The Days After Christmas
Stories
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Days After Christmas" by Peter Andrew Smith
"The Promise" by Craig Kelly
"Conversation with a Madman" by Keith Hewitt
"Shake It Up!" by Bryan Meadows
What's Up This Week
Though "holiday" celebrations linger on through the New Year, for much of the public the Christmas season seems to be over at dawn on Dec. 26 -- except for after-Christmas sales and the rush to return unwanted presents. The challenge for us is to keep alive the joyous spirit of the nativity throughout the whole year. In this edition of StoryShare, Peter Andrew Smith offers a wonderful metaphor for keeping that spirit alive with his story "The Days After Christmas." A young child accompanies his mother as she runs her post-Christmas errands... and while the mother seems to be quite distracted and embarrassed by the youngster's carol singing, her son's simple reminder of the miracle at the heart of Christmas is quite contagious. Craig Kelly shares a moving tale of the heartbreaking lengths a man goes to in order to keep a simple promise -- one that, like the Lord's unwavering promise to be with us always, is all too often unrequited. Keith Hewitt provides a thought-provoking account of an interview with a man who is about to be executed. The condemned man's imminent encounter with death has focused his mind on the doorway we will all face at some point -- but with the seeming luxury of time at his disposal, can the man's interviewer say the same? Finally, Bryan Meadows offers a meditation on the changing seasons, and how the coming of the New Year is an excellent time to "get out of the rut" we may be in and to embrace change in our lives -- to "shake it up." Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from CSS (and good luck with those New Year's resolutions)!
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The Days After Christmas
by Peter Andrew Smith
Isaiah 61:10--62:3
"Did you say something?" Mary asked Jeremy as she strapped him into his car seat.
"No," he said. "Just humming to myself."
"Okay," Mary replied as she turned to head downtown. She sighed as she mentally ran through all the things she had to do that morning. Somehow she was just as busy after Christmas as she was before.
First stop was the post office to pick up the parcel from Aunt Jillian. Mary shook her head. Why was it that such an organized woman's presents always arrived after December 25th?
She also had to pick up some groceries and exchange the boots Jeremy had somehow outgrown between when she bought them and Christmas morning.
The humming from the back seat continued as she passed the office towers and pulled into the post office parting lot.
Had Tom remembered to confirm their dinner reservations for New Year's Eve? She turned off the car and pulled out her cell phone to text him when she noticed the time. Was it really that late? Where had the morning gone?
She looked in through the window of the post office and saw the lineup and sighed again. There was no way she was going to get everything done this morning.
"We might be standing in line a while, okay?" she said to Jeremy. She picked him up and held him on her hip with one arm.
Mary tried to text one-handed before giving up and simply dialing Tom's office. As usual she went straight to voicemail. Jeremy was humming was so loudly she could hardly hear.
"Honey, can you stop? Mommy's on the phone."
The humming got soft enough that Mary was able to leave her message for Tom, reminding him about the dinner reservations and asking him to pick up the dry cleaning on his way home. As soon as she snapped her phone shut Jeremy started to sing.
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed..."
"Sweetie, maybe you could sing to yourself," Mary said, conscious of the long line of grumpy people impatiently waiting for service ahead of them.
"...the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head."
"Honey, why don't we sing later?" Mary suggested. "We could sing together on the drive home."
"The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay..."
The post office had grown strangely silent and heads were turning toward them. Some of the people were scowling.
"Jeremy, you need to stop singing," Mary said. "Christmas is over, people don't want to hear about it any more."
"...the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay."
Mary put her hand over Jeremy's mouth to stop him from singing. She saw the tears welling up in his eyes and realized the day was effectively ruined. There was no way she was going to get her chores done if he got sulky on her and caused a scene. She opened her mouth to try to explain to Jeremy why he couldn't sing when she heard an old woman's voice.
"The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes...."
A second voice, a man's deep bass, joined her.
"...the little Lord Jesus no crying he makes..."
Other voices joined with them -- some so soft they could barely be heard, some loud enough to be heard in the back room. Some of the voices were as beautiful as angels and some were off-key or out of practice, yet they all blended together to fill the room with more than music and words.
"...I love thee, Lord Jesus. Look down from the sky and stay by my side until morning is nigh."
Jeremy's eyes flashed with delight as the song surrounded them. Mary took her hand away from his mouth and he joined with everyone else in the post office as they sang together.
"Bless all the dear children in thy tender care, and prepare us for heaven to live with you there."
When the song finished everyone broke into applause and people began wishing each other a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Jeremy beamed at Mary as he shook hands with people thanking him for the song as they left the post office.
"Mommy, I knew there was a reason God put that song in my heart," Jeremy said. "I think some people needed to remember about Christmas even though its finished for this year."
Mary looked at her son still full of the joy and hope of Christmas a week after the 25th of December and realized she was one of those people.
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
The Promise
by Craig Kelly
Luke 2:22-40
Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ.
-- Luke 2:25-26 (ESV)
"Another coffee, Joe?"
"No thanks, Gail, I'm good for now."
Gail brushed a lock of auburn hair tinged with gray out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. She smiled and nodded before she continued to check on other patrons. She had been working at that diner for 20 years. She knew the routine.
