*** This is the second half of Lucy's story. The first half is posted immediately before this blog entry, titled Lost At Sea Part One, and should be read before this one. My apologies for the spacing issues -- I am transcribing this from my FanStory portfolio.
Lost At Sea (Part Two)
The day Lucy threw her heart away, I was walking along the shore, tossing stranded starfish back into the receding waters by my home. I knew she'd be back. The ocean calls to those who confide in her.
I met her by the sand dunes. When she saw me standing there, holding the bottle containing her message, she started to cry. Now a young woman, she'd never trusted anyone in her life, but a few gentle words were all it took for her to realize I meant her no harm. The sun dipped behind the horizon and still she stayed, listening to the ocean's song and tasting the salt in the air. The stars came out over our heads. When I pointed out my house, she smiled and said it looked beautiful.
"Not compared to you," I said. I knew she didn't believe me, but every word was true.
Once we became friends, we often spent time together at the beach but never on the stormy days. When it clouded over, the cold, green ocean water reminded her too much of her cold and lonely childhood. She spoke of the days when she would wander the empty streets of a nearby, abandoned part of town looking for someone to play with. Once, she found a lost dog, but most of the time, she sat and talked to the pine trees swaying in the breeze by the empty buildings. If the door was locked when she returned, she crawled in the doghouse in the backyard and slept until her mother decided to let her in.
It broke my heart knowing she suffered for two days with a broken leg, because no one believed she couldn't walk on it. We talked of how her reprieve came, all those years ago, gift-wrapped as a rare childhood disease. Although the emotional abuse continued, a child being taken to a hospital and physical therapy several times a week cannot be beaten without alerting authorities to that child's plight.
How does a child exist in the face of such severe emotional pain?
God gave Lucy three gifts to help her survive her childhood.
One was a strong will to survive along with the ability to escape emotionally to far away places. He sent people into her life who loved her, and gave her new hope when it seemed too hard to go on.
The second gift seemed inexplicable; she felt others' pain, sometimes even more so than her own, which helped her understand. With understanding came forgiveness and Lucy didn't have to waste her time being angry about the past. When Lucy forgave her abusers, it set her heart free.
The third gift brought the greatest healing, for when she writes, she helps others find their way to a place of comfort, light and love.
In our relationship, she found the love and acceptance she'd longed for all her life. I still have that bottle sitting in my house, with the note asking, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Underneath her desperation, I wrote, "How could I not?"
To this day, I love her more than she will ever be able to comprehend. Healing doesn't happen overnight and Lucy still needs reassurance to help her understand her own worth.
Sometimes we laugh together.
Other times we cry.
Tonight, as I shared this story with you, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Jesus, I'd be lost without You. Please don't leave me."
I wrapped my arms around My little girl and whispered, "Precious child, whom I love. I will never abandon you. Your heart is safe with Me for all eternity."
That is Lucy's story, my friends. Would you like to hear yours? Come rest in My arms and I will comfort you.
All my love,
Jesus
Monday, November 2, 2009
Lost At Sea (Part One)
Her father shook her. "Did you hear me? If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about!"
The look in his eyes set off warning sirens in her head. She wanted to run for cover, but it was too late. From the corner of her eye, she saw her three-year-old baby brother, his eyes transfixed with terror. Don't worry, baby. I won't tell him who really did it.
When her father's temper unleashed, it reminded her of the rain's driving fury when it pounded the tin roof of their house. He would beat her until, his energy spent, he stopped as suddenly as he'd started.
"Stop crying. That's an order."
Ten-year-old Lucy sucked in her breath, teeth clenched over her lower lip. Boiling tears spilled down her cheeks.
She screamed as his hand connected with her raw buttocks again and again. Summoning a strength she didn't know she owned, she managed to swallow her emotions and stand silent before him, her bare body covered in weeping welts and bruises. No one ever noticed them hidden beneath her clothes.
When he finished punishing her for her brother's crime of eating a piece of fruit he'd been saving, she crawled into bed and buried her face in the pillow, allowing the softest of sobs to escape. Every day, it seemed she was in trouble for something. In time, the pain subsided to a dull ache, and she drifted off to sleep, praying to the God she'd heard about in church to please help her not to be so naughty anymore.
Her father's hand touched her shoulder. Instantly awake, her body stiffened.
"I'm sorry. Can we be friends now?"
"Yes." She'd learned the hard way not to say anything else.
"Good," he said, leaving the room.
They would both pretend nothing happened and life would smolder on.
She fared no better with her mother. Lucy's entire existence, or so it seemed to her child's mind, was for the sole purpose of making them unhappy. Each day when she woke, she promised herself she wouldn't arouse their anger, but it seemed useless. She was always in trouble no matter how hard she tried to be good.
Later that week, she went to the kitchen.
"Mom, am I adopted?"
"No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"I just wondered," Lucy replied. If I was, maybe someone out there loves me. Maybe they'll come back for me one day, she thought.
"Change your clothes. You look like a tramp."
Lucy sighed. "But Jodi gave me this blouse for my birthday."
"Well, it looks ridiculous on you." Her mother burst into tears. "I don't know why I can't have pretty daughters like all my friends. Why did I get stuck with you? It's my birthday today and you don't even care!"
"Yes, I do!" Lucy said, thinking of all the time she'd spent picking out a beautiful birthday card in the shape of a heart for her mom, with ribbons and lace all over it. "I love you, Mom." She recalled the joyous feeling she'd experienced in finding this perfect card. Mom will love it. It's so pretty. It cost every penny of her allowance to buy it.
"Get out of my sight."
Lucy hung her head and walked to her bedroom to change. She spent a lot of time playing with her imaginary friends out in the lane behind their house, but that day she knew better than to go outside. Tiptoeing back into the family room, she sat down next to her brother. He was watching 'Little House on the Prairie.'
I wonder what it's like to have a dad who actually hugs you. Her heart ached when she watched Michael Landon embracing his on-screen daughter.
"Lucy!" Her mother's voice drowned out the television.
Jumping to her feet, Lucy hurried back through the dining room into the kitchen. Her shoulders sagged when she saw the birthday card in her mother's hands. With her father gone on a business trip, her mother's rage seemed inescapable.
