Once upon a time I worked at a French bakery on Granville Street in downtown Vancouver. When the bakery was opened in the thirties, Granville was a main artery of the city, and an upscale business neighborhood. But, since the city planners had closed it to all but bus traffic in the seventies, it had become a refuge for the homeless and otherwise lost souls.

The three block walk from the sky train to the bakery was a daily obstacle course of panhandlers, stoned or drunken people with vacant eyes, and young people with wild clothes and even wilder hairdos and jewelry. Not a few were lost in places where they talked to imagined friends and generally lived in a different reality from the rest of the world. Some days it was so heart wrenching and spiritually overwhelming that I had to mentally shut myself off and stare straight ahead, unseeing, refusing eye contact, as do most of the sidewalk patrons.

One chilly December morning, a young man came into the shop, politely asking for day old rolls he might have. The owner's wife and daughter took pity on the charming street waif and whisked him back to the staff table at the rear of the kitchen.

He was soft spoken and polite, I was informed by the daughter, who had bustled into my little kitchen area to prepare two generously proportioned ham sandwiches for the visitor. As she requested, when the coffee was ready, I delivered him a steaming cup.

I find it strange at times the things that impress people. The daughter was impressed by the fellow's manners. Now anyone who has experienced the beggars of Vancouver or any large city, would know that panhandlers are generally exceedingly polite. Their living depends on it.

The owner's wife remarked to me that he had asked to wash his hands before he ate, as if this was some remarkable achievement. He was a person, after all, not a goat. Being poor does not make anyone subhuman, and most of us prefer cleanliness.

What impressed me, is that when he suddenly appeared in my kitchen area to return the dishes, he had carefully wrapped the second sandwich in his serviette. His amazingly beautiful, soft blue eyes captured and held my gaze as he thanked me for my kindness and asked if it was alright to take the second sandwich to his friend across the street. She was hungry too.

There was something about those eyes that made me think for a moment that I was in the presence of an angel. I still think I might have been. It certainly was the most gracious thank you I have ever received, and I had merely poured a cup of coffee.

Tears threatened. I managed a smile and nodded dumbly, not trusting myself to speak lest the torrent be released. I was awed by the aura of love he seemed to radiate. Here before me, was the true meaning of Christmas, indeed a poignant lesson in real humanity.

This street urchin, struggling in the depths of despair, poverty and hunger, denied himself that second sandwich in order to share. I watched, blinking back tears, as he made his way out of the shop and across the street to the young lady anxiously awaiting his return. Through the big shop window I could see her relief at his return, and her delight at the food he handed her.

At this season and all through the year, no matter your beliefs, philosophies, country of origin, language or customs, I wish you joy and generosity in your life.

If you have a spare chair or two at your dining table, perhaps you'll consider inviting a less fortunate neighbor to join in your holiday feast. If that is not an option, a donation to the food bank would be well received. You and your family might volunteer a few hours to help serve a hot meal at one of the many charity organizations in your city.

You never know, you might be entertaining your own Christmas Angel.