The old man had been sitting at his usual table next to the front door of the all-night diner. It was the same every New Year's Eve. He would arrive promptly at 8 p.m., dressed in a black double-breasted suit, pressed white shirt, shined dress shoes, and red tie. He would be clutching a long cardboard box to his chest as he walked in out of the cold, and every year that box would be carrying one red carnation. He would take his seat, set his box aside, and order a coffee, black.
And then he would wait.
Every night as patrons would come in and toast the end of the old year and the beginning of the new, Joe would sit, watching the door, waiting for that one face, the one he never saw. He would sigh heavily, crestfallen as the crowd in the diner watched the ball drop on the television over the bar, joining in the countdown. Once midnight would come, he would slowly put on his coat and hat, remove the carnation from the box, and go home, leaving the carnation and three dollars on the table for payment and tip.
It had been the same scene every New Year's Eve for the past 56 years.
It was 1952, and Joe had just been released after being held by the North Koreans as a POW. Before returning to the States, he sent his fiancée a letter:
My dear May,
I'd just come back from another bombing run when I got the news: I'm coming home! It probably won't be until just after Christmas, but I should be there by New Year's Eve.
I know it's been hard for you to wait for me these past two years, not knowing if I'd be dead or alive, but I want you to know how much coming home to you has meant to me, and now that it's happening, I can't really believe it!
I'll be at Mac's Diner on 11th Street on New Year's Eve at 8:00. I'll be waiting there for you.
I love you.
Joe
The night of December 31, 1952, came -- and sure enough Joe was there, dressed in a black double-breasted suit, pressed white shirt, shined dress shoes, and red tie. He clutched a long cardboard box to his chest as he came in out of the cold, protecting the red carnation that was inside. He sat at the table next to the front door, ordered a coffee, black, and waited.
When May never came, Joe asked around, only to discover that she had given him up for dead and moved out of state. Mutual friends would tell him, "Just let it go, Joe. She's got a new life now. Move on." And every time, Joe would reply, "I made a promise to her. I would wait for her at Mac's. If you see her, tell her I'm going to keep my word and I'll be there waiting for her."
And every year Joe would be there, and every year Joe would leave disappointed right after midnight. And every year Joe would come back.
When Gail finished checking on the other customers, she came back to Joe's table, set the coffee pot down, and sat across from him.
"Hey, Joe, do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Joe looked up from his coffee mug. "Not at all, Gail. What would you like to know?"
She leaned in. "I know why you're here. I heard about May and what she did to you. What I want to know is why you keep coming. Why do you put yourself through this every year, only to leave every year disappointed? May's obviously moved on, hun. Why don't you? It's been over 50 years."
Joe sighed. "It's simple, Gail. I promised her I would wait here for her, and I don't want to make a liar of myself when she does show up. In my heart, I know she's out there, and I wouldn't be true to myself if I gave up on her. When she comes through that door I'll be here, with a smile on my face and a carnation in my hand." He looked down at his coffee mug. "You know, maybe I could use a warm-up after all."
Gail shook her head, smiled, and refilled his mug.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
Conversation with a Madman
by Keith Hewitt
Matthew 25:31-46
The room was bathed in fluorescent light, almost intense enough to be uncomfortable -- not the intent, he suspected, but just a side benefit. The fixtures, behind sturdy cages, emitted a low hum that hovered at the edge of hearing, like a ghost seen only out of the corner of one's eye. He had spent too much time, after his first visit, trying to figure out what the noise was on his digital recorder. Then he had asked about moving somewhere else in the room, out from under the fixtures -- and had been told "No," in no uncertain terms.
Any interviews needed to be conducted in the stark fluorescent light, in full view of the observers. Anything else, they explained, would not be safe.
So he turned on the recorder, glanced at the red LED that told him it was running, and set it on the table, then slid it carefully across the pale green formica until it was directly in front of the subject. "Allan Randolph Stone," he said crisply, "December 29." He paused and looked at his watch. "Approximately 34 hours before his scheduled execution."
He leaned back, set his arms on the table, folded his hands, and studied the man before him. Stone was a spare man with clear blue eyes and crewcut hair the color of hot charcoal. His skin was pale, his hands and face soft, and the way the orange jumpsuit hung on him made it clear that he had not spent his years bulking up in the exercise yard.
He looked like anybody's grandfather. It was hard to reconcile that with the murders that had brought him to this place.
"How does it feel, knowing that you're going to die?" he asked the man across the table from him.
"I don't know," Stone answered, and spread his manacled hands. "You tell me."
"What do you mean?"
"You tell me what it's like, knowing you're going to die. Unless you're not going to. Do you have some arrangement with God the rest of us don't?"
He folded his arms and frowned. "You know what I mean."
"I know exactly what you mean. And your question tells me that you haven't thought about the truth here."
"What truth would that be?"
"You tell me."
The lights hummed softly in the silence, and he frowned. The pointlessness of the exchange was irritating him. "If you don't want to talk, why did you agree to the interview?"
"I am more than willing to talk, young man. But I want to talk about important things. The time for trivia is past... long past."
"What's trivial about wanting to know how it feels to know that you're going to die in a day and a half?"
