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!"

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. . . "

More Stories on my website

I am also adding stories to my Rainbow Gate Farm website, on this page, Janilou's Corner

Here is the link:

http://rainbowgatefarm.com/JanilousCorner.html

I hope you will enjoy them. Feedback is always welcomed.

Jan

Star Light, Star Bright

This is a short story I wrote in June about the love of a grandmother for her grandson, and a burned-out nurse. It is a story about having faith in God's love and plan for our lives. I hope you enjoy it.

'Star Light, Star Bright'

Screeeccchhh.

The old woman pulled the chair away from the window and I shuddered as the metal legs skidded across the white vinyl floor tiles. Fighting off a wave of weariness, I released my grip on her grandson’s limp wrist. His dark-skinned arm rolled back onto the stark, white sheet and lay as still as death.

Glancing at my watch, I noted there were just thirty-five minutes left of my shift. I hope I don’t get this room again tomorrow night. Only two weeks to go. I hated looking after comatose patients; the living dead whose hope for recovery made winning the lottery seem simple in comparison. After twenty years of nursing, I’d burned out.

"Let me write down his pulse-rate, and I can help you position the chair," I offered.

Wiping her wrinkled brow, the old woman’s lips struggled to form the briefest of smiles in return, but grief flooded across her face like a tsunami engulfing a struggling swimmer. "Thank you, missie. I’d appreciate that. I’m late tonight. Had to visit another young man. Are you new?"

"Yes, ma’am. I’m the relief nurse. I usually work in Plastic Surgery, but they call me in to work here in the I.C.U. when they’re short-handed."

Scribbling down the pulse and blood-pressure reading, I slipped around the bed, and lifted the chair as close to the bed as it would go. "Would you like me to put the bedrail down?"

Seeing her nod, I reached over and collapsed the rail, before helping her into the chair.

"The machines never hush," she muttered.

The constant beeping, whirring and whooshing of the ventilator and heart monitors kept up their evening serenade like frogs and crickets by a pond, as daylight vanished outside the double paned window behind the bed.

"How was his day, Nurse?"

Looking up from my chart, I noted the glimmer of hope struggling through the resident grief and winced. My mind raced through my shift, searching for a single event, anything I could tell her that might bring hope, or promise of improvement. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.

Her face fell. "Ah, I see. No change today."

My heart twisted, and an uncomfortable warmth spread up my cheeks. "I’m sorry. Not today. Although, the morning nurse did say he seemed less restless." I watched her cup his limp hand in hers and stroke his smooth skin. They told me she came every day at eight and stayed until the last bus left at night for her home in a neighboring suburb.

Leaning against the bed, she spoke to her grandson in a soft whisper. "Nathaniel John, you listen here. You’re all I have left in the whole wide world, and Lord knows, I won’t have you giving up on me. You need to get better, you hear? Land sakes, you’re only twenty-two-years-old. Just a youngster."

The rhythmic beeping of his heart-monitor didn’t alter. I eased myself onto the stool at the end of his bed and flicked through his notes. It read like a bad movie script: Bradford, Nathaniel J. MVA (Motor Vehicle Accident) Multiple Trauma. Head injury. All other members of family D.O.A. at St. Luke's Medical Center.

A yellow sticky note taped to the nurse’s work station read: "If patient regains consciousness, call Dr. Lambert immediately. Do not discuss accident or patient’s condition with members of press."

The one other survivor of the tragic accident was the driver who’d crossed the yellow line and wiped out this woman’s entire family. Five people died that day. Her grandson probably wouldn’t see the end of the week. Even in a big city, the sensationalism of a multiple-fatality car accident always attracted the media’s attention. Cameras poised, they hovered like vultures, waiting for a young man to die.

The howling of an approaching siren grew louder as yet another ambulance approached the hospital. Slipping from my seat, I walked across the room. "Would you like me to shut the blind, Mrs. Bradford?" Somehow, shutting out the night seemed to lessen the impact of constant reminders of another life in crisis.

The old lady looked up. "Now, missie, I can’t wish on one of God’s stars if you go and do that."

I looked out into the tepid night. The hideous neon emission from the metropolitan monstrosity we called our city, leaked upwards into the sky, hiding any semblance of natural star light. No one can see a thing through all those lights. God’s stars indeed. How could there be a God who allowed such pain?

The old lady stood and walked on stiff legs to join me at the window. She placed a gnarled hand on my shoulder.

"Ah, I know what you’re thinking, child," she clucked. "Just 'cause you can’t see those stars, doesn’t mean for a moment they aren’t there. I can close my eyes and see every one of them. Like diamonds sewn into a velvet blanket by God's hand. Why, as a child, I used to lay out on my lawn with my brothers, and watch them glitter for hours. Can’t you see them?" She pointed, peering into the ocher haze.

I shook my head. "I’m sorry. I don’t."

"You have to look with your heart." She sighed.

She glanced back at her comatose grandson. "Every now and then, when I was a little girl, one of those poor stars would fall to earth. Mama always said God stays up all night, searching for those fallen stars. Even though they look dull and ugly here on earth, He knows them by sight and name. He gathers up those fallen stars, and takes them home to heaven, where they shine more glorious than ever before. When morning comes again, the new day brings new hope for everyone."

Head nodding ever so slightly, she searched the sky. "Star light, star bright, help me feel God’s love tonight."

I stood motionless by her side.

She looked away from the window and met my gaze. "Nurse, I’m asking God to heal my grandson. He’s all I have left in the world. I’m not sure I can go on without Nathaniel, but I’ll do my best, if it’s God’s will. Seeing those stars in my heart brings me hope and lets me feel God’s love. If I can’t do that, what do I have left?"

