The Christmas Sweater

by Glenn Beck

  “You’re worthy of so much more, Eddie.” The gentle whisper was now barely audible. It knew it was losing. “You just have to take the first step.”

  I was trapped. In front of me was a path to a storm that promised nothing but death. Behind me was a wall of shadow and regret. So there I stood,

  Afraid to go forward…

  And unable to go back.

  Fifteen

  The storm shrieked and groaned as I stared into it. I collapsed to my knees and began to cry again. But this time I didn’t just cry, I cried out. “Mom!”

  I saw her face in my mind. All of the guilt and anger and blame that had been building since Mom’s death—and long before then—rushed out of me in a torrent. It took me a full minute to mix those few words into the sobbing, choking, and shuddering words that filled the air around me.

  Then I prayed. “God,” I cried, “everything I do, I screw up. Please help me find a way to let everyone know how sorry I am for everything I’ve done and everything I’ve failed to do.” Images of my mom and dad, grandmother and grandpa flashed quickly in my head. I didn’t care about myself anymore; I was resigned to a life that looked a lot like the cornfield I was standing in, but I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to make amends for all that had happened.

  I don’t really know what I expected, but as I opened my eyes the world still looked exactly the same: predawn darkness, a wall of dead corn behind me, and the surreal, churning storm in front of me. A sickening, hopeless feeling filled my chest: Maybe it’s too late.

  As if in reply to my thoughts, the whisper spoke again. “Face the storm, Eddie.”

  Something rustled in the corn behind me. I spun around.

  “Hello, Eddie.”

  It was a new voice, but it was strangely familiar. A man emerged from the blackness. The light from the storm’s flashes offered me a quick glimpse of his face.

  “Russell?” I wondered how long he’d been there.

  “Is everything all right, Eddie?”

  I rose from my knees and brushed myself off. “No.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Home.”

  Russell looked confused. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m lost.”

  “That’s not exactly true.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “It’s not?”

  “No.” Russell glared into my eyes. It was like he was looking through me. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s the world you made for yourself.”

  “I made?” I didn’t like being the author of such desolation and despair.

  His piercing eyes fell on me. “Do you know how you got here?”

  I was ashamed to tell him the truth. “I got into an accident on my bike, so I ran into this cornfield. Then the road vanished and the storm came.”

  “No, Eddie.” Russell smiled gently and shook his head. “I mean, do you know how you got here?” This time the same words had an entirely different meaning.

  The whisper prompted, “When you choose the path, you choose the destination.”

  It hit me all at once. I knew. Little by little, mistake by mistake, I had put myself on a road whose destination had been inevitable.

  Again came the whisper. “All journeys, for good or evil, begin with one small step.”

  It had started that long-ago Christmas morning when I’d first seen the sweater. Right now that seemed like a thousand years ago. I nodded. “Yes, I know how I got here.”

  Russell’s eyes panned the cornfield. “Most people find this place at some point. The darkness frightens them, but that’s only because they have trouble seeing past it. If they could see what’s just over the horizon, they’d realize how close to home they really are.” His gaze settled back on me. “Do you know the way home?”

  Russell asked questions for my sake, not his. I pointed toward the storm. “I think it’s that way.” My arm shook.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know. I just do.”

  “Eddie, you made this world. But it’s not yours. Go on home.”

  I looked at the storm and began to tremble. The winds howled, almost as if the storm sensed how vulnerable I was and how close I was to succumbing to it. Russell looked at me calmly. “You’re right, it looks menacing.” There was something comforting about his words. “It’s amazing how bad things can look through the wrong eyes.”

  “The wrong eyes?”

  “Yes, the wrong eyes. You’re looking at the storm with the same eyes that you created it with.”

  I thought back to the mirror in my bedroom. Each time I’d looked into it over the last few months I’d had to look away as my own eyes had tried to reveal the truth: I hated myself because I blamed my problems on everyone and everything else.

  Russell turned to face me. “Don’t fear the storm, Eddie. Fear the cornfield. The cornfield may feel safe, but there is only cold and darkness here.”

  As if in defiance of his words, the storm began to howl even louder. The cornstalks bent under the power of its relentless winds, but, oddly, they leaned toward the storm, not away from it. It’s trying to pull them in, too. I thought. Though the storm itself never moved, the noise emanating from its belly sounded like an approaching freight train. I covered my face.

  Russell put his strong, weathered hand on my shoulder. His skin was warm. “It’s okay, Eddie, the winds can’t hurt you. Nothing can. Now face the storm.”

  A vicious gust of wind howled through the endless rows of dead cornstalks. “I can’t, Russell. It’s too big.”

  “You’re bigger.”

  How could he say that?

  Loose cornstalks were being uprooted by the storm’s ferocious gusts. They mixed with dirt and debris and swirled all around us. Even though the noise was deafening, Russell didn’t have to raise his voice, nor did I have to strain to hear him. “You may not yet know who you are, Eddie, but I do. And I know that you are meant to walk through this storm. You weren’t created to stand here in this cornfield. There’s so much more waiting for you, and you’re worthy of every ounce of it.”