"Ah, now that's a different question." Stone leaned forward and smiled slightly. "I feel lucky."
"Lucky?"
"I do. I feel lucky." He paused for a moment or two, time enough for a couple of heartbeats -- and he felt them within, knowing that two more beats had fallen off the finite list of heartbeats left to him. "Most people -- you, for instance -- live your life as though you're not going to die. Oh sure, intellectually you can mouth the words -- but deep inside, where it counts, where you believe it, you don't really think so. It's somewhere off in the mists of maybe, like winning the lottery or aliens landing on the White House lawn."
"So how does that make you lucky?"
"Having a date certain when somebody is going to do me the favor of stopping my heart -- it focused me. It gave me the motivation to get right with God, in a way nothing else could do. Not for me, anyway. All the preaching in the world, all the Sunday school teachers and pastors you could line up from here to eternity couldn't touch me as much as someone in the Circuit Court circling a date on the calendar and saying, 'you go this far, and no further.' "
"So you've been 'saved'? A jailhouse conversion?"
"Does that cheapen it? Tell me, if you go to a doctor who tells you that you've got high cholesterol, and you've got to follow a certain strict diet or die... if your doctor tells you that, and you change your attitude and your diet, is it any less healthy, or any less meaningful, than if you had discovered healthy eating on your own?"
The visitor frowned. "I'm not sure that's an equivalent situation."
"It's exactly equivalent, from my standpoint. You read about judgment day, and it's an interesting story... I read about it, and for me it's the reality of the day after tomorrow. You have the sad luxury of a bucket of sand that you can bury your head in. The court took mine away the day they set an execution date. And I've sent the judge a thank-you note for that."
"Really?"
"Really." Stone inched around in his seat, and as his eyebrows drew together his eyes grew veiled. "That doesn't mean it's all sunshine and roses. I feel badly -- I feel badly for the people I... the people I killed..." He felt around for the right words, tested them before he set them out. "I took people away from their own journeys, their own lives, and I don't know where each of them stood with God. I wake up at night crying, because I dreamed that one or the other of them had not found their way before I did what I did. And I feel badly because I put their friends and family in a place where it seemed reasonable to question God... and that's just not my place to do. I had no right, and I was wrong. That's what haunts me." The veil before him seemed to clear a bit then, and he brightened. "But at least in another day or so I'll know -- and it won't be haunting me anymore."
"I see." The lights hummed. "Is there anything else my readers should know?"
"Nothing you would understand. Or they, I'm afraid."
The visitor frowned, reached for the recorder, hesitated, and drew his hand back. "So you expect me to believe that you're okay with knowing that you're going to die the day after tomorrow?"
"Oh no," Stone answered quickly. "Did I give you that impression? I'm sorry. I don't expect you to believe that, anymore than I expect you to believe that you and I both live with the same cloud over our heads. In your mind, in your world, I'm the poor SOB who's living on borrowed time. And I know that. But what I know, and you don't, is that you are too. In 34 hours, someone's going to stick a needle in my vein and stop my heart. I've ordered my life around the fact that I'm going to die, because my nose has been rubbed in that reality. How about you?"
"I don't plan on murdering anybody, so I've got time."
Stone smiled. "My point exactly." He leaned forward again and spread his manacled hands. "I'd really like to know how you're going to spin this -- but I'm afraid I never will. I've got a prior engagement."
"I'll try to get a draft to you," the visitor promised, and turned off the recorder.
As he listened to the interview again that night, he stared at the blank monitor before him and knew he would not be getting that draft to Stone in time. But then again, he thought, promises to a madman could hardly be binding.
And in his arm, a fleck of plaque peeled away from the vein wall, and began its journey toward his heart...
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Shake It Up!
by Bryan Meadows
Ecclesiastes 3:1-13
One of the great joys of living in the Midwest is that you are guaranteed a change of seasons. Though I'm no longer much of a fan of winter, I still spend part of those dark days looking for the light. If nothing else, winter will always be the promise of spring. Yahoo!
What a gift to experience nature morphing through April and May. At times it's almost like you can feel the earth thawing from under your feet. Having spent some time hunting turkeys in the spring, I'm always fascinated how when the season starts, there's barely a bud on the trees. However, by the time the season ends the leaves are almost in full foliage.
That, of course, signals the arrival of summer. Oh, how I love the long days full of light. It affords all of us the opportunity to play late into the evening, which helps us to sleep better at night. Don't forget that summer is the season of our family vacations, along with fishing trips, baseball games, grilling out in the backyard. How about a rib-eye steak with baked potato, sweet corn, fresh tomatoes, and a glass of iced tea? Thank you, Lord, for the gift of summer.
I suppose the passing of summer would be more painful if it weren't for the changing of the leaves in the fall. Let's be honest: When those leaves showcase their brilliant colors, there is hardly an easier way to see God's handiwork. While returning home from a hunting trip in northern Ontario, we were blessed with traveling through the forest in late September. Needless to say, the hillsides were glowing with yellow, red, orange, and green leaves. Seeing those colors was worth the trip alone.
But those leaves and their beauty signal the coming of Old Man Winter. Soon the snow will fly. Jackets will need to be pulled out. Snow shovels, ice melt, and such will be the order of the day. I'll never forget the days of bundling up our kids to head out in the depths of winter, only to have them tell us they had to go to the bathroom!