"You don't love me!" her mother shrieked. "Why did you give me this card? You are a trouble maker and you've ruined my day." Holding the card as far away from her body as she could reach, she tore it up.
Lucy sank to the ground, and picked up the pieces of the card. Sobbing, she clutched the pink lace and cardboard to her chest, as tears stained the printed words. Her mother's voice still echoed in the distance as Lucy escaped into her own unfeeling emptiness.
The heart card was ruined. Lucy never forgot she'd been branded worthless.
She kept those pieces hidden away in a drawer for years.
When Lucy grew up, she gathered them up and put them in a bottle along with some tears and a note that said, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Corking the bottle, she walked down to the ocean and threw her heart away.
Author's Note: Please don't despair. This isn't the end of Lucy's story. Part Two will be posted in a moment.
The look in his eyes set off warning sirens in her head. She wanted to run for cover, but it was too late. From the corner of her eye, she saw her three-year-old baby brother, his eyes transfixed with terror. Don't worry, baby. I won't tell him who really did it.
When her father's temper unleashed, it reminded her of the rain's driving fury when it pounded the tin roof of their house. He would beat her until, his energy spent, he stopped as suddenly as he'd started.
"Stop crying. That's an order."
Ten-year-old Lucy sucked in her breath, teeth clenched over her lower lip. Boiling tears spilled down her cheeks.
She screamed as his hand connected with her raw buttocks again and again. Summoning a strength she didn't know she owned, she managed to swallow her emotions and stand silent before him, her bare body covered in weeping welts and bruises. No one ever noticed them hidden beneath her clothes.
When he finished punishing her for her brother's crime of eating a piece of fruit he'd been saving, she crawled into bed and buried her face in the pillow, allowing the softest of sobs to escape. Every day, it seemed she was in trouble for something. In time, the pain subsided to a dull ache, and she drifted off to sleep, praying to the God she'd heard about in church to please help her not to be so naughty anymore.
Her father's hand touched her shoulder. Instantly awake, her body stiffened.
"I'm sorry. Can we be friends now?"
"Yes." She'd learned the hard way not to say anything else.
"Good," he said, leaving the room.
They would both pretend nothing happened and life would smolder on.
She fared no better with her mother. Lucy's entire existence, or so it seemed to her child's mind, was for the sole purpose of making them unhappy. Each day when she woke, she promised herself she wouldn't arouse their anger, but it seemed useless. She was always in trouble no matter how hard she tried to be good.
Later that week, she went to the kitchen.
"Mom, am I adopted?"
"No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"I just wondered," Lucy replied. If I was, maybe someone out there loves me. Maybe they'll come back for me one day, she thought.
"Change your clothes. You look like a tramp."
Lucy sighed. "But Jodi gave me this blouse for my birthday."
"Well, it looks ridiculous on you." Her mother burst into tears. "I don't know why I can't have pretty daughters like all my friends. Why did I get stuck with you? It's my birthday today and you don't even care!"
"Yes, I do!" Lucy said, thinking of all the time she'd spent picking out a beautiful birthday card in the shape of a heart for her mom, with ribbons and lace all over it. "I love you, Mom." She recalled the joyous feeling she'd experienced in finding this perfect card. Mom will love it. It's so pretty. It cost every penny of her allowance to buy it.
"Get out of my sight."
Lucy hung her head and walked to her bedroom to change. She spent a lot of time playing with her imaginary friends out in the lane behind their house, but that day she knew better than to go outside. Tiptoeing back into the family room, she sat down next to her brother. He was watching 'Little House on the Prairie.'
I wonder what it's like to have a dad who actually hugs you. Her heart ached when she watched Michael Landon embracing his on-screen daughter.
"Lucy!" Her mother's voice drowned out the television.
Jumping to her feet, Lucy hurried back through the dining room into the kitchen. Her shoulders sagged when she saw the birthday card in her mother's hands. With her father gone on a business trip, her mother's rage seemed inescapable.
"You don't love me!" her mother shrieked. "Why did you give me this card? You are a trouble maker and you've ruined my day." Holding the card as far away from her body as she could reach, she tore it up.
Lucy sank to the ground, and picked up the pieces of the card. Sobbing, she clutched the pink lace and cardboard to her chest, as tears stained the printed words. Her mother's voice still echoed in the distance as Lucy escaped into her own unfeeling emptiness.
The heart card was ruined. Lucy never forgot she'd been branded worthless.
She kept those pieces hidden away in a drawer for years.
When Lucy grew up, she gathered them up and put them in a bottle along with some tears and a note that said, "How could anyone ever love me?"
Corking the bottle, she walked down to the ocean and threw her heart away.
Author's Note: Please don't despair. This isn't the end of Lucy's story. Part Two will be posted in a moment.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
There Will Be A Day
(There will be a day . . .)
He strains against his wife's hands, trying to force the shotgun into his own mouth. She pleads with him. "I didn't mean it. I don't wish you were dead. Please don't do this to us. Don't do it to your children." He collapses to the floor sobbing, tossing the gun to one side.His wife tries to hold him. "Go away," he screams. "Leave me alone."
Snatching the weapon, she runs from the shed and hides the gun before she calls 911. He needs help and she doesn't have a choice. Not any more.
(with no more tears . . . )
She stands by the jetty's edge, letting the salt sting her face as the wind whips her clothes. Waves lap the barnacled legs of the wooden structure. "Does anyone care?"
"I do," a gentle voice replies.
She feels a hand on her shoulder.
"I care very much. Please, step back from the edge. I love you.This is never the answer."
Wiping her face with both hands, she turns around to face the stranger.No one is there."I'm going crazy," she shouts across the water.
"No, dear one. I have sent someone who understands. Go home. Let him help you."
She runs from the beach and gets in her car. The radio is playing her favorite song. She picks up the ultrasound picture and stares at her baby's unborn face.
(no more pain . . . )
Ignoring the knock on his door, he sits alone, staring into blackness. A thousand thoughts assail him. With clenched teeth and fists, he beats the walls. Empty bottles litter the floor like the discarded hope he refuses to hold on to. Hunger gnaws his stomach, but food will not stay down.
"Go away," he says to the persistent voices in his head and at the door.
His soul wanders lost within his heart, crying out for help, but he fears letting go of the pain. Pain is the only friend he has left.