  I swallowed hard, not believing him. “I can’t, Russell, I’ll just wait until it passes. I’m safe here.”

  His eyes blazed to life. He shook his head. “Oh, Eddie, you misunderstand. This storm will never pass. It can’t. It’s yours. Besides, life is not meant to be safe. It’s only in our mistakes, our errors, and our faults that we grow and truly live. But you were right about one thing earlier: That is the way home. It’s the only way home. But you will make it. Trust in me. Trust in who you really are.”

  “Who I am?” I said disparagingly. I was ashamed of the truth. “I’m nobody. I’ve hurt everybody who ever loved me.”

  “Sometimes the hardest part of the journey is believing that you’re worthy of the trip.”

  Am I worthy? I thought to myself.

  I looked back up at Russell. His gaze was strong and infinitely loving. “Yes. Unquestionably, irrevocably, yes. Now go home.”

  I wanted to. But I was so weak. And the storm was so powerful.

  “Trust, Eddie. The traveler’s worthy of the journey. And he’s worthy of the destination. Just take one small step on your own.”

  The storm looked even more ominous. My gaze was lost inside its giant, violent belly. Trust. I was weary of following my own will again—it’s what had gotten me here. But, for once, I wanted to do the right thing.

  I closed my eyes and took a step. It put me right in the very center of the storm. The shriek of its winds filled my ears. I wanted to cry out in fear, but I felt Russell take my hand. “Just one more step,” he said, his calm voice far more powerful than the gale. Trust.

  I closed my eyes and used all my might to shuffle my feet forward.

  Silence.

  I opened my eyes. We were on the other side of the storm. The sun was shining through from behind us, its
golden rays reflecting off the menacing black clouds. It was so quiet that the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves were the only sounds I could hear. What was once so dark was now bright, so refreshing, so peaceful. So warm.

  “Where am I?” I looked around in wonder at the seemingly Technicolor corn, grass, and sky above me. It was the strangest, most wonderful palette of colors I’d ever seen. It was like a photographic reverse of the cornfield. Even the colors themselves seemed alive. Is this heaven?

  Even though I had only thought the words, Russell shook his head. “You’re on the other side of the storm. This is what awaits you. Not after you die, but once you start to really live.”

  “It’s amazing.” I looked at my guide. He was no longer dirty and old, but bright and ageless. “Who are you really, Russell?”

  He smiled. “The real question is, who are you?”

  Somehow I understood. Without the storm I couldn’t know myself.

  “Does everyone have to go through the storm?”

  “Yes, sooner or later. But no one has ever been lost to the storm, just lost in it. What most people don’t realize is that you don’t have to fight the storm, Eddie, you just have to stop feeding it—stop giving it power over you.”

  I looked around again. I tried to remember the smells, the sounds, the peacefulness, the happiness. The warmth. “If this isn’t heaven, then what is it?”

  “This is part of your journey. Heaven is different; it’s even better.” He spoke the word differently than I had ever before heard it. I realized that up to that point in my life, heaven had been more a myth than an actual place, kind of like a celestial version of Disneyland. It was a carrot waved to entice people to be good. But at that moment I realized the reality of the place and how much more there was to it.

  “How is heaven different?”

  “Heaven is the atonement of all things.”

  “Atonement?” I had heard the word at Grandma’s church but never fully understood it.

  “A-tone-ment,” he said, punctuating the word. “It’s a chance to fix the unfixable and to start all over again. It begins when you forgive yourself for all you’ve done wrong, and forgive others for all they’ve done to you. Your mistakes aren’t mistakes anymore, they’re just things that make you stronger. Atonement is the great redeeming and equalizing force that leads to the fulfillment of all things: every hug you’ve ever longed for, every Ferris wheel, baseball game, and walk in the snow you’ve missed. Everyone you’ve loved and lost. Atonement, Eddie, is heaven on earth.”

  “Then my mother and father are there…in heaven?”

  The warmth of his eyes answered my question.

  “Did they have to pass through the storm?”

  “More times than you could know. But they had a great helper.”

  “You?”

  He smiled. “No, Eddie. You. Their unending love for you helped them through the storm.”

  For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt no guilt at hearing about my parents or the sacrifices they made for me. Only gratitude. I looked at Russell. “Will there be other storms?”

  “Yes.” Our eyes locked. “Unquestionably, irrevocably, yes.”

  “What if next time I’m too afraid?”

  “I’ll be with you,” he said lovingly. “Remember, Eddie, no one who has passed through the storm has ever regretted the journey. No one ever stands here and wishes to go back to the other side.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank yourself. You made some good choices.”

  How good it felt to hear that.

  “Now, Eddie, do you know who you are?”

  With his words came a feeling of warmth and a joy so exquisite as to defy description. I realized that I was crying. I nodded.

  A broad smile crossed his face. “Almost, you do. Almost.” As I stared at him, I noticed that he had suddenly changed. A light now seemed to emanate from his skin. “You are joy, Eddie. You are joy.”