Each season comes with its joys, as well as with its pains. Perhaps it's the sweltering heat in mid-July. Maybe the wind blows too hard on an early spring day. Sometimes a winter storm raises its ugly head and dumps about a foot or two of snow on us. Lastly, there are times when a chill in the air catches us off guard in the fall, and we have trouble getting warm.
One thing is for certain: Seasons change. It's my contention that they change for a reason. I think the reason has something to do with God's greater plan in life and in the world. But who am I to know the mind of God?
Speaking of changes, here we are on New Year's Day. This is the day when most everyone commits to some kind of change. The smokers are going to kick the habit. The obese are going to shed the pounds. The lazy are going to get energized. The unorganized will become organized.
It's on this glorious, time-awaited day that the universe as we know it will fall into place and we will be who we've always wanted to be! Well, not really. Not according to most of the studies that have been done. It seems that most people fail within two weeks of New Year's Day.
I'm hardly a psychologist that can explain to you why that happens. Nevertheless, this I know of change: It's difficult. It doesn't happen without paying a price. Someone -- usually you or me or us -- has to take the hit for change to be effective. It's almost unrealistic to think that on December 31st we can be doing one thing, and then on January 1st we'll never do it again... or we'll change that habit in the blink of an eye. Some can. Most can't. Good luck to all of you.
That said, there was someone else, much more noteworthy than me, who spoke about changes and seasons. His name was Solomon, and he was credited as being an extremely wise individual. In what has turned out to be a true proverbial piece of wisdom, he penned some thoughts that can serve us well as we look to another year.
He writes in Ecclesiastes 3:1, "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven." Here's what we know: Seasons come, and seasons go. Change is always in the air.
On more than one occasion I have stood in the church pulpit or the funeral home's lectern and read the entire litany of Solomon's words. There's "a time to be born, and a time to die..." (v. 2). Talk about an occasion to realize the power of a season!
On more than one occasion I have sat in my office or in the home of a parishioner and had these thoughts: There's a time to... weep and laugh, mourn and dance, to seek and lose, to tear and sew, to keep silence and to speak, a time to love and even a time to hate.
We as God's creatures are people of seasons. As we journey down our life's path, we enter different seasons. And while we have good seasons, we tend to get stuck in our bad seasons. Don't you wish there was something we could do to get past or get through those difficult seasons a little quicker?
Maybe there is. I'm not sure. But just as gold and silver must be subject to intense heat in the purification process, could it be that God might be trying to purify us as we linger in our difficult seasons of change? I for one am not a fan of winter. But it sure helps me to appreciate the rest of the year. With that being the case, the difficult season of winter serves a greater purpose in my own life.
I think we're at a point that lends itself well to a better understanding of God's work in our lives. If our lives were just one rose after another, why then would we even bother with God? Why have those special places called "the church"? Why would we need other believers on this journey towards heaven? The questions are becoming rhetorical, so I shall stop. To that end, life doesn't hand us a rose every day. But neither does it always stomp on us.
As we enter this New Year, I would challenge one and all to take that last thought to heart. While things won't always be great, neither will they always be bad. There are, in the words of Solomon, seasons of our heart and life.
To traverse them, let us take comfort in knowing that God serves as our guide on this journey. Moreover, it's this same God who serves as our shelter through each phase of our lives.
One other thought that is worth mentioning is this: Change isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's received a bad rap over the years. Perhaps this will be the year when we can dispel that myth once and for all.
Think about it: Has it been bad that the medical profession has changed its practices? Who is still voting for some "bloodletting"? What about the automotive industry? Sure is nice to jump into a much safer vehicle these days. Oh yeah, what about the blessing of indoor plumbing? I don't think I need to explain that in much detail. Hear the wisdom: Change isn't always bad.
From time to time I go grocery shopping with my wife. Inevitably we go down the aisle with salad dressings. I'm fascinated with all the different styles and colors of the bottles. For as long as I can remember, I've had this habit of picking up the jar with the Italian dressing. If you can imagine this with me, the Italian dressing has two parts: The heavy herbs and ingredients at the bottom, and the vinegar that sits mostly on top of it.
Did you realize that to make Italian dressing taste the way it should, you have to shake it up? You have to vigorously agitate the bottle so the two separate piles of ingredients combine together. And together do they ever offer a beautiful canvas of taste for our mouths to enjoy.
Such is often the case of life. We can exist if left alone. But we sure miss out on the zest of life when we block out the changes God wants to bring in our lives. To that end, there is a season when we must be still; when we must slow down; when we must avoid the change. But the opposite is also true. There comes a season when we must change; when we should change; when we need to embrace change.
May 2009 be the year when you take the Wisdom of Solomon to heart and be the agents of change that God has called you to be. Maybe this is the year you "shake it up"! Godspeed.
Bryan Meadows has served as pastor of the Huntsville United Methodist Church in Huntsville, Ohio, since 1998, following his graduation from the Methodist Theological School in Ohio. He enjoys photography, playing guitar, and bird hunting with his dogs.
