A Gift Worth More Than It's Weight In Gold.
On Friday, March 31, M. turned three years old. And on that special day M. had lunch with one of his favorite people, the person he calls "nice boy Bror".
M. and I picked-up Bror at his home, and together the three of us drove to Champs, one of M.'s favorite restaurants. As we made our way to Champs, M. and Bror chatted on a bit . . . but mostly they listened to the story of "Nemo". M. brought with him his talking "Nemo" book, and felt compelled to share every single page of the book with Bror.
"Listen to this", he would say to Bror as he pushed a colored button. A voice would read the words corresponding to the open page, and a "beep" would sound when it was time to move on to the next page.
Over and over and over again Bror heard the story of Nemo. And never once did he look or act bored.
When we reached Champs, Bror helped M. out of his car seat and walked hand in hand with him into the restaurant. After we were seated, Bror realized the host did not leave a children's menu for M. Bror got up, walked over to the hostess station, and brought back the children's menu. As well as a few crayons for M.
Now, let me tell you, Bror has a steel-like grip in his fingers from playing competitive tennis. And sometimes he forgets just how strong he is.
Bror picked up a crayon to color along with M., and "snap", he broke the crayon into two pieces.
He picked up a second crayon and once again, "snap", another broken crayon.
M. got upset, and what did Bror do? He told M. it was going to be O.K., and walked back to the hostess station where he gathered up a handful of crayons. He came back to the table with his cache of crayons, sat down, and once again started chatting and coloring with M., as if nothing unusual had happened.
Bror did all this without my having to say a word.
We ordered our food, and the three of us had a wonderful time eating and chatting and laughing together.
When the meal was over, we walked back to the car and Bror took charge of getting M. into his car seat.
When we arrived at Bror's house, he asked if I could pull up to the garage and to please wait one minute. I thought this was a bit strange, but I went along with his wishes. Down the driveway and up to the garage we drove. Bror hopped out of the car and headed towards the garage. He punched in the security code, the door opened, and he walked inside. In a matter of seconds he emerged with the biggest smile on his face. And in his arms he held a gift for M.
I could tell by the size and shape of the gift exactly what was inside. And I could not believe my eyes. Bror walked over to M.'s side of the car, opened the door, and said to M., "Happy Birthday, M. This is for you". M. took the gift and seemed not to know what to do next. He just kept staring and smiling at Bror. Finally, Bror opened the gift and said, "M., this is one of my old tennis racquets, and this is it's case, and this is a tennis ball. I wanted you to have these things, because I know you like tennis".
M. just beamed.
I almost cried.
Bror won many tournaments with that racquet. I know it held many special memories for him. And yet, he gave it to M., a little three year old boy who will not be able to understand for many years the depth of meaning that gift contained.
But I understood. And I was never so proud of Bror as I was at that moment.
I have known Bror his entire life, and he never ceases to touch my heart. People talk about teenagers today, and how rude and arrogant they are to everyone around them.
In rebuttal, I offer Bror.
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