I tore off the wrapping paper and gasped. The colorful paper had hidden a book, now my book. I stroked the shiny white cover and hugged the book against me. I had never imagined owning my very own copy of Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends." My teacher had often sat in front of my class reading Silverstein's poems such as "Warning," a poem about snails that lived in people's noses.

I looked at the woman sitting across from me. My 8-year-old heart felt overwhelmed. Not only did I now own what I considered the most wonderful book in the world, but also my schoolteacher had come to visit me. I had never dreamed my teacher would consider me important enough to visit outside of class. Her smile was sweet as she watched my excitement.

Her face was one of the few familiar things I had. I was sitting on the floor of a new home. A woman who was taking the place of my mother sat with us, watching the gift exchange. The Christmas tree standing next to us looked different from the one in my former home. Everything had changed in a matter of weeks. My teacher seemed the only proof that my old life had indeed been real.

Only a few weeks earlier someone had called me to the principal's office at my elementary school. Had I really sat in that big chair in his office as he asked me questions about my family?

My stepmother had walked into the office later, looking mean and angry and big to my 8-year-old eyes. I had whispered, "I'm sorry," although I had been unsure what I was sorry about.

I had watched the school disappear from the police car's window as we drove away. The excitement of riding in the car nearly replaced the confusion I felt at leaving the school. The ride had almost taken away the fear I felt as I watched my stepmother walk rigidly from the school.

Only a few weeks ago police officers and doctors had asked me questions, and I had answered them, feeling both embarrassed and frightened.

Only a few weeks ago people had placed me in a large building with large rooms full of beds and girls of all ages. Did I really have the choice when I lived there of whether or not I wanted to go to school?

Only a few weeks earlier someone had driven me to this house that hovered on the edge of the California desert. A mother and father and several girls lived here. The house felt warm and safe. But the bed I slept in was not my own. My books, "Tall Tales" and "Gentle Ben," did not sit on my dresser shelf. My closet did not have my pick-up sticks, my Memory game or my Simon hand game.

I had heard the term "foster home," but it held no meaning for me. All I knew was that my stepmother and my father seemed far away. I wanted to go home, even if home was filled with yelling and fists and threats. That place was home, not this box full of strangers who watched different movies and told different jokes than I was used to.

But then my pretty teacher had come to visit me, and she smiled at me so nicely. I wanted to hold onto my wonderful book with its slick white cover forever.

That book followed me to my next foster home and then to Oregon where I moved in with my aunt and uncle who adopted me. I had written my name in the book's front cover with a blue ink pen. I felt so proud of my possession.

The book is gone now. But after nearly 16 years, I still remember my elementary school teacher. As young as I was, I thought she had only come to bring me that precious present. Now, as I look back, I realize the true motive of her visit. She had desired to help set aright a little girl's world suddenly gone off kilter.

Her gift is the only gift I remember receiving that Christmas in 1983. I never saw my teacher again after that visit. But if I saw her now, I think I would hug her and cry. I would tell her how special she had made a little girl feel. I would tell her how she had left me with a memory that still causes me to cry and how she had left me with a desire to follow in her footsteps.

"Pure and undefiled religion before God and the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their trouble . . . ." James 1:27a