  He had a whiteness that I had never seen before. Brilliant. Beautiful. Warm. The light became so bright that I had to close my eyes and turn away—but in it I knew exactly who I was.

  Sixteen

  The smell of pancakes was so wonderfully strong that it actually woke me up. I opened my eyes and squinted at the bright light that was streaming through the bedroom window and across my face.

  I touched my cheek. It was wet. I had been crying. Yes, I remembered that. But how did I get back to the bedroom at my grandparents’? Had they come looking for me? I noticed that I was fully dressed, but not in what I’d been wearing the night before.

  As I gained consciousness, the world around me flooded my senses. The brisk, sharp air of the upstairs room braced my skin. The aroma of doughy pancake batter and sweet maple syrup filled the air. I could hear the sound of sizzling bacon. Something was different about it all. I felt different. I felt light again.

  I sat up. Two bread bags were lying on the floor, and my Christmas sweater was clutched tightly in my arms. I pressed it against my face. My mother had touched this sweater. Minute by minute and link by link she had made it. Not only had I changed, but so had the sweater. It felt different to me now—like a sacred relic of the past. “What a gift,” I said to no one in particular. “What a perfect gift.”

  “Eddie?”

  My heart stopped. I looked up at the closed bedroom door.

  “Who are you talking to? May I come in?”

  The door opened. My mother stood in its frame, illuminated in a bright halo by the light of the stairwell. At first I just stared, disbelieving. “Mom?”

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

  I jumped from my bed and ran to her, throwing my arms around her and almost knocking her over. “Mom!”

  She laughed. “My, I didn’t expect such a big welcome. Especially after last night.”

  “You’re here!”

  “Of course I am. Did you think I left you?”

  My eyes filled with fresh tears. “But we drove home…the accident.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “When I came up to get you, you were sound asleep. I thought that after such a bad day it would be best to just let you sleep it off. Apparently I was right.”

  It was all coming back to me. I had come upstairs and lain down with my sweater for just a moment…. It couldn’t have been a dream. Could it?

  My mother ran her hand through my hair. “I thought maybe we would just try again in the morning. After all, isn’t Christmas really about second chances?”

  I pushed my head into her chest and cried. “Oh, Mom. Thank you. I’m so sorry about how I treated you. You’re the best mother in the world. And I love my sweater more than you could ever know.”

  She took a step back, smiling. “Now, that was some night’s rest. So you like your sweater now?”

  “More than anything.”

  “More than, say, a bicycle?”

  “A million times more. More than any stupid, old bicycle. Can we please do Christmas again? I’ll do it right this time. I promise.”

  She looked at me and smiled. “You really do mean it, don’t you?”

  Unable to speak, I just nodded. She again pulled me into her and kissed the top of my head. “I love you.”

  I spoke through tears. “I know you do. That’s why I love my sweater so much. Because you made it.”

  After a few more minutes she said, “Why don’t you change your clothes and come downstairs. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  I held tightly to her. “Please don’t leave.”

  She laughed. “I’m just going downstairs. And who knows, there might be other surprises.”

  Somehow, I knew what she was talking about. “I don’t want any other surprises.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” she said. She kissed my forehead. “Get dressed and come on down. Grandma and Grandpa are waiting.”

  I wiped my eyes. “Okay.”

  She shut the door behind her. I quickly threw on my clo
thes and, of course, my sweater. While I was dressing, something outside the window caught my eye. A heavy white snow had started to fall. Dad’s snowfall, I thought.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs, and Grandma and Grandpa were watching me expectantly.

  “Merry Christmas!” I said.

  They furtively glanced at each other, no doubt wondering what had gotten into me.

  “Merry Christmas to you,” Grandpa said.

  Grandma came over and gave me a hug. “Good morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

  “Eddie,” my mother said. “Did you see the sn—” She stopped before she finished her sentence. She was staring at my sweater. “You really do like it.”

  “Best present I’ve ever got.”

  She looked the happiest I’d seen her in years.

  “All right,” Grandma said, carrying over a platter piled high with pancakes. “Let’s eat.”

  As we took our seats around the table, I asked Grandpa if I could pray.

  “By all means,” he said.

  We took each other’s hands and bowed our heads.

  “God, thank you for everything you’ve given us. For the time we have together. And for the miracle of Christmas. Thank you for the Atonement, the chance to start all over again. Help us to always remember who we are and to trust that we are worthy to make it through our storms. Amen.”

  As I looked up from the prayer, all the grown-ups were staring at me in wonder.

  A few seconds passed before my mother finally broke the silence. “Dad, please pass the pancakes.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  He passed her the platter, but, as usual, Mom served me first. “Here, Eddie.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m starving. That was one long night.”

  Grandma gave me a puzzled look. “Long?”

  “Eddie,” Grandpa said, “while you were up in your room sawing logs, a man came by the house looking for you. Don’t remember his name, but he said he saw a boy about your age out riding a bicycle. He wanted to make sure you were okay. I told him it couldn’t have been you.”

  “Because I was asleep?” I asked.