(and no more fears . . . )
She stares at the television news report as they announce the death of another soldier.
"Why, God?"
Her thoughts wing through the night sky. She stands by her son's side as he paces across the desert sands, shouldering his rifle. "Please stay safe," she whispers to the image in her mind. "I want you to come home -- alive."
She thinks of the family who received news of their son's death in Iraq this morning. Her hands shake as she opens up her Bible and wonders what her husband said to them when he turned up on their doorstep in his military best.
"How would I ever cope?" she asks the book in front of her.
(There will be a day, when the burdens of this place . . . )
Looking more like a skin stretched over bones to dry, a three-year-old reaches into the black pot, and scoops out a handful of pasty gruel. Her older sister watches from the corner of the dirt-floored hut.
Their mother has been gone for five days now and she knows they will never see her again.
"Come, little one." Picking up the younger child, she hoists her over one bony hip and walks out into the hot African sun. Flies swarm at the child's mouth and eyes, desperate for stolen nourishment.
She heads down the worn path, toward a village three days walk away, knowing they may die trying to reach it."No matter. We will die if we stay here."
(will be no more . . . )
Arm in arm, the couple watch their adult sons and daughters gather around the nursing home bedroom. Unseen by their beloved children, they hover above the room, as a bright light grows stronger. The woman turns to face it.
"Oh, Jesus. It is really You? Is it our time?"
They laugh and run into His arms. The children stay behind to wait in hope and live their own lives.
(we'll see Jesus face to face . . . )
The writer sits at her computer, searching her heart for the right thing to say to her friend. She whispers to the screen, knowing he is sitting out there, alone, somewhere.
"God loves you so much. Please listen to the song. I know it will bless your heart and bring you hope. He's picking up the pieces of your life right now and restoring your wounded heart. Hold on, just hold on to Jesus."
(and until that day, we'll hold on to You always . . . . )
Author Notes:
All bold type are lyrics by Jeremy Camp, for the song, 'There Will Be A Day' I hope you will take the opportunity to copy and paste this address into your browser and watch Jeremy Camp's You-Tube video of his amazing song, "There Will Be A Day" on my website: http://www.rainbowgatefarm.com/JanilousCorner.html
The lyrics to Jeremy Camp's inspired song are:
"I try to hold on to this world with everything I have
But I feel the weight of what it brings, and the hurt that trys to grab
The many trials that seem to never end, His word declares this truth,
that we will enter in this rest with wonders anew
But I hold on to this hope and the promise that He brings
That there will be a place with no more suffering
(Chorus) There will be a day with no more tears, no more pain, and no more fears
There will be a day when the burdens of this place,
will be no more, we'll see Jesus face to face
But until that day, we'll hold on to you always
I know the journey seems so long
You feel you're walking on your own
But there has never been a step
Where you've walked out all alone
(Chorus)
Troubled soul don't lose your heart
Cause joy and peace he brings
And the beauty that's in store
Outweighs the hurt of life's sting
I can't wait until that day where the very one I've lived for always
will wipe away the sorrow that I've faced
To touch the scars that rescued me from a life of shame and misery
this is why, this is why I sing. . . (Chorus)
This song was written by Jeremy Camp. All rights reserved.
Revelation 21:3-4 (New Living Translation) 3 I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, "Look, God's home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them.[a] 4 He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.
haiku poetry
Here are my latest haiku poems.
Haiku is written without capitalization, using a 3/5/3 or 5/7/5 syllable count. I have used the latter in these two poems:
haiku (gold-leaf gilded sky)
gold-leaf gilded sky
shimmers above scented pines
Heaven's reflection
haiku (emerald waters)
emerald waters
coursing down mountain creek beds
many become one
If you would like to view these poems with the photos that inspired them you can see them together at these addresses:
Gold-Leaf Gilded Sky
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=248802
Emerald Waters
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=249069
Haiku is written without capitalization, using a 3/5/3 or 5/7/5 syllable count. I have used the latter in these two poems:
haiku (gold-leaf gilded sky)
gold-leaf gilded sky
shimmers above scented pines
Heaven's reflection
haiku (emerald waters)
emerald waters
coursing down mountain creek beds
many become one
If you would like to view these poems with the photos that inspired them you can see them together at these addresses:
Gold-Leaf Gilded Sky
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=248802
Emerald Waters
http://fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=249069
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Short Works Author Of The Year.
I am thrilled to announce; I have been awarded Short Works Author Of The Year for 2008 on the writing site, FanStory.com as "Jani-Lou"
This is the second year I've been honored with this award.
As I won this position by over 1200 points this past year, I have decided not to pursue a ranking in short works on FanStory for 2009. I think it is only fair to let someone else take a shot at the number one position!
If you would like to read my work, you can find my portfolio at:
http://fanstory.com/selectprofileportfolio.jsp
If the link doesn't work, go to Find Member, and search for "Jani-Lou"
This is the second year I've been honored with this award.
As I won this position by over 1200 points this past year, I have decided not to pursue a ranking in short works on FanStory for 2009. I think it is only fair to let someone else take a shot at the number one position!
If you would like to read my work, you can find my portfolio at:
http://fanstory.com/selectprofileportfolio.jsp
If the link doesn't work, go to Find Member, and search for "Jani-Lou"
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Charlie's Christmas Tale - (What if Santa stopped believing in Christmas?)
The crackling fire popped, shooting a prism of glowing sparks into the crisp night air. The men huddled around the old barrel didn't flinch and the newcomer wondered if they ever spoke.
Tugging at his belt which held up a faded pair of thick woolen trousers, he gave a hearty laugh. His hand flew to his mouth, his eyes widened in alarm, but not one of the men even glanced in his direction.
The clock downtown boomed out its toll, welcoming a new hour. Blowing clouds of steamy breath over calloused hands, the men continued to ignore him, just as they'd done ever since he'd walked up ten minutes ago and joined them around the fire, in the alleyway behind Jung's Emporium.
Giving a sigh, he let the burlap bag he held slip through his fingers to the ground. Lying there, it reminded him of a tire with the air let out. All I have left in the whole world, fits in this bag. Running one hand over his dirty, bearded face, he looked across at the tall buildings twinkling like fairies laughing and dancing in the distance.
