Several days later, prior to the morning taping, I was having coffee and Danish in the green room at the station. All of the “important” people had left the room and it was just me and the janitor remaining.
I had seen him quietly go about his business every day while I was there, and he never said a word except “Good morning” or “Can I get anything for you, sir?” He always had a smile to give to everyone. When I asked him how he was feeling today, he told me that he’d been having to ride his bike to work in the snow and that he’d been feeling rather sorry for himself . . . that is, until he saw a man sleeping down on the corner of Yonge Street and Bloor with just a piece of cardboard for covering from the cold and no shoes. I almost choked on my Danish as I heard him go on to relate how he was so moved with compassion for the man that he went around the corner to a store and bought the man a pair of socks and shoes.
As I heard his story, I saw in my mind a poster that used to be in an old friend’s bedroom when I was a teenager. It was a picture of a child handing someone a flower and the caption read: “The smallest deed always exceeds the grandest of intentions.”
I stood there wishing it was me who had bought the shoes and socks for the man, when they called my name to come to the set.
As I got to the studio, they were just concluding an interview with a social worker who specialized in benevolence for eastern Ontario. The social worker relayed a story about Mother Teresa, who when asked once how she had accomplished such great things in her life responded, “None of us can do anything great on our own, but we can all do a small thing with great love.”
When I went home that day, I looked for the man on the street. He was gone, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone took his place.
Michael Peterson
Simpler Times
The heart generous and kind most resembles God.
Robert Burns
In 1949, school let out for Christmas and Pedro and Emmett rode the school bus home, talking and thinking about Santa Claus. Emmett said that he had tried to be good and wanted a BB gun. Pedro had gotten old enough and big enough and bright enough to know that if Santa Claus was going to bring him his favorite toys, he needed to pray real loud so Mama, Daddy and Grandmama could hear him. He also knew that it helped to turn down the pages in the Sears & Roebuck catalog in the outhouse. But deep down, Pedro wanted to believe in Santa Claus just like his younger friend, Emmett.
Christmas morning arrived and there it was, the shiny brand new bicycle just like Pedro wanted. Also there was some fruit and a brand new Little Red Ryder BB gun. Pedro couldn’t wait to show Emmett and headed to Emmett’s house. Upon arrival, Emmett looked over at Pedro, barely able to speak, and said, “Pedro, Santa Claus didn’t come. Either I’ve been bad, or he ran out of toys.” Pedro could see the hurt in Emmett’s eyes and hear the disappointment in Emmett’s voice. Pedro, without thinking, replied, “Emmett, Santa did come. He thought you were spending the night with me, and he left your BB gun at my house. I was a-bringin’ it to you.”
Emmett grinned like a baked opossum and was excited as a bug in a tater patch. Emmett hugged Pedro, and Pedro hugged back. At nine years old, at that moment, Pedro once again learned there really is a Santa Claus. On the way home on his new bike without his BB gun, Pedro kept thinking, Please Mama, don’t be mad, and she wasn’t.
Charle s D. Williams, M.D.
A Christmas Guest
Grandpa Jones, a man I consider brilliant, once found a book of poetry in Germany. The book had been in a fire and the lower portion of it was burned. Consequently, some of the poems didn’t include endings, and though the book had been translated into English, it was archaic— a couple of hundred years old anyway. So when Grandpa returned to the U.S., he said, “I really like this poem, but I don’t know how it ends.” He gave the poem to me, and I wrote the last verse. Then I gave it back to him.
I got with Bill Walker to do the melody to go behind the recitation, and I told Grandpa we were going to record and that night he needed to be in the studio. I guess he thought we were going to have his regular band with four or five people. He walked in and an entire orchestra was waiting.
“I’m in the wrong place,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” I replied.
Grandpa said, “Then it must be the wrong week, wrong day.”
And I said, “No, it’s not. This is your band.”
“Is that going to be on the record?”
When I told him yes, he said, “I ain’t never been outnumbered like this.”
I ran down charts with the orchestra while Grandpa sat around. The song was done in one take. . . .
It happened one day near December’s end,
Two neighbors called on an old -time friend,
And they found his shop, so meager and me an,
Made gay with a thousand boughs of green,
And Conrad was sitting with face a-shine—
When he suddenly stopped as he stitched a twine
And said, “Old friends, at dawn today
When the cock was crowing the night away,
The Lord appeared in a dream to me
And said, ‘I am coming your guest to be,’
So I’ve been busy with feet a stir,
Strewing my shop with branches of fir.
The table is spread and the kettle is shined
And over the rafters the holly is twined—
And now I will wait for my Lord to appear
And listen closely so I will hear
His step as he nears my humble place,
And I open the door and look on his face .”
So his friends went home and left Conrad alone,
For this was the happiest day he had known.
For long since his family had passed away
And Conrad had spent many a sad Christmas day.
But he knew with the Lord as his Christmas guest,
This Christmas would be the dearest and best.
