I remember my first Christmas party with Grandma. I was just a kid.
I was tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.
'Take this money and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.
I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobbie Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat. I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas. That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it -- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge.
"All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobbie. Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team
Author unknown
Sometimes a simple Christmas carol can change a person's life.
One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: "Dad," began my five-year-old son, Patrick, "how come I've never seen you cry?"
Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn't around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.
I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.
For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.
Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.
So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God's way of healing people when they're sad. "I'm glad you can cry whenever you're sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."
Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.
"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of 'Away in a Manger' during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.
My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son's first solo.
Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."
Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.
"Okay," Patrick said. "I'll do it."
From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.
For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehersal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.
Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.
Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.
There was eternity in Patrick's voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.
After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."
As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.
I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.
He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.
"Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?"
He nodded.
"Well, I'm crying now."
"Why, Dad?"
"Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry."
Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.
"Sometimes," my son said into my shoulder, "life is so beautiful you have to cry."
Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn't ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.
The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area's Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.
"Merry Christmas," a child's voice yelled out to me.
"Merry Christmas," I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.
Author Unknown (sigh)
by Laura Otterback
My sponsor asked me about an Emmaus Walk
I didn't realize that a "walk" would be all the talk!
The waiting list seemed to be months long
To attend this Emmaus Walk I was gone!
So, I filled out the application and put it in the mail
For hopes I would hear good news and not fail.
I got in, I got in, and I was so very excited!
My enthusiasm was so awesome and I just couldn't hide it!
The day finally arrived and it was time,
To not show up would be a crime.
My sponsor picked me up and off we went
For the drive to Emmaus was a big event.
I walked in the Flaget front doors to sign in
When I knew soon that I'd have to say goodbye to family and friends.
My room was assigned and nametag waited
For my Emmaus Walk was to be remembered and dated.
I got to my room and met my roommate
For that was definitely put together in God's great fate.
The roommate could not have been better picked
For we had more in common than what you would think.
I dropped off my luggage and went to the gym
I had no idea there would be so many women and men.
What a send off they had for us all,
I just knew this was definitely God's call.
There was laughter, tears and joy abound
Before our names were called, we all stood around.
Finally, they called each one of us, name by name
We knew that moment on, things would never be the same.
Our family and friends had to leave soon and say good bye
We were all excited, anxious and nervous, oh my, oh my.
For the Walk to Emmaus, we knew we must trust
We were just beginning our 72-hour retreat with Christ
We had no idea how much more we would eat than rice.
The meals were prepared and catered by Mastersons
There were others from the Emmaus community to help make the food "runs"
We ate so much and even got to ask for more
We did not realize how big of a chore.
We sang our Decolores song before every meal
And sang our table graces to show God just how we feel.
We went to the chapel for a service everyday
For we can not start our day off, if not HIS way!
We sang and we worshipped and gave praise after praise,
For I was surprised and certainly amazed.
KK along with the entire music worship team
Kept us dancing, jumping, praising and moving ahead full steam.
The skits and the games that we watched and we played
Were never so much fun and all were dismayed.
Sure, there were tears, laughs and we all felt emotions
But, our goal was to renew our spirits and keep God in motion.
Candlelight was a heavenly sight to behold
This marvelous experience could never truly be retold.
The Holy Spirit just filled us up every inch of the way
Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior, I'm happy to say!
We spent time daily in prayer and in grace,
Because we wanted to draw closer in faith and see God's glorious face.
The 72-hour Walk is about to end and come to a close
We all met new friends and hate to leave this place, I propose.
The 4th day is full of reality, obstacles and troubles for some,
But, with God and the Holy Spirit in our hearts, we shall overcome!
To live for God and to do His will
Is what we all need and desire to be filled.
We have all felt so much agape love on our Walk 83
To continue this tradition and do unto others
Will make us rejoice, praise and open doors.
To promote God's love and show good will to all
We will do because we have received the "call".
This was a wonderful Emmaus Walk for us
It's a once in a lifetime journey and a Christian must!
This is a retreat we will hold in our hearts
Along with the memories, new friendships; oh, what a spark!
It's time to say goodbye to our group of new friends
But we have gatherings and reunion groups to help us blend
It is our hope to stay connected and in touch
A fun time had by all and we love Jesus Christ so much
Our family, friends and sponsors have returned to pick us up
So to carry on God's love and to follow him, we must
What a marvelous Walk 83 has just passed
Our new friendships, agape love and the Holy Spirit
I pray will always last and last.
Thank you all for such a loving experience—memories to be treasured!
God Bless our Nation and God Bless us all.
Laura R. Otterback
Amateur Poem Writer (my hobby)
NorthEast Christian Church
Walk #83-Louisville
Table of Martha
August 2001
Copyright © 2001 Laura R. Otterback used with permission.
There once was a man named George Thomas, a pastor in a Small New England town. One Easter Sunday morning he came to the Church carrying a rusty, bent, old birdcage, and set it by the pulpit. Several eyebrows were raised and, as if in response, Pastor Thomas began to speak.
"I was walking through town yesterday when I saw a young boy coming
toward me swinging this bird cage. On the bottom of the cage were
three little wild birds, shivering with cold and fright. I stopped
the lad and asked, "What you got there son?"
"Just some old birds," came the reply.