"I remember when I used to be at the top of that building," he said, with a weary smile.
A short man with greasy hair, and a coat three sizes too big, looked over at the newcomer and grimaced. "Too bloody bad, mate, 'cause ya sure ain't there now, is ya?"
The newcomer extended his hand and smiled. "You're Australian! I visit the land down-under every year. Well, until this year, that is. My name is Ni-"
"Don't care who you are. You ain't welcome here. This is our barrel," the short man responded. "Go find some warm beach and sober up on your own. Yer hogging the bloody heat."
Nick stepped back. "My apologies, gentlemen." Picking up his sack, he turned and walked away from the fire. "Merry Christmas to you."
"Bloody lunatic," replied the Australian.
With an even deeper sigh, Nick reached into his bag and pulled out a large, brown-paper parcel tied with string. Setting it on the ground, he chuckled. "This will make their Christmas a little brighter." Giving the package a shove, he sent it sliding across the frozen ground toward the men.
Flashing lights and a loud whooping sound exploded in his ears. A patrol car turned the corner and raced in his direction. The men standing around the fire bolted in several directions as the officers stepped from the car, flashlights bobbing across the empty landscape.
"Wait!" Nick called out. "You forgot to take your present!" Staring into the darkness, his shoulders sagged. It's no use.
"Okay, old man. Are you going to move along or do we have to run you down to the shelter."
Spinning, Nick peered at the officer's badge, reflecting in the fire. "Tommy Frederick, the last time I saw you wearing one of those, you were six years old.
"Officer Frederick looked down at his badge and back at the old man. "Do I know you?" he asked, just as his partner, Officer Elvers returned with the parcel Nick had left for the men.
"Hey, Tom, take a look at this. What do you think it is?"
Tom shrugged. "Beats me."
"No doubt they stole it from the Emporium," Elvers added.
Nick shook his head. "Oh, no. None of those men are thieves. A little down on their luck, I admit, but not thieves." Scratching his beard, he added, "A bit ornery too, especially Sonny, from Australia. Yet, as honest as the day is long."
"Give me a break, Santa." Elvers shook his head. "You bums are all the same. Did you steal that suit too?"
"Gracious no! My wife made it for me." Nick chuckled.
Taking the package, Tom turned to the old man. "If they didn't steal this - what's in it?"
"Oh, you know. Some little things to brighten up their spirits. Woolen scarves and gloves, a fruit cake, some candy and the phone numbers of their families, in case any of them are having second thoughts about staying lost."
"Staying lost?"
"Yes, Tom. Staying lost. Sometimes the pain of facing families is harder than living with the memories alone."
Elvers yanked a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "C'mon, old man. You can tell us the rest of the story down at the precinct."
"What are you doing?" Tom asked. "The old man hasn't broken any laws. It's Christmas Eve. Give him a break." Turning to Nick, his voice softened, "Do you need a ride anywhere?"
Nick smiled, and both officers were surprised to see his pearly teeth glistening in contrast to his muddy beard.
"That is very kind of you, Tom. You always were a nice boy. I'm glad to see you became an officer of the peace. Our world needs more men like you." He looked at Officer Elvers. "What stopped you from fulfilling your dreams, Mark? You wanted to go to medical school."
Handcuffs dangling, Officer Mark Elvers stared at the old man, mouth open. "How did you. . . ." He shook his head. "Damn! What was in that eggnog you brought in tonight, Tom?"
Tom didn't answer. He was too busy opening one end of the parcel.
Nick clucked his tongue. "That's not yours, you know."
"Put a cork in it, old man. Is he lying?" Elvers asked, as Tom shone his flashlight into the box.
"It's empty. Nothing in here but some dust and some blank paper."
Nick strained his neck to see. "Oh, dear," he muttered. "Oh, dear."
"What now?" Elvers snapped.
"The magic is fading." Nick looked up at the officers, the corners of his mouth down-turned. "I was afraid it might come to this." He opened his sack and peered inside. "The presents. They're gone too. Oh, dear. Whatever will I do now?"
"That's easy." Officer Elvers snickered. "You're coming with us."
Tom grabbed Mark's arm, as he stepped forward. "Wait, man. Don't you have any Christmas Spirit at all?" Ignoring his partner's blistering look, he addressed Nick. "What do you mean, the magic is fading?"
Nick held up both hands. "Earlier tonight, the reindeer made a crash landing in Central Park. They couldn't even keep flying." He shook his head. "No one believes in me anymore. It began when they told me to trim down or lose my job as the spirit of Christmas. But when they accused me of insulting women, because of the way I laughed, well, it all went downhill from there."
Tears glistened on his gaunt cheeks, as he looked at the officers. "Can you imagine that? I've never insulted anyone in the past five hundred years!"
"I read about that. Sounded kind of dumb to me."
"You have no idea how upset Mrs. Claus was, especially following so close on the heels of those lawmakers insisting I lose weight. A bad influence on the children, they called me."
"C'mon, Nick. I know someone who needs you tonight," Tom said.
"Really? Who?"
"A child we saw just a few hours ago."
"Wonderful!" Nick exclaimed. "What are we waiting for? Ho, ho - ." He covered his mouth and looked up at the men with puppy-dog eyes. "I'm sorry. I still forget sometimes."
As the old man climbed into the back of the patrol car, Mark leaned across and slammed the door. "Tell me we're taking him in."
"Nope."
"You've lost your mind!"
"Maybe," Tom replied. "Did you see the look on that boy's face earlier tonight? The one who tried to break into his neighbor's apartment because he thought he heard Santa Claus? Those kids didn't have any presents around their tree at all."
"You're the boss, Sarge, but I can't see where this is going to help."
"We'll see."
The traffic in New York City never sleeps and tonight being Christmas Eve was no exception. As the patrol car wound its way through the crowded streets, the old man kept up a stream of conversation from the back seat in response to Tom's questions.
"Yes, Thomas, that's right. I am called by many names all over the world. In Holland, they refer to me as Sinterklaas. In France, the children greet me as Père Noël. Why in Mexico, they refer to me as Nino Jesus, for I remind them of the gift of the Christ-child. The children of England call me Father Christmas. Of course, here in the United States, I am Santa or at least I was until this year. By the way, did you know it was one of your fellow New Yorkers who penned one of my favorite poems? It goes like this. Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house. . ."