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradford," I stammered. "Of course you should hope. There's always hope," I lied.

"Now, you call me Nellie, you hear?" she said. Patting my hand, she shuffled across to the bed, and sank into the chair. "What’s your name, child?"

"Elizabeth."

She nodded her approval. I glanced at my watch again. Under her warm gaze, I moved around the bed, repositioning the pillow between her grandson’s legs. "I have to call the other nurses in to help me turn him over in a moment, before I go home."

She smiled. "You handle him so gentle-like. You care about him, don’t you? I can see it. You’re a born nurse." Her gaze fell onto my left hand. "Where’s your wedding ring, girl?"

Stunned by her scolding tone, I looked down. The vacant, pale shadow where my ring usually hugged my skin stood out like a ghostly reminder of what should have been. "I, uh, my husband left me for another woman," I blurted out.
Smoothing the sheets, I looked away and fussed over her grandson, taking a washcloth and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow. Why did I tell her? What’s wrong with me?

Nellie stared at me, hands pressed together, and tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. "Poor Elizabeth," she whispered. " It’ll be alright. You’ll see. God knows how much you’re hurting. Just because you can’t see Him, doesn't mean He isn’t there. He loves you, child. Don’t stop believing when life gets hard. That’s when you need Him the most. Poor child."

The sweet scent of lavender drifted around me as she leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

I swallowed hard. How does she know I don’t believe in God any more?

The night nurse bustled into the room. "Hello!" she exclaimed. "Evening, Nellie. I see you made it in okay. I’ll be Nathaniel’s nurse again tonight. Let me get the ‘handover’ from Elizabeth here, and I’ll go make you a cup of hot tea before you head home."

Leaning over the charts, the night nurse whispered, "Isn’t Nellie amazing? Every night, before she comes here, she goes to visit the other young man in Ward 5B, the one who caused the accident, so she can pray with his family."

"It doesn’t surprise me a bit," I said.

Stepping up to the bed, I walked over and touched my patient’s brow. "Goodnight, Nathaniel." Looking at the saint sitting beside him, I added, "Goodnight, Nellie. I hope he gets better soon."

"He will, child. Either here on earth with me, or in heaven with his Maker. The stars will shine again for you, too, Elizabeth," she whispered, squeezing my hand.

"Thank you." Giving her a quick hug, I stepped back. The evening nurse began chatting with Nellie, so excusing myself, I left the room.

Outside in the yellow haze, another ambulance roared around me, red lights reflecting off my name badge as I waited for my taxi to arrive. The massive building behind me twinkled and glowed like a patchwork quilt of light squares. Each room above me contained someone’s life, and their unwritten future, unfolding with each new day and every new shift.

Looking into the hazy sky, I still couldn’t see the stars. Hope. God’s Love. Nellie’s words fluttered through my empty heart like butterflies on a summer’s day. An angel on earth dressed like a grandmother. Sitting by her dying grandson’s bed, she had wept not for herself, or him, but for me, the burned out nurse. Where do you find unselfish love like that?

Ignoring the drizzle stinging my face, I closed my eyes and whispered, "Star light, star bright, help me feel God’s love tonight."

**********************




If you would like to see this story with the drawing that inspired it, please visit this link:

http://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=159717&userid=161967&tf=0

Color Me Innocent

Last night, my daughter, Amber brought me an application form to join Girl Scouts.

I brushed her off, as I was heading to the barn to start chores, but she begged me just to fill in two small sections of the form.

Grabbing a pen, I agreed.One section asked for "Racial Background" and the other; "Ethnic Background."

I circled the words "White", and "Not Hispanic."

Amber picked up the form with a puzzled look on her face.

"White?" she asked.

"Yes, white. That's what you are," I replied.

She lifted her arm and studied it for a second. Shrugging her shoulders, she looked up and said, "I would say I'm more Peach, if you ask me."

I looked at her arm. "Yes, I guess you are."

She smiled, took the form and skipped out of the office. I don't think my seven-year-old daughter has ever considered her race before. Her father and I brought her up to be caring and kind to people. We don't make distinctions based on skin color so she's never heard us talk about "whites" or "blacks" - just people.

It occurred to me after she left, how innocent she is. To my little girl, skin color is just that; skin color. Nothing more. Nothing less.

God gave us an abundance of colors in this wonderful world, along with children who see people through His eyes, until they are corrupted by the opinions and prejudices of others.

All my life, I grew up thinking I was white, for whatever it meant.

Last night, I realized I'm peach. I like it. From now on, if anyone asks, that will be my answer.

What color are you?

Haiku Poetry

It's time for me to go milk my goats. We have 175 dairy goats who are milkers and about another 100 or so yearling does who will start milking this coming March. It gets pretty hectic around here when the kidding season starts in late January! We are expecting about 500 baby goats, or "kids" to be born! Here is a photo of our daughter with some of last year's little kids!

Hi and welcome to Janilou's Corner! :-) I love to write about all kinds of things including my faith in God, my children, my life on a dairy goat farm and fictions stories about just about everything!

I wrote the following poem the other day. It is a haiku - a form of Japanese poetry which has three lines of 5/7/5 syllables and should contain two lines of concrete imagery and one final line of insight.

Seahorse Sky

beneath buttered clouds

seahorses of the sky float

God's palette revealed

I was inspired to write this poem after seeing a beautiful photograph of birds flying across an aqua blue sky underneath golden clouds. You can see the original photo and my poem together here:

http://www.fanstory.com/displaystory.jsp?id=177237

FanStory is a great place to visit if you like to write, and they have lots of great contests! There is a ranked writing system and I am the Number 3 Short Story Author right now! My name is Janilou on that site too - keeps it simple for me.

Please come by again soon!

Hugs,

Jan