The Christmas Sweater by Glenn Beck Read Free Book Online

of them up to show Mom: Homemade
     mittens from my cousin, a baseball from an uncle I hadn’t seen in years, and a bag
     of candy that I was sure was the exact same striped stuff that I didn’t eat the year
     before. I wondered if Mom hadn’t been putting out the same bag every year since I
     was four.
    Finally. Only one present was left. It was a fairly large box, but very light. Please, God, I thought to myself, let it be a Polaroid or even a handwritten note or card. I couldn’t believe I was actually hoping to not open a BB gun or a set of walkie-talkies, but the Huffy was the only present on my
     mind. It was the only present that would make me happy.
    Mom had decorated the box with a large bow and a ribbon that looked suspiciously like
     the one I’d taken off my birthday gift. I tore through reindeer-and-snowflakes wrapping
     paper until I was left with a simple plain brown box. My heart raced as I slowly lifted
     off the top and pushed aside the crinkled white tissue paper.
    It was a sweater.
    “Do you like it?” Mom asked as I stared at the gift, unable to speak. She shifted on the couch and crossed her arms as she waited several
     seconds for an answer.
    Holding on to my last possible fragment of hope, I unfolded the sweater, hoping there
     was something tucked inside that would point me toward the bike. I shook it back and
     forth as hard as I could without being obvious, but nothing happened. That’s when
     I realized there wouldn’t be a bike that year—just a stupid, handmade, ugly sweater.
    “Do you like it? Do you really like it?” Mom was hoping my silence was due to my unspeakable
     joy.
    A stupid, handmade, ugly sweater that wasn’t a bike.
    “Sure, Mom, it’s great.” I felt like I should cry. I was entitled to cry, I thought,
     but it was the kind of sad that didn’t include tears. If I hadn’t worked so hard all
     year, if I hadn’t thought about a new bike every waking second of my life, if I hadn’t
     promised God I would earn it, then I might not have noticed how the color of the yarn would perfectly match
     the Wonder Bread polka dots on my bread-bag boots. But I had done all of those things,
     and I did notice.
    “I’m really sorry about the bike, honey.” Mom’s voice was too soft and tender for
     how I felt. “It’s just that the repairs for the roof were so much more than I expected.
     I know you understand. Maybe I can save up enough to get it for you next year.”
    I understood all right. I understood that we would always be the poor family and I
     would always be the poor kid with plastic boots and no bike.
    I stared down at the sweater and felt my body temperature rise, almost as if I’d already
     put it on. I didn’t know who had let me down more: Mom, for not buying me what I deserved;
     Dad, for not watching over me like he was supposed to; or God, for ignoring my promise.
     I was so disappointed with all of them that I forgot I was supposed to put the neck
     under my chin as if I’d been trying it on.
    “I hope it fits!” Mom said, trying to remind me to do the “chin thing.” I didn’t get
     the hint.
    “I’m sure it will,” I replied without enthusiasm. Mom finally came over, took the
     sweater from me, and held it up to my back. She pressed her fingers into my shoulders
     asshe matched the edges to the outline of my body. “Oh sure,” she said. “At the rate
     you’re growing it will be just the right size by next fall!” She was way too excited
     about the whole thing.
    I could muster only a halfhearted reply. “Thanks, Mom, it’s great.”
    “It’s just like the expensive ones we sell at Sears,” she offered proudly, attempting
     to combat the obvious disappointment that had involuntarily spread across my face.
     “We ask almost forty dollars for a real, hand-knit wool sweater. I couldn’t afford
     that, of course, but I was able to come up with enough to buy the good yarn.” She
     stopped talking and looked at me as if embarrassed to