Tom glanced over at his grinning partner. "Do I detect a softening in that cold heart of stone there, Officer Scrooge? Is that a smile I see?"
Mark wiped his brow and tossed his cap on the dashboard. "Yeah, I guess the old codger is getting to me. Maybe I was wrong."
"Yeah, maybe you were."
". . . his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. . . ," continued the voice in the back seat.
The officers exchanged a smile.A few moments later, Tom pulled up at an apartment complex. Before they could get out of the car, a woman came running down the steps even as the curtains parted in the apartment window and two eyes stared through the glass.
"If they called you again, it's not true! I've had Bobby inside the whole night and he ain't caused no trouble."
Tom held out his hand. "Relax, Mrs. Murphy. Bobby isn't in any trouble. We just brought him a visitor. Someone I thought he might like to see - "
Before Mark finished his sentence, the face in the window vanished, leaving the curtains swaying. The front door burst open and a small boy hurried down the steps.
"Santa!" the boy exclaimed, as Nick extracted himself from the patrol car with a loud groan.
"Funny, I didn't have that much trouble getting in," Nick muttered, reaching for his sack. Straightening up, he gave the boy a glowing smile. "Well, young man, let's see what I have for you in here!"
"Ma'am, can we do this in the hallway?" Officer Elvers scooped the boy from the pavement. "Bobby, you're going to catch your death of cold out here without any shoes on your feet. No coat either! Come on, everyone. You too, old man."
As he carried the wriggling boy toward the steps, the others followed. Tom took Nick's arm. "You don't have to worry about your empty sack, Nick. We have a couple of trinkets in the car. They give us teddy bears and other stuff to hand out to kids tonight. I'll get some and be right up. Bobby just wanted to meet Santa Claus and he missed out because Santa doesn't visit the mall anymore."
"No need for that, Thomas," the old man chuckled. Reaching into the flaccid sack, he extracted a brand new, bright red and blue winter coat.
"Spiderman! My favorite!" squealed Bobby from the top of the steps.
"I happen to have a pair of matching snow-boots in here for you, too, young man," Nick said, chuckling as he climbed the steps.
The other three adults stood speechless, mouths open. Bobby squirmed down and ran to Nick, throwing his arms around him. Then a frown flitted across his face. "Santa, your suit is all dirty." He brushed it with his hand.
Mrs. Murphy leaned closer to Officers Elvers and Frederick. "Am I imagining things, or is that really happening?" she whispered.
The officers nodded. Everywhere the boy brushed Nick's suit, the dirt vanished, and within moments, his suit gleamed and sparkled with its red velvet and white trim.
"Now you look like Santa again. That's better," Bobby said.
"Indeed, it is, young man. Indeed it is!" Nick agreed, beaming. He stood up and pulled several brightly-wrapped gifts from his sack. Extending his arm, he handed the presents to Bobby's mother.
"I hope these will help you out, ma'am. Times are hard, but you mustn't give up hope. You have your family, and those boys need you as much as you need them."
Mrs. Murphy reached forward and gave the old man a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Santa." Her eyes lit up. "My, you do smell good! Like pine trees, holly, and oatmeal cookies all wrapped up together! Your beard is so white! It looks like snow and feels like silk!"
Nick chuckled and cupped his ear with one hand. "I do declare, I believe I can hear my reindeer waiting outside! The magic has returned!"
"I hear them too, Santa!" Bobby exclaimed.The adults exchanged puzzled glances as Nick handed Bobby a Spiderman Bop toy and whispered in his ear.
Bobby nodded. "I won't forget, Santa. I promise. I'll try real hard."
"Thank you, gentlemen, Mrs. Murphy, but especially you, Bobby, for believing in me when I'd almost forgotten how to believe in myself. You and the other children have saved Santa Claus."
With those words, Nick tipped his hat, sprinted down the steps and out the door.
"How on earth can he move that fast?" Tom exclaimed. "When we picked him up an hour ago, he could barely move at all."
Descending the steps, they followed him outside. When they reached the street, Nick and his sack were gone.
"Look!" Bobby exclaimed, pointing down the street. "Up there!"
"No way," Officer Mark said. Tom laughed out loud and Mrs. Murphy gasped. Bobby just grinned and waved.
In the distance, over the outline of tall city buildings, they watched a moving object in the air vanish behind the clouds.
"Merry Christmas!"
The words cut through all the noise, the sirens, and honking horns like crystal bells echoing from a church in a snowy meadow. At least that's the picture that formed in the minds of everyone who heard them that cold Christmas Eve.
Later that same night, a group of men stood huddled around a fire in a can. A patrol car drove by and shone a flashlight out the window. The men all lifted their cups of hot apple cider and waved as the officers drove away.
The police officers exchanged glances.
"Did you see that, Charlie? Those men are all wearing winter coats! I swear I smell roast turkey and ham too!"
"Yeah, me too, Arnie. The Salvos must have been here."
"No way, man. In this weather?" He pointed to the large flakes of snow dashing against the windshield of their patrol car like Kamikaze pilots on a mission. "Hey, drive back over there. Let's ask them."
Charlie glanced at his watch. "Sure, why not. Our shift ends in twenty minutes."
"Merry Christmas, gentlemen!" one of the homeless men exclaimed as the officers pulled up. "A tough night to be out working. Go home and spend Christmas with your loved ones!"
"Same to you, and uh, yeah, we're off duty in twenty minutes. But we wondered. Where did you guys get all that food from, and those coats?"
The old man gave a toothless grin and took a sip from his steaming cup. Winking at his friends, he glanced up at the sky. "Why, where else? From Santa, of course."
The other men around the barrel agreed in a chorus of voices.
"Too right, mate."
"The big guy himself."
"He flew in here with those reindeer about a half-hour ago."
The officers looked at each other. "Well, stay out of trouble, boys. We'll be seeing you."
"Maybe not! We all have bus and plane tickets. We're going home to our families. First thing in the morning."
"Okay, then. Merry Christmas to you!" Winding up the window, the officers drove away.
"What do you make of that, Arnie?"
Arnie just smiled. "Everyone needs something to believe in, Charlie."
