

“I’m practising football,” said Mike.

“When people practise football, they usually use a ball,” his sister laughed.

Mike then found a football in the basement and hurried back to his room, posing with the ball in front of the mirror, again.

The next day, Mike met his teammates on the playground. The coach taught them how to kick and run after the ball. He taught them how to throw the ball in from the sidelines, using two hands while keeping both feet on the ground. Finally, they had a practice game.

It turned out that playing football was a lot harder than it looked. Every time Mike was about to kick the ball, someone else kicked it away from him. When Mike threw the ball in from the sideline, he forgot to keep both feet on the ground. The only thing that Mike was good at was cheering. Whoever scored, he would jump up and cheer for them.

On the weekend, Mike’s team was invited to take part in its first real competition with the Sun. Mike’s family all came to watch. Mike chased the ball up and down, with excitement. It came as no surprise that their team lost the match. Even so, he kept cheering for anyone who scored.

After the game, his sister came over and reminded Mike that he needed to be a real football player, not just a cheerleader. Meanwhile, his coach told Mike that if he tried to do more practice and cooperate with his teammates, he could be a better football player, too.

Motivated by their words, Mike started to take the training more seriously.

Finally, the day for the match between his team and the Sun came.

In my double profession as an educator and health care provider, I have worked with a great many children infected with the virus that causes AIDS. The relationships that I have had with these special kids have been gifts in my life. They have taught me so many things, but I have especially learned that great courage can be found in the smallest of packages. Let me tell you about Tyler, who was a lovely and optimistic kid.

Tyler was born infected with HIV; his mother was also infected. From the very beginning of his life, he was dependent on medication to enable him to survive. When he was five, he had a tube surgically inserted in a vein in his chest. This tube was connected to a pump, which he carried in a small backpack on his back. Medications were fastened to this pump and were continuously supplied through this tube to his bloodstream. At times, he also needed supplemented oxygen to support his breathing. Once in a while he and his mother made an appointment with doctors in the hospital. This cure was a big challenge for so young a body, but Tyler never showed that he was in great pain.

Tyler wasn't willing to give up one single moment of his childhood to this deadly disease. It was not unusual to bind hím playing and racing around his backyard, wearing his medicine-laden backpack and dragging his tank of oxygen behind him in his little wagon. All of us who knew Tyler was surprised at his pure joy in being alive and the energy it gave him. It was hard to look on him as a patient. Tyler's mother often teased him by telling him that he moved so fast she needed to dress him in red. That way, when she caught a glimpse of him through the window to check on him playing in the yard, she could quickly and easily spot him.

This deadly disease eventually made the lovely Tyler dying.

A few days before his death, Tyler signed me over to his hospital bed.