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StoryShare, December 28, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"The Days After Christmas" by Peter Andrew Smith
"The Promise" by Craig Kelly
"Conversation with a Madman" by Keith Hewitt
"Shake It Up!" by Bryan Meadows
What's Up This Week
Though "holiday" celebrations linger on through the New Year, for much of the public the Christmas season seems to be over at dawn on Dec. 26 -- except for after-Christmas sales and the rush to return unwanted presents. The challenge for us is to keep alive the joyous spirit of the nativity throughout the whole year. In this edition of StoryShare, Peter Andrew Smith offers a wonderful metaphor for keeping that spirit alive with his story "The Days After Christmas." A young child accompanies his mother as she runs her post-Christmas errands... and while the mother seems to be quite distracted and embarrassed by the youngster's carol singing, her son's simple reminder of the miracle at the heart of Christmas is quite contagious. Craig Kelly shares a moving tale of the heartbreaking lengths a man goes to in order to keep a simple promise -- one that, like the Lord's unwavering promise to be with us always, is all too often unrequited. Keith Hewitt provides a thought-provoking account of an interview with a man who is about to be executed. The condemned man's imminent encounter with death has focused his mind on the doorway we will all face at some point -- but with the seeming luxury of time at his disposal, can the man's interviewer say the same? Finally, Bryan Meadows offers a meditation on the changing seasons, and how the coming of the New Year is an excellent time to "get out of the rut" we may be in and to embrace change in our lives -- to "shake it up." Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from CSS (and good luck with those New Year's resolutions)!
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The Days After Christmas
by Peter Andrew Smith
Isaiah 61:10--62:3
"Did you say something?" Mary asked Jeremy as she strapped him into his car seat.
"No," he said. "Just humming to myself."
"Okay," Mary replied as she turned to head downtown. She sighed as she mentally ran through all the things she had to do that morning. Somehow she was just as busy after Christmas as she was before.
First stop was the post office to pick up the parcel from Aunt Jillian. Mary shook her head. Why was it that such an organized woman's presents always arrived after December 25th?
She also had to pick up some groceries and exchange the boots Jeremy had somehow outgrown between when she bought them and Christmas morning.
The humming from the back seat continued as she passed the office towers and pulled into the post office parting lot.
Had Tom remembered to confirm their dinner reservations for New Year's Eve? She turned off the car and pulled out her cell phone to text him when she noticed the time. Was it really that late? Where had the morning gone?
She looked in through the window of the post office and saw the lineup and sighed again. There was no way she was going to get everything done this morning.
"We might be standing in line a while, okay?" she said to Jeremy. She picked him up and held him on her hip with one arm.
Mary tried to text one-handed before giving up and simply dialing Tom's office. As usual she went straight to voicemail. Jeremy was humming was so loudly she could hardly hear.
"Honey, can you stop? Mommy's on the phone."
The humming got soft enough that Mary was able to leave her message for Tom, reminding him about the dinner reservations and asking him to pick up the dry cleaning on his way home. As soon as she snapped her phone shut Jeremy started to sing.
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed..."
"Sweetie, maybe you could sing to yourself," Mary said, conscious of the long line of grumpy people impatiently waiting for service ahead of them.
"...the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head."
"Honey, why don't we sing later?" Mary suggested. "We could sing together on the drive home."
"The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay..."
The post office had grown strangely silent and heads were turning toward them. Some of the people were scowling.
"Jeremy, you need to stop singing," Mary said. "Christmas is over, people don't want to hear about it any more."
"...the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay."
Mary put her hand over Jeremy's mouth to stop him from singing. She saw the tears welling up in his eyes and realized the day was effectively ruined. There was no way she was going to get her chores done if he got sulky on her and caused a scene. She opened her mouth to try to explain to Jeremy why he couldn't sing when she heard an old woman's voice.
"The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes...."
A second voice, a man's deep bass, joined her.
"...the little Lord Jesus no crying he makes..."
Other voices joined with them -- some so soft they could barely be heard, some loud enough to be heard in the back room. Some of the voices were as beautiful as angels and some were off-key or out of practice, yet they all blended together to fill the room with more than music and words.
"...I love thee, Lord Jesus. Look down from the sky and stay by my side until morning is nigh."
Jeremy's eyes flashed with delight as the song surrounded them. Mary took her hand away from his mouth and he joined with everyone else in the post office as they sang together.
"Bless all the dear children in thy tender care, and prepare us for heaven to live with you there."
When the song finished everyone broke into applause and people began wishing each other a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Jeremy beamed at Mary as he shook hands with people thanking him for the song as they left the post office.
"Mommy, I knew there was a reason God put that song in my heart," Jeremy said. "I think some people needed to remember about Christmas even though its finished for this year."
Mary looked at her son still full of the joy and hope of Christmas a week after the 25th of December and realized she was one of those people.
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
The Promise
by Craig Kelly
Luke 2:22-40
Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon, and this man was righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. And it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Christ.
-- Luke 2:25-26 (ESV)
"Another coffee, Joe?"
"No thanks, Gail, I'm good for now."
Gail brushed a lock of auburn hair tinged with gray out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. She smiled and nodded before she continued to check on other patrons. She had been working at that diner for 20 years. She knew the routine.