So he listened with only joy in his heart,
And with every sound he would rise with a start
And look for the Lord to be at his door
Like the vision he had a few hours before.
So he ran to the window after hearing a sound,
But all he could see on the snow-covered ground
Was a shabby beggar whose shoes were torn
And he said, “Your feet must be frozen and sore—
I have some shoes in my shop for you,
And a coat that will keep you warmer, too.”
So with grate ful heart the man went away—
But Conrad noticed the time of day;
He wondered what made the dear Lord so late
And how much longer he ’d have to wait—
When he heard a knock and ran to the door,
But it was only a stranger once more,
A bent old lady with a shawl of black,
With a bundle of kind ling piled on her back.
She asked for only a place to rest,
But that was reserve d for Conrad’s great guest,
But her voice seemed to plead, “Don’t send me away,
Let me rest for a while on Christmas Day.”
So Conrad brewed her a steaming cup
And told her to sit at the table and sup.
But after she left, he was filled with dismay,
For he saw that the hours were slipping away,
And the Lord had not come as he said he would,
And Conrad felt sure he had misunderstood,
When out of the stillness he heard a cry,
“Please help me and tell me where am I.”
So again he opened his friendly door
And stood disappointed as twice before.
It was only a child who had wandered away
And was lost from her family on Christmas Day.
Again Conrad ’s heart was heavy and sad,
But he knew he could make this little girl glad,
So he called her in and wiped her tears
And quieted all her childish fears,
Then he led her back to her home once more.
But as he entered his own darkened door,
He knew that the Lord was not coming today
For the hours of Christmas had passed away.
So he went to his room and knelt down to pray,
And he said, “Lord, why did you delay?
What kept you from coming to call on me,
For I wanted so much your face to see.”
When soft in the silence, a voice he heard,
“Lift up your head for I kept my word.
Three times my shadow crossed your floor;
Three times I came to your lowly door;
For I was the beggar with bruised cold feet;
I was the woman you gave some thing to eat;
And I was the child on the homeless street;
Three times I knocked, three times I came in,
And each time I found the warmth of a friend.
Of all the gifts, love is the best;
I was honored to be your Christmas Guest.”
Grandpa Jones
Introduction by Fred Foster
Christmas Guest reprinted by permission of Loray El Marlee Publishing.
Momma’s Christmas Magic
About twenty-five years ago, Christmas was much the same as it is now. A tree with lights. Midnight Mass. Christmas dinner. But times were hard for some families. I know they were hard for us because my brothers and I were orphans. My paternal grandmother had stepped in, and with very meager, sometimes nonexistent resources, she set out on a daunting journey to rear us. Having already gotten her own nine children off to a start and out of the nest, she felt up to the task. However, rearing three small children in the fifties and sixties was different than it had been in the thirties and forties, especially since her dear husband had passed, and she was alone.
Momma, as we all called her, was quite a character. Those of us who knew her remember her as having a quick wit and a hard-working, kind soul. She could make a grand meal out of nothing, and boy, did she love a game of cards! Even if she wasn’t feeling well, she’d play “auction” all night long! Her bark was worse than her bite, although those of us who had been on the receiving end of it didn’t think so at the time.
This one Christmas, however, things had gone from bad to worse. With no such thing as assistance available to her in those days, her only sources of income were a small Veterans allowance, our family allowance and her pension. With such limited funds, extras for three small children were in short supply. Thankfully, one of our relatives was a farmer, so some meat and fresh vegetables were usually available. But the light bill was overdue, the wood was running low and, to make matters worse, the oil tank was threatening to run dry.
Poor Momma was in quite a fix with all these problems to shoulder alone, and many nights when we went upstairs to bed, we heard her downstairs at the kitchen table lighting a cigarette, her only luxury, and drinking a cup of tea. She stared out the window at the dark, wishing I suppose for some sort of a miracle.
Well, I guess God listens to such wishes, for some sort of a miracle did happen. To a twelve-year-old child, it’s kind of tough, I guess, knowing there isn’t much for Christmas. I was glad my brothers were younger, one only a baby. They wouldn’t realize the difference as long as Santa left something.
None of us kids could comprehend how serious things were until three or four days before Christmas when our water pipes froze from the cold, and all of a sudden, we were without water. Momma had been forcing herself to ration the wood and oil in an effort to make them last a bit longer, but the winter wind was relentless.
This seemed to be the last straw for her, with the added threat of the power being shut off, and still nothing for Christmas. She did something we had never seen her do before. She slowly walked over to her favorite chair at the end of the table, sat down heavily, folded her arms on the table, put her head down, and cried. Shuddering sobs so deep, and for so long, that we stopped our play and sat quietly. It scared us to see her so upset and utterly hopeless, and I think even as young as we were, it dawned on us that something was wrong.