"What are you gonna do with them?" I asked.
"Take 'em home and have fun with 'em," he answered. I'm gonna tease
'em and pull out their feathers to make 'em fight. I'm gonna have a
real good time."
"But you'll get tired of those birds sooner or later. What will you
do then?"
"Oh, I got some cats," said the little boy. "They like birds. I'll
take 'em to them."
The pastor was silent for a moment. "How much do you want for those
birds, son?"
"Huh??!!! Why, you don't want them birds, mister. They're just
plain old field birds. They don't sing -- they ain't even pretty!"
"How much?" the pastor asked again.
The boy sized up the pastor as if he were crazy and said, "$10?"
The pastor reached in his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill. He
placed it in the boy's hand. In a flash, the boy was gone.
The pastor picked up the cage and gently carried it to the end of
the alley where there was a tree and a grassy spot. Setting the cage
down, he opened the door, and by softly tapping the bars persuaded the
birds out, setting them free.
Well, that explained the empty bird cage on the pulpit, and then
the pastor began to tell this story. One day Satan and Jesus were
having a conversation. Satan had just come from the Garden of Eden, and he
was gloating and boasting.
"Yes, sir, I just caught the world full of
people down there. Set me a trap, used bait I knew they couldn't
resist. Got 'em all!"
What are you going to do with them?" Jesus asked.
Satan replied, "Oh, I'm gonna have fun! I'm gonna teach them how to
marry and divorce each other, how to hate and abuse each other, how
to drink and smoke and curse. I'm gonna teach them how to invent guns
and bombs and kill each other. I'm really gonna have fun!"
"And what will you do when you get done with them?" Jesus asked.
"Oh, I'll kill 'em," Satan glared proudly.
"How much do you want for them?" Jesus asked.
"Oh, you don't want those people. They ain't no good. Why, you'll
take them and they'll just hate you. They'll spit on you, curse you and
kill you!! You don't want those people!!"
"How much?" He asked again.
Satan looked at Jesus and sneered, "All your tears, and all your
blood."
Jesus said, "DONE!" Then He paid the price.
The pastor picked up the cage he opened the door and he walked from the pulpit.
author unknown
A basketball in my hands is worth about $19.
A basketball in Michael Jordan's hands is worth about $33 million.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A baseball in my hands is worth about $6.
A baseball in Mark McGuire's hands is worth 19 million.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A tennis racket is useless in my hands.
A tennis racket in Pete Sampras' hands is a Wimbeldon Championship.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A rod in my hands will keep away a wild animal.
A rod in Moses' hands will part the mighty sea.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A sling shot in my hands is a toy.
A sling shot in David's hands is a mighty weapon.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
Two fish and Five loaves in my hands is a couple of fish sandwiches.
Two fish and five loaves in God's hands will feed thousands.
It depends on whose hands they're in.
Nails in my hands might produce a bird house.
Nails in Jesus Christ's hands will produce salvation for the entire
world.
It depends on whose hands they're in.
So put your concerns, your worries, your fears, your hopes, your
dreams, your families and your relationships in god's hands because,
It depends on whose hands they're in.
author unknown
I work in a major US factory. We make refrigerators. Four thousand five hundred new refrigerators every day. It is a union shop and it's gradually shrinking as many union blue collar factories seem to be but that is not what this story is about.
This story is about one man who works in this huge factory. I've seen him around for years but never paid much attention. He always seemed just a little odd. A little short. A little ...scruffy. Always the same old red ball cap. And always a garbage bag in one hand. He walks around this big old factory on his breaks and his lunch time collecting aluminum cans. Day after day, month after month on hot days and cold days. Over the years I've followed him as he walked to his old pickup truck on the coldest day with snow blowing and everyone with their collars turned up and their hands in their pockets. He would be there with a 40 gallon garbage bag full of aluminum cans. He'd toss it into the back of his truck and jump in and I'd reach my car and jump in and we'd all race to the exit of this big half empty parking lot.
Today I was working on a broken machine in this factory and the can man came by with his bag picking up cans. Our manager was standing there because the machine I was working on had been "down" for a couple of hours and he was getting worried that we might run one of the assembly lines out of the parts. I was finishing and I stood up just as the manager asked the can man what he did with all those cans. I'd never thought to ask him that question because I always just assumed he cashed them in at the recycle center.
The can man said "I give them to my neighbor,
he's epileptic and can't hold a job".
I blurted out, "you mean you've been collecting all those
cans for all these years to give to your neighbor??"
"It ain't much" he said "but I give them to him.
He can't hold a job, he has too many seizures".
Right then and there in that factory I found myself looking
smack at the face of Jesus.
He was wearing a T-shirt and an old red ball cap
and he had a garbage bag full of aluminum cans in his
hand and it WAS Jesus!
It was one of the most humbling moments of my entire life.
"Dear Lord, I offer my prayer for
the can man. I don't even know his name but You do.
Lord, I lift him up to You. Bless him and watch over
him for his is surely one of your best foot soldiers. He is a man
whose feet I am unworthy to wash!!
Thank you God for sending the can man to help
his neighbor and for the lesson he taught me.
May I remember it long after today!
Amen!"
Dan Dobson, Louisville Emmaus 22
Copyright © 2001 Danny T Dobson
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