"Not me."
But the next night, when the officers drove past the barrel, there wasn't a sign of the men who always huddled around its meager flame throughout the winter. All over the city it was the same. The homeless had disappeared. Wondrous stories of family reunions and celebrations spread all over the country.
There was only one explanation and that night, Charlie became a believer.
"Didn't you, Charlie?"
"Yes, sir, Santa."
"Do you have the whole thing typed now?"
"I do indeed."
"Good. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this for me. This is my busiest time of year. I have one more favor to ask. Would you take it on down to the newspaper office in New York for me? It's a little foggy out there but Rudolph has offered to guide the spare sleigh. Mrs. Claus is baking brownies. They'll be ready when you get back. Would you like a peppermint before you go?"
Charlie sniffed the air. "Mmm. Those brownies smell delicious." Picking up his hat, he added, "I'd be delighted to deliver this story for you, Santa. Oh, and yes, please, I'd love one of those peppermints. Anything Mrs. Claus makes is too good to resist!"
"Ho, ho, ho! Don't I know it," Santa said, patting his round belly. "Well, Charlie, I sure hope this story brightens someone's spirit."
"It will. You made a believer out of me! Merry Christmas, Santa."
"Why, indeed I did! Merry Christmas, Charlie, and Merry Christmas to all!"
Tugging at his belt which held up a faded pair of thick woolen trousers, he gave a hearty laugh. His hand flew to his mouth, his eyes widened in alarm, but not one of the men even glanced in his direction.
The clock downtown boomed out its toll, welcoming a new hour. Blowing clouds of steamy breath over calloused hands, the men continued to ignore him, just as they'd done ever since he'd walked up ten minutes ago and joined them around the fire, in the alleyway behind Jung's Emporium.
Giving a sigh, he let the burlap bag he held slip through his fingers to the ground. Lying there, it reminded him of a tire with the air let out. All I have left in the whole world, fits in this bag. Running one hand over his dirty, bearded face, he looked across at the tall buildings twinkling like fairies laughing and dancing in the distance.
"I remember when I used to be at the top of that building," he said, with a weary smile.
A short man with greasy hair, and a coat three sizes too big, looked over at the newcomer and grimaced. "Too bloody bad, mate, 'cause ya sure ain't there now, is ya?"
The newcomer extended his hand and smiled. "You're Australian! I visit the land down-under every year. Well, until this year, that is. My name is Ni-"
"Don't care who you are. You ain't welcome here. This is our barrel," the short man responded. "Go find some warm beach and sober up on your own. Yer hogging the bloody heat."
Nick stepped back. "My apologies, gentlemen." Picking up his sack, he turned and walked away from the fire. "Merry Christmas to you."
"Bloody lunatic," replied the Australian.
With an even deeper sigh, Nick reached into his bag and pulled out a large, brown-paper parcel tied with string. Setting it on the ground, he chuckled. "This will make their Christmas a little brighter." Giving the package a shove, he sent it sliding across the frozen ground toward the men.
Flashing lights and a loud whooping sound exploded in his ears. A patrol car turned the corner and raced in his direction. The men standing around the fire bolted in several directions as the officers stepped from the car, flashlights bobbing across the empty landscape.
"Wait!" Nick called out. "You forgot to take your present!" Staring into the darkness, his shoulders sagged. It's no use.
"Okay, old man. Are you going to move along or do we have to run you down to the shelter."
Spinning, Nick peered at the officer's badge, reflecting in the fire. "Tommy Frederick, the last time I saw you wearing one of those, you were six years old.
"Officer Frederick looked down at his badge and back at the old man. "Do I know you?" he asked, just as his partner, Officer Elvers returned with the parcel Nick had left for the men.
"Hey, Tom, take a look at this. What do you think it is?"
Tom shrugged. "Beats me."
"No doubt they stole it from the Emporium," Elvers added.
Nick shook his head. "Oh, no. None of those men are thieves. A little down on their luck, I admit, but not thieves." Scratching his beard, he added, "A bit ornery too, especially Sonny, from Australia. Yet, as honest as the day is long."
"Give me a break, Santa." Elvers shook his head. "You bums are all the same. Did you steal that suit too?"
"Gracious no! My wife made it for me." Nick chuckled.
Taking the package, Tom turned to the old man. "If they didn't steal this - what's in it?"
"Oh, you know. Some little things to brighten up their spirits. Woolen scarves and gloves, a fruit cake, some candy and the phone numbers of their families, in case any of them are having second thoughts about staying lost."
"Staying lost?"
"Yes, Tom. Staying lost. Sometimes the pain of facing families is harder than living with the memories alone."
Elvers yanked a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "C'mon, old man. You can tell us the rest of the story down at the precinct."
"What are you doing?" Tom asked. "The old man hasn't broken any laws. It's Christmas Eve. Give him a break." Turning to Nick, his voice softened, "Do you need a ride anywhere?"
Nick smiled, and both officers were surprised to see his pearly teeth glistening in contrast to his muddy beard.
"That is very kind of you, Tom. You always were a nice boy. I'm glad to see you became an officer of the peace. Our world needs more men like you." He looked at Officer Elvers. "What stopped you from fulfilling your dreams, Mark? You wanted to go to medical school."
Handcuffs dangling, Officer Mark Elvers stared at the old man, mouth open. "How did you. . . ." He shook his head. "Damn! What was in that eggnog you brought in tonight, Tom?"
Tom didn't answer. He was too busy opening one end of the parcel.
Nick clucked his tongue. "That's not yours, you know."
"Put a cork in it, old man. Is he lying?" Elvers asked, as Tom shone his flashlight into the box.
"It's empty. Nothing in here but some dust and some blank paper."
Nick strained his neck to see. "Oh, dear," he muttered. "Oh, dear."
"What now?" Elvers snapped.
"The magic is fading." Nick looked up at the officers, the corners of his mouth down-turned. "I was afraid it might come to this." He opened his sack and peered inside. "The presents. They're gone too. Oh, dear. Whatever will I do now?"
"That's easy." Officer Elvers snickered. "You're coming with us."
Tom grabbed Mark's arm, as he stepped forward. "Wait, man. Don't you have any Christmas Spirit at all?" Ignoring his partner's blistering look, he addressed Nick. "What do you mean, the magic is fading?"