The old man had been sitting at his usual table next to the front door of the all-night diner. It was the same every New Year's Eve. He would arrive promptly at 8 p.m., dressed in a black double-breasted suit, pressed white shirt, shined dress shoes, and red tie. He would be clutching a long cardboard box to his chest as he walked in out of the cold, and every year that box would be carrying one red carnation. He would take his seat, set his box aside, and order a coffee, black.
And then he would wait.
Every night as patrons would come in and toast the end of the old year and the beginning of the new, Joe would sit, watching the door, waiting for that one face, the one he never saw. He would sigh heavily, crestfallen as the crowd in the diner watched the ball drop on the television over the bar, joining in the countdown. Once midnight would come, he would slowly put on his coat and hat, remove the carnation from the box, and go home, leaving the carnation and three dollars on the table for payment and tip.
It had been the same scene every New Year's Eve for the past 56 years.
It was 1952, and Joe had just been released after being held by the North Koreans as a POW. Before returning to the States, he sent his fiancée a letter:
My dear May,
I'd just come back from another bombing run when I got the news: I'm coming home! It probably won't be until just after Christmas, but I should be there by New Year's Eve.
I know it's been hard for you to wait for me these past two years, not knowing if I'd be dead or alive, but I want you to know how much coming home to you has meant to me, and now that it's happening, I can't really believe it!
I'll be at Mac's Diner on 11th Street on New Year's Eve at 8:00. I'll be waiting there for you.
I love you.
Joe
The night of December 31, 1952, came -- and sure enough Joe was there, dressed in a black double-breasted suit, pressed white shirt, shined dress shoes, and red tie. He clutched a long cardboard box to his chest as he came in out of the cold, protecting the red carnation that was inside. He sat at the table next to the front door, ordered a coffee, black, and waited.
When May never came, Joe asked around, only to discover that she had given him up for dead and moved out of state. Mutual friends would tell him, "Just let it go, Joe. She's got a new life now. Move on." And every time, Joe would reply, "I made a promise to her. I would wait for her at Mac's. If you see her, tell her I'm going to keep my word and I'll be there waiting for her."
And every year Joe would be there, and every year Joe would leave disappointed right after midnight. And every year Joe would come back.
When Gail finished checking on the other customers, she came back to Joe's table, set the coffee pot down, and sat across from him.
"Hey, Joe, do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Joe looked up from his coffee mug. "Not at all, Gail. What would you like to know?"
She leaned in. "I know why you're here. I heard about May and what she did to you. What I want to know is why you keep coming. Why do you put yourself through this every year, only to leave every year disappointed? May's obviously moved on, hun. Why don't you? It's been over 50 years."
Joe sighed. "It's simple, Gail. I promised her I would wait here for her, and I don't want to make a liar of myself when she does show up. In my heart, I know she's out there, and I wouldn't be true to myself if I gave up on her. When she comes through that door I'll be here, with a smile on my face and a carnation in my hand." He looked down at his coffee mug. "You know, maybe I could use a warm-up after all."
Gail shook her head, smiled, and refilled his mug.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
Conversation with a Madman
by Keith Hewitt
Matthew 25:31-46
The room was bathed in fluorescent light, almost intense enough to be uncomfortable -- not the intent, he suspected, but just a side benefit. The fixtures, behind sturdy cages, emitted a low hum that hovered at the edge of hearing, like a ghost seen only out of the corner of one's eye. He had spent too much time, after his first visit, trying to figure out what the noise was on his digital recorder. Then he had asked about moving somewhere else in the room, out from under the fixtures -- and had been told "No," in no uncertain terms.
Any interviews needed to be conducted in the stark fluorescent light, in full view of the observers. Anything else, they explained, would not be safe.
So he turned on the recorder, glanced at the red LED that told him it was running, and set it on the table, then slid it carefully across the pale green formica until it was directly in front of the subject. "Allan Randolph Stone," he said crisply, "December 29." He paused and looked at his watch. "Approximately 34 hours before his scheduled execution."
He leaned back, set his arms on the table, folded his hands, and studied the man before him. Stone was a spare man with clear blue eyes and crewcut hair the color of hot charcoal. His skin was pale, his hands and face soft, and the way the orange jumpsuit hung on him made it clear that he had not spent his years bulking up in the exercise yard.
He looked like anybody's grandfather. It was hard to reconcile that with the murders that had brought him to this place.
"How does it feel, knowing that you're going to die?" he asked the man across the table from him.
"I don't know," Stone answered, and spread his manacled hands. "You tell me."
"What do you mean?"
"You tell me what it's like, knowing you're going to die. Unless you're not going to. Do you have some arrangement with God the rest of us don't?"
He folded his arms and frowned. "You know what I mean."
"I know exactly what you mean. And your question tells me that you haven't thought about the truth here."
"What truth would that be?"
"You tell me."
The lights hummed softly in the silence, and he frowned. The pointlessness of the exchange was irritating him. "If you don't want to talk, why did you agree to the interview?"
"I am more than willing to talk, young man. But I want to talk about important things. The time for trivia is past... long past."
"What's trivial about wanting to know how it feels to know that you're going to die in a day and a half?"
