Picture a family of three, traveling together down a snowy highway lined on both sides with mountains and evergreens. Actually, the detail of the evergreens is something open for debate, seeing as everything within view is white except for the bister road – a result of the mixture of salt and fresh snow. In the back seat of the car, there is a little girl, no more than five, bundled up in a fluffy pink winter coat. Present in the front is her mother driving and her father sitting in the passenger seat, contentedly nodding off.

“Mommy, Daddy,” the little girl pipes up, “Can I have a sister for Christmas? Even a brother would do.”

An ensuing silence fills the car for all of three seconds, the extent of what would be tolerated by a five-year-old. This is followed by her parents saying something along the lines of a sister not being something they could wrap in a box and give to her for Christmas. Not even if she were to ask Santa.

The most profound question asked in the history of humanity slips from the little girl’s lips.

“Why?”

Words that sound like a bunch of excuses flow out of the mouths her parents.

The little girl is not stupid. She asks her parents if, they can’t make her a sister, why can’t they get her one? She knew all about adoption.

But no, that is not an option for the couple in the front seat.

***

The girl, the one with the little blonde head sticking out of the hot pink jacket in the back seat of the 1992 Oldsmobile, grew up as an only child.

She learned to embrace it and make the most out of it.

Soon, she grew to appreciate being an only child.

Why?

Because she learned something very quickly, an important truth it takes many people an entire lifetime to figure out: everyone around you is important, and everyone around you has a story. Everyone deserves a chance to be listened to and to be loved.

With adults, the girl in the pink coat took the time to be attentive, and in turn, she accepted the love that was lavished upon her by so many caring people. She listened to their stories, and she tried to learn from each one. In return, she gave her love. She wanted to know everything she could about people. Often, she would lie awake at night, hoping to catch snippets of conversations held between adults long past her bed time. Sometimes she knew too much, but she never told anyone. She cared too much.

She also grew to cherish her relationships with her peers. She played like all other children, but probably more so than the ones with siblings – the ones who always had a constant playmate – she placed a very high value on time spent with friends. If you were to ask this woman to think, really think, about her childhood, to this day, she would be able to name off numerous friends and countless times spent talking and playing with children in her community, whether it be at friends’ houses, her own home, outside, school, church, at the local gym, etc. She would also be able to tell you what impact these individuals had on her, and what impact she would have liked to have had on them.

Along with valuing people, the girl also grew to cherish time to herself. Time spent alone. Thanks to her parents, she learned to love immersing herself in the stories of others from ages past and in stories that take place in worlds unknown to man. On top of this, she worked at cultivating a relationship with God, through reading His stories, and through writing out her thoughts.

***

As this girl grew up, she lost a small part of that special touch she had with humanity. She still cared, but she just had more trouble showing it. She still wanted to listen, it just took a bit more effort to talk to people and get them to open up to her.

Why?

I don’t think even she would know for sure.

She would probably venture a guess that it had something to do with losing some of that childhood magic – you know, the bit where you could go up to a random stranger, child or adult, and strike up a conversation about anything, whether the subject mattered or not? When there was no pressure because you were a child, but everyone was interested because you were sweet and cute.

Maybe she would say it was similar to how adulthood lost its enamor as she grew closer to reaching it. Maybe it was because her faith in humanity started to dwindle as she got older. Maybe the reality of being an only child was lost when she moved away from home. Maybe the reason was she cared too much about what people thought about her as she grew older. Or maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to be known as the innocent young girl in the pink coat – you know, the one who didn’t understand the world.

I think what she would be able to tell you is that she wouldn’t trade what she learned as an only child for anything.

She would tell you that the most important lesson she learned as a child is still a lesson relevant as an adult. Maybe even more so.

Everyone around you is important, and everyone around you has a story. Everyone deserves a chance to be listened to and to be loved.

She would tell you that those are words to live by. She would tell you to give people the gift of your presence this Christmas Season. Let them tell their stories. Learn from them. Appreciate them. Love them.