Nick held up both hands. "Earlier tonight, the reindeer made a crash landing in Central Park. They couldn't even keep flying." He shook his head. "No one believes in me anymore. It began when they told me to trim down or lose my job as the spirit of Christmas. But when they accused me of insulting women, because of the way I laughed, well, it all went downhill from there."
Tears glistened on his gaunt cheeks, as he looked at the officers. "Can you imagine that? I've never insulted anyone in the past five hundred years!"
"I read about that. Sounded kind of dumb to me."
"You have no idea how upset Mrs. Claus was, especially following so close on the heels of those lawmakers insisting I lose weight. A bad influence on the children, they called me."
"C'mon, Nick. I know someone who needs you tonight," Tom said.
"Really? Who?"
"A child we saw just a few hours ago."
"Wonderful!" Nick exclaimed. "What are we waiting for? Ho, ho - ." He covered his mouth and looked up at the men with puppy-dog eyes. "I'm sorry. I still forget sometimes."
As the old man climbed into the back of the patrol car, Mark leaned across and slammed the door. "Tell me we're taking him in."
"Nope."
"You've lost your mind!"
"Maybe," Tom replied. "Did you see the look on that boy's face earlier tonight? The one who tried to break into his neighbor's apartment because he thought he heard Santa Claus? Those kids didn't have any presents around their tree at all."
"You're the boss, Sarge, but I can't see where this is going to help."
"We'll see."
The traffic in New York City never sleeps and tonight being Christmas Eve was no exception. As the patrol car wound its way through the crowded streets, the old man kept up a stream of conversation from the back seat in response to Tom's questions.
"Yes, Thomas, that's right. I am called by many names all over the world. In Holland, they refer to me as Sinterklaas. In France, the children greet me as Père Noël. Why in Mexico, they refer to me as Nino Jesus, for I remind them of the gift of the Christ-child. The children of England call me Father Christmas. Of course, here in the United States, I am Santa or at least I was until this year. By the way, did you know it was one of your fellow New Yorkers who penned one of my favorite poems? It goes like this. Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house. . ."
Tom glanced over at his grinning partner. "Do I detect a softening in that cold heart of stone there, Officer Scrooge? Is that a smile I see?"
Mark wiped his brow and tossed his cap on the dashboard. "Yeah, I guess the old codger is getting to me. Maybe I was wrong."
"Yeah, maybe you were."
". . . his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. . . ," continued the voice in the back seat.
The officers exchanged a smile.A few moments later, Tom pulled up at an apartment complex. Before they could get out of the car, a woman came running down the steps even as the curtains parted in the apartment window and two eyes stared through the glass.
"If they called you again, it's not true! I've had Bobby inside the whole night and he ain't caused no trouble."
Tom held out his hand. "Relax, Mrs. Murphy. Bobby isn't in any trouble. We just brought him a visitor. Someone I thought he might like to see - "
Before Mark finished his sentence, the face in the window vanished, leaving the curtains swaying. The front door burst open and a small boy hurried down the steps.
"Santa!" the boy exclaimed, as Nick extracted himself from the patrol car with a loud groan.
"Funny, I didn't have that much trouble getting in," Nick muttered, reaching for his sack. Straightening up, he gave the boy a glowing smile. "Well, young man, let's see what I have for you in here!"
"Ma'am, can we do this in the hallway?" Officer Elvers scooped the boy from the pavement. "Bobby, you're going to catch your death of cold out here without any shoes on your feet. No coat either! Come on, everyone. You too, old man."
As he carried the wriggling boy toward the steps, the others followed. Tom took Nick's arm. "You don't have to worry about your empty sack, Nick. We have a couple of trinkets in the car. They give us teddy bears and other stuff to hand out to kids tonight. I'll get some and be right up. Bobby just wanted to meet Santa Claus and he missed out because Santa doesn't visit the mall anymore."
"No need for that, Thomas," the old man chuckled. Reaching into the flaccid sack, he extracted a brand new, bright red and blue winter coat.
"Spiderman! My favorite!" squealed Bobby from the top of the steps.
"I happen to have a pair of matching snow-boots in here for you, too, young man," Nick said, chuckling as he climbed the steps.
The other three adults stood speechless, mouths open. Bobby squirmed down and ran to Nick, throwing his arms around him. Then a frown flitted across his face. "Santa, your suit is all dirty." He brushed it with his hand.
Mrs. Murphy leaned closer to Officers Elvers and Frederick. "Am I imagining things, or is that really happening?" she whispered.
The officers nodded. Everywhere the boy brushed Nick's suit, the dirt vanished, and within moments, his suit gleamed and sparkled with its red velvet and white trim.
"Now you look like Santa again. That's better," Bobby said.
"Indeed, it is, young man. Indeed it is!" Nick agreed, beaming. He stood up and pulled several brightly-wrapped gifts from his sack. Extending his arm, he handed the presents to Bobby's mother.
"I hope these will help you out, ma'am. Times are hard, but you mustn't give up hope. You have your family, and those boys need you as much as you need them."
Mrs. Murphy reached forward and gave the old man a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Santa." Her eyes lit up. "My, you do smell good! Like pine trees, holly, and oatmeal cookies all wrapped up together! Your beard is so white! It looks like snow and feels like silk!"
Nick chuckled and cupped his ear with one hand. "I do declare, I believe I can hear my reindeer waiting outside! The magic has returned!"
"I hear them too, Santa!" Bobby exclaimed.The adults exchanged puzzled glances as Nick handed Bobby a Spiderman Bop toy and whispered in his ear.
Bobby nodded. "I won't forget, Santa. I promise. I'll try real hard."
"Thank you, gentlemen, Mrs. Murphy, but especially you, Bobby, for believing in me when I'd almost forgotten how to believe in myself. You and the other children have saved Santa Claus."
With those words, Nick tipped his hat, sprinted down the steps and out the door.
"How on earth can he move that fast?" Tom exclaimed. "When we picked him up an hour ago, he could barely move at all."
Descending the steps, they followed him outside. When they reached the street, Nick and his sack were gone.
"Look!" Bobby exclaimed, pointing down the street. "Up there!"