"Ah, now that's a different question." Stone leaned forward and smiled slightly. "I feel lucky."
"Lucky?"
"I do. I feel lucky." He paused for a moment or two, time enough for a couple of heartbeats -- and he felt them within, knowing that two more beats had fallen off the finite list of heartbeats left to him. "Most people -- you, for instance -- live your life as though you're not going to die. Oh sure, intellectually you can mouth the words -- but deep inside, where it counts, where you believe it, you don't really think so. It's somewhere off in the mists of maybe, like winning the lottery or aliens landing on the White House lawn."
"So how does that make you lucky?"
"Having a date certain when somebody is going to do me the favor of stopping my heart -- it focused me. It gave me the motivation to get right with God, in a way nothing else could do. Not for me, anyway. All the preaching in the world, all the Sunday school teachers and pastors you could line up from here to eternity couldn't touch me as much as someone in the Circuit Court circling a date on the calendar and saying, 'you go this far, and no further.' "
"So you've been 'saved'? A jailhouse conversion?"
"Does that cheapen it? Tell me, if you go to a doctor who tells you that you've got high cholesterol, and you've got to follow a certain strict diet or die... if your doctor tells you that, and you change your attitude and your diet, is it any less healthy, or any less meaningful, than if you had discovered healthy eating on your own?"
The visitor frowned. "I'm not sure that's an equivalent situation."
"It's exactly equivalent, from my standpoint. You read about judgment day, and it's an interesting story... I read about it, and for me it's the reality of the day after tomorrow. You have the sad luxury of a bucket of sand that you can bury your head in. The court took mine away the day they set an execution date. And I've sent the judge a thank-you note for that."
"Really?"
"Really." Stone inched around in his seat, and as his eyebrows drew together his eyes grew veiled. "That doesn't mean it's all sunshine and roses. I feel badly -- I feel badly for the people I... the people I killed..." He felt around for the right words, tested them before he set them out. "I took people away from their own journeys, their own lives, and I don't know where each of them stood with God. I wake up at night crying, because I dreamed that one or the other of them had not found their way before I did what I did. And I feel badly because I put their friends and family in a place where it seemed reasonable to question God... and that's just not my place to do. I had no right, and I was wrong. That's what haunts me." The veil before him seemed to clear a bit then, and he brightened. "But at least in another day or so I'll know -- and it won't be haunting me anymore."
"I see." The lights hummed. "Is there anything else my readers should know?"
"Nothing you would understand. Or they, I'm afraid."
The visitor frowned, reached for the recorder, hesitated, and drew his hand back. "So you expect me to believe that you're okay with knowing that you're going to die the day after tomorrow?"
"Oh no," Stone answered quickly. "Did I give you that impression? I'm sorry. I don't expect you to believe that, anymore than I expect you to believe that you and I both live with the same cloud over our heads. In your mind, in your world, I'm the poor SOB who's living on borrowed time. And I know that. But what I know, and you don't, is that you are too. In 34 hours, someone's going to stick a needle in my vein and stop my heart. I've ordered my life around the fact that I'm going to die, because my nose has been rubbed in that reality. How about you?"
"I don't plan on murdering anybody, so I've got time."
Stone smiled. "My point exactly." He leaned forward again and spread his manacled hands. "I'd really like to know how you're going to spin this -- but I'm afraid I never will. I've got a prior engagement."
"I'll try to get a draft to you," the visitor promised, and turned off the recorder.
As he listened to the interview again that night, he stared at the blank monitor before him and knew he would not be getting that draft to Stone in time. But then again, he thought, promises to a madman could hardly be binding.
And in his arm, a fleck of plaque peeled away from the vein wall, and began its journey toward his heart...
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Shake It Up!
by Bryan Meadows
Ecclesiastes 3:1-13
One of the great joys of living in the Midwest is that you are guaranteed a change of seasons. Though I'm no longer much of a fan of winter, I still spend part of those dark days looking for the light. If nothing else, winter will always be the promise of spring. Yahoo!
What a gift to experience nature morphing through April and May. At times it's almost like you can feel the earth thawing from under your feet. Having spent some time hunting turkeys in the spring, I'm always fascinated how when the season starts, there's barely a bud on the trees. However, by the time the season ends the leaves are almost in full foliage.
That, of course, signals the arrival of summer. Oh, how I love the long days full of light. It affords all of us the opportunity to play late into the evening, which helps us to sleep better at night. Don't forget that summer is the season of our family vacations, along with fishing trips, baseball games, grilling out in the backyard. How about a rib-eye steak with baked potato, sweet corn, fresh tomatoes, and a glass of iced tea? Thank you, Lord, for the gift of summer.
I suppose the passing of summer would be more painful if it weren't for the changing of the leaves in the fall. Let's be honest: When those leaves showcase their brilliant colors, there is hardly an easier way to see God's handiwork. While returning home from a hunting trip in northern Ontario, we were blessed with traveling through the forest in late September. Needless to say, the hillsides were glowing with yellow, red, orange, and green leaves. Seeing those colors was worth the trip alone.
But those leaves and their beauty signal the coming of Old Man Winter. Soon the snow will fly. Jackets will need to be pulled out. Snow shovels, ice melt, and such will be the order of the day. I'll never forget the days of bundling up our kids to head out in the depths of winter, only to have them tell us they had to go to the bathroom!