As if on cue, we heard a knock at the door. Momma tried to compose herself. She smoothed down her everpresent apron and answered the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, certainly not the tall, thin, silver-haired gentleman who asked if he could come in. He sat and talked to her awhile; she seemed to know who he was, and we children went back to our play.
After a bit, he got ready to leave, and I guess to our young eyes he appeared taller than he actually was. Before he left, he reached into a deep pocket and took out a white envelope, which he pressed into Momma’s hand. She thanked him gratefully, but left the envelope unopened until after the gentleman had gone. He wished us all a merry Christmas and then he left.
Hands shaking, she opened the envelope and looked inside. As if in a dream, she slowly sat down in her chair again, and once more put her face in her hands and cried.
This time, we all began to cry. It was too much. Frozen pipes, maybe losing our lights, fuel running low, Momma crying twice in one night, this time after a stranger passed her an envelope. What was in that envelope anyway. Another bill? More bad news?
With tears on her cheeks, Momma said, “No! No! Don’t cry! It’s wonderful news! See what’s in this envelope? It’s Christmas!”
She opened it up. Wow! A fresh, crisp one-hundred dollar bill. A fortune! Certainly in those days it was.
Well, poor Momma! She almost flew to the telephone and arranged a drive to town the next day. She was so happy, and we were so glad to see her smiling face again. She helped us get ready for bed, and indeed, the teapot went on the stove very quickly that night. Out came a pen and paper and as we went upstairs, a list was being compiled and a budget carefully stretched.
The next day, with the youngest of us in tow, the other two in school, Momma set off for town with her prearranged ride. Somehow, maybe more Christmas magic, that one hundred dollars bought a lot of happiness. First things first—the electric bill was secured and wood was ordered, some oil was dispatched to be delivered to the house, and she called a neighbor in to fix the pipes. With the necessities covered, she carefully rationed what was left.
On Christmas morning, excitement was pretty high. Santa had come! Something nice for everyone, and I can still remember what I received. It was a beautiful brown sweater with a butterfly design on the front. It was so warm, and I loved it. Also, a book for me I loved to read! The boys were so pleased with what Santa had left: trucks to play with, puzzles to put together, and no doubt a hockey stick had appeared, too.
In an effort to keep us all believing, there was even a pack of cigarettes under the tree for Momma. Given the circumstances, I’m sure it was her only comfort in those hard times.
Christmas dinner soon followed, and I honestly don’t remember if we had a turkey. As I said earlier, Momma was a wizard at making the most out of nothing, but even one hundred dollars only goes so far. It didn’t seem important, because whatever we had for dinner, we were warm and comfortable and so happy. I do remember the wonderful smell and delicious taste of Momma’s brown sugar cookies and creamy fudge. She must have been up all night.
She was so relieved and happy after that. I’m sure she must have believed in Santa from then on, for in her darkest hour, her prayer had been heard and a miracle arranged.
Even after all these years, as a mother of four wonderful children of my own, I still remember that Christmas, and I can only imagine the despair she must have felt. I later learned the silver-haired gentleman was a local businessman and politician. His visit must have appeared to be a miracle to Momma, for how he knew of her troubles she could only guess. All he asked of her was that she was not to mention the deed to anyone, and she never did reveal his identity.
Since that long-ago Christmas, our benefactor well, he has passed away,
and so has Momma, but there isn’t a Christmas that goes by that we don’t think about her. We still love her and miss her, and I think even through the struggles, she managed to instill in us a love for the Christmas season and a belief that God hears our prayers, and sometimes even answers them.
Nova MacIsaac
The Right Spirit
Our happiness is greatest when we contribute to the happiness of others.
Anonymous
As the mother of four children, I had my hands full. Christmas was a busy, hectic time. My four children were sprawled across the living-room floor, watching television and writing down their lists of Christmas presents they wanted. My three-year-old, Ally, had the Sears catalog open and was picking out toys for Santa to bring. Joshua, the ten-year-old, was describing in great detail the different “cool” toys from the popular Men in Black movie. Twelve-year-old Matthew had his worn baseball mitt in his hand and was showing his father and me how he needed a new one. And Chad, our nineteen-year-old son, was writing a long list that included everything from a leather jacket to a new set of golf clubs.
On the six o’clock news on television that evening was a special feature about families who needed help at Christmas. These were families who didn’t have enough money for food, let alone Christmas presents. I noticed that all four of our children were glued to the story.
Joshua said, “Why don’t we pick a family and help them out by each of us giving up one of our presents?”
“What do you mean?” I asked him, looking over sideways at my husband, to make sure he heard this, too.
“We always get so many gifts,” Joshua said. “Maybe we could share some of our gifts with others.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” I said, somewhat surprised. Then, I turned to the other children and said, “What do the rest of you guys think?”
“Well, we are fortunate,” Chad said. “It’s hard to imagine that there are families out there who don’t even have food. I think it’s the least we could do, and I’m kind of ashamed we haven’t thought about it before.”
Chicken Soup for the Country Soul Page 6