"No way," Officer Mark said. Tom laughed out loud and Mrs. Murphy gasped. Bobby just grinned and waved.
In the distance, over the outline of tall city buildings, they watched a moving object in the air vanish behind the clouds.
"Merry Christmas!"
The words cut through all the noise, the sirens, and honking horns like crystal bells echoing from a church in a snowy meadow. At least that's the picture that formed in the minds of everyone who heard them that cold Christmas Eve.
Later that same night, a group of men stood huddled around a fire in a can. A patrol car drove by and shone a flashlight out the window. The men all lifted their cups of hot apple cider and waved as the officers drove away.
The police officers exchanged glances.
"Did you see that, Charlie? Those men are all wearing winter coats! I swear I smell roast turkey and ham too!"
"Yeah, me too, Arnie. The Salvos must have been here."
"No way, man. In this weather?" He pointed to the large flakes of snow dashing against the windshield of their patrol car like Kamikaze pilots on a mission. "Hey, drive back over there. Let's ask them."
Charlie glanced at his watch. "Sure, why not. Our shift ends in twenty minutes."
"Merry Christmas, gentlemen!" one of the homeless men exclaimed as the officers pulled up. "A tough night to be out working. Go home and spend Christmas with your loved ones!"
"Same to you, and uh, yeah, we're off duty in twenty minutes. But we wondered. Where did you guys get all that food from, and those coats?"
The old man gave a toothless grin and took a sip from his steaming cup. Winking at his friends, he glanced up at the sky. "Why, where else? From Santa, of course."
The other men around the barrel agreed in a chorus of voices.
"Too right, mate."
"The big guy himself."
"He flew in here with those reindeer about a half-hour ago."
The officers looked at each other. "Well, stay out of trouble, boys. We'll be seeing you."
"Maybe not! We all have bus and plane tickets. We're going home to our families. First thing in the morning."
"Okay, then. Merry Christmas to you!" Winding up the window, the officers drove away.
"What do you make of that, Arnie?"
Arnie just smiled. "Everyone needs something to believe in, Charlie."
"Not me."
But the next night, when the officers drove past the barrel, there wasn't a sign of the men who always huddled around its meager flame throughout the winter. All over the city it was the same. The homeless had disappeared. Wondrous stories of family reunions and celebrations spread all over the country.
There was only one explanation and that night, Charlie became a believer.
"Didn't you, Charlie?"
"Yes, sir, Santa."
"Do you have the whole thing typed now?"
"I do indeed."
"Good. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this for me. This is my busiest time of year. I have one more favor to ask. Would you take it on down to the newspaper office in New York for me? It's a little foggy out there but Rudolph has offered to guide the spare sleigh. Mrs. Claus is baking brownies. They'll be ready when you get back. Would you like a peppermint before you go?"
Charlie sniffed the air. "Mmm. Those brownies smell delicious." Picking up his hat, he added, "I'd be delighted to deliver this story for you, Santa. Oh, and yes, please, I'd love one of those peppermints. Anything Mrs. Claus makes is too good to resist!"
"Ho, ho, ho! Don't I know it," Santa said, patting his round belly. "Well, Charlie, I sure hope this story brightens someone's spirit."
"It will. You made a believer out of me! Merry Christmas, Santa."
"Why, indeed I did! Merry Christmas, Charlie, and Merry Christmas to all!"
Thursday, November 15, 2007
The Waiting Room
Two old men meet up in a different kind of waiting room - George speaks and Fred just thinks.
"I’m telling you, Fred. It’s nothing like I expected at all. Didn’t think I’d see you here, either."
Myself, I can’t say what I expected, George. I’d tell you that too, if I could get a word in.
"Our minister never did quite get it right. All that talk about pearly gates and angels trumpeting. Hogwash, that’s what I say."
You might have something there.
"You don’t seem to be saying much, Fred. I know, I know, it’s a shock when you first arrive. You’re lucky I found you so quickly. When I arrived, nobody came to meet me."
Imagine that. You’ve been gone for years. Or was it months? Time seems to be different here.
"What’s that? Did I see your lips move? No, guess not. You look dazed. I blame it on the thin air up here. Why, when I was a lad . . ."
If I keep my eyes half closed, perhaps he’ll think I’m asleep and stop talking. Ouch, that hurt.
"Wake up, Fred. You can’t sleep here. There is no such thing as sleep in this place. Marvelous thing, really."
No sleep? You did say this is heaven, didn’t you? Or am I mistaken. You don’t suppose I ended up in -
"I know what you’re thinking, Fred. You’re probably wondering exactly which place you ended up in, huh?"
You can read my thoughts? This is scary!
"I wondered too, when I first arrived. You’ll see. The angels will be coming over by and by to take you on up to the next level. Huh. Me, I’d rather just stay here. Chair is comfortable enough."
George, is that really you talking? You like the chair? You’re not grumbling about the chair being too cold or too hard or too -
"Although, it is a little lumpy. Leather’s a tad cold too."
Now there’s the George I know. Oh, look, here comes one of those pearly winged angels. The floor is opening up to let them through. One of them is beckoning to me. Glory! A little closer and I’ll be on my way.
"Humph, here comes another one of those angels. Silly creatures. They keep telling me this is a "waiting room", and that I need to travel on with them. No sirreee. Not this old coot. This chair suits me just fine. No telling what could happen gallivanting around in the air with one of those huge angels. Besides which, I’m allergic to feathers."
Here they come. Jesus is with them. Oh this is wonderful. Take me, yes, I want to come with you!
"Not you too, Fred. What’s that, Mr. Angel, sir? No thank you. I’m perfectly comfortable right where I am. Of course I’m sure. No, I don’t want to come with you this time. Don’t you understand plain English? Fine, you do that. Take him on to heaven if you have to. Can’t see what’s wrong with letting him stay here a while and keep me company. Angel? Fred? Drat. There goes another good friendship. That’s the third one this week. For the love of Pete, you’d think they could have spent a little more on the furniture for their ‘waiting room’. Oh, look! Here comes Henry. C’mon Henry, over here. Sit next to your old buddy, George."
"George? Is that really you? Is this heaven?"
"You always were a little slow, Henry. A few sloshes short of a full pail. Still, you did come to my funeral. Now, like I was telling Fred. . . "
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