Each season comes with its joys, as well as with its pains. Perhaps it's the sweltering heat in mid-July. Maybe the wind blows too hard on an early spring day. Sometimes a winter storm raises its ugly head and dumps about a foot or two of snow on us. Lastly, there are times when a chill in the air catches us off guard in the fall, and we have trouble getting warm.
One thing is for certain: Seasons change. It's my contention that they change for a reason. I think the reason has something to do with God's greater plan in life and in the world. But who am I to know the mind of God?
Speaking of changes, here we are on New Year's Day. This is the day when most everyone commits to some kind of change. The smokers are going to kick the habit. The obese are going to shed the pounds. The lazy are going to get energized. The unorganized will become organized.
It's on this glorious, time-awaited day that the universe as we know it will fall into place and we will be who we've always wanted to be! Well, not really. Not according to most of the studies that have been done. It seems that most people fail within two weeks of New Year's Day.
I'm hardly a psychologist that can explain to you why that happens. Nevertheless, this I know of change: It's difficult. It doesn't happen without paying a price. Someone -- usually you or me or us -- has to take the hit for change to be effective. It's almost unrealistic to think that on December 31st we can be doing one thing, and then on January 1st we'll never do it again... or we'll change that habit in the blink of an eye. Some can. Most can't. Good luck to all of you.
That said, there was someone else, much more noteworthy than me, who spoke about changes and seasons. His name was Solomon, and he was credited as being an extremely wise individual. In what has turned out to be a true proverbial piece of wisdom, he penned some thoughts that can serve us well as we look to another year.
He writes in Ecclesiastes 3:1, "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven." Here's what we know: Seasons come, and seasons go. Change is always in the air.
On more than one occasion I have stood in the church pulpit or the funeral home's lectern and read the entire litany of Solomon's words. There's "a time to be born, and a time to die..." (v. 2). Talk about an occasion to realize the power of a season!
On more than one occasion I have sat in my office or in the home of a parishioner and had these thoughts: There's a time to... weep and laugh, mourn and dance, to seek and lose, to tear and sew, to keep silence and to speak, a time to love and even a time to hate.
We as God's creatures are people of seasons. As we journey down our life's path, we enter different seasons. And while we have good seasons, we tend to get stuck in our bad seasons. Don't you wish there was something we could do to get past or get through those difficult seasons a little quicker?
Maybe there is. I'm not sure. But just as gold and silver must be subject to intense heat in the purification process, could it be that God might be trying to purify us as we linger in our difficult seasons of change? I for one am not a fan of winter. But it sure helps me to appreciate the rest of the year. With that being the case, the difficult season of winter serves a greater purpose in my own life.
I think we're at a point that lends itself well to a better understanding of God's work in our lives. If our lives were just one rose after another, why then would we even bother with God? Why have those special places called "the church"? Why would we need other believers on this journey towards heaven? The questions are becoming rhetorical, so I shall stop. To that end, life doesn't hand us a rose every day. But neither does it always stomp on us.
As we enter this New Year, I would challenge one and all to take that last thought to heart. While things won't always be great, neither will they always be bad. There are, in the words of Solomon, seasons of our heart and life.
To traverse them, let us take comfort in knowing that God serves as our guide on this journey. Moreover, it's this same God who serves as our shelter through each phase of our lives.
One other thought that is worth mentioning is this: Change isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's received a bad rap over the years. Perhaps this will be the year when we can dispel that myth once and for all.
Think about it: Has it been bad that the medical profession has changed its practices? Who is still voting for some "bloodletting"? What about the automotive industry? Sure is nice to jump into a much safer vehicle these days. Oh yeah, what about the blessing of indoor plumbing? I don't think I need to explain that in much detail. Hear the wisdom: Change isn't always bad.
From time to time I go grocery shopping with my wife. Inevitably we go down the aisle with salad dressings. I'm fascinated with all the different styles and colors of the bottles. For as long as I can remember, I've had this habit of picking up the jar with the Italian dressing. If you can imagine this with me, the Italian dressing has two parts: The heavy herbs and ingredients at the bottom, and the vinegar that sits mostly on top of it.
Did you realize that to make Italian dressing taste the way it should, you have to shake it up? You have to vigorously agitate the bottle so the two separate piles of ingredients combine together. And together do they ever offer a beautiful canvas of taste for our mouths to enjoy.
Such is often the case of life. We can exist if left alone. But we sure miss out on the zest of life when we block out the changes God wants to bring in our lives. To that end, there is a season when we must be still; when we must slow down; when we must avoid the change. But the opposite is also true. There comes a season when we must change; when we should change; when we need to embrace change.
May 2009 be the year when you take the Wisdom of Solomon to heart and be the agents of change that God has called you to be. Maybe this is the year you "shake it up"! Godspeed.
Bryan Meadows has served as pastor of the Huntsville United Methodist Church in Huntsville, Ohio, since 1998, following his graduation from the Methodist Theological School in Ohio. He enjoys photography, playing guitar, and bird hunting with his dogs.
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StoryShare, December 28, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
