Today, we continue to unwrap our early Christmas present from bestselling author Katherine Valentine.  From now through Christmas, we will be sharing Katherine’s latest novel, The Christmas Journal, here in serialized form on CatholicMom.com.  Visit us each Wednesday for four new chapters as we journey through Advent to Christmas. To enjoy more of Katherine’s writing, visit her at www.KatherineValentine.com and please share your appreciation for her lovely work in the comments below.

Download each chapter in PDF Format:

• Chapter One – Christmas Banned
• Chapter Two – Heavenly Idea
• Chapter Three – Christmas Wishes
• Chapter Four – Coming Home
• Chapter Five – Eastwood Shelter
• Chapter Six – Memories
• Chapter Seven – A Neighbor in Need
• Chapter Eight – Griffin Corporation Headquarters

Chapter Five – Eastwood Shelter

School was delayed by two hours so town crews could remove the snow that had accumulated during the night.

It had also given Carrie the time to collate everything she needed to kick off the petition drive. Once the signatures had been collected, the School Board would have to reverse their decision to cancel the Christmas Concert. Even her mom said it was unfair.        Carrie explained the whole thing as soon as her mom got home, trailing her to the hall closet as she hung up her coat, then into the kitchen. She did notice that her mom was walking kind of funny.

“You kids put a great deal of work and effort in it,” her mom said, pulling a head of lettuce, tomatoes, mushrooms and some feta cheese out from the fridge crisper. “I only have the energy to make a salad tonight. That okay with you or should we order in?”

“Salad’s fine,” Carrie said, perching on one of the stools that lined the kitchen island. “So, you’ll help?”

“I’ll do what I can do,” her mother began, raffling through a drawer in search of a paring knife.   “Maybe the mayor could help persuade the Board to reconsider. In the meantime, I think your idea about starting a petition is a good one.”

So did Carrie.

She stayed awake half the night designing posters and banners and plotting out a strategy. She would start with classmates since they were the one’s most affected by the decision. Then she’d canvas the downtown merchants, especially the boosters who had paid to have their names in the concert’s program. Collectively, she figured to amass about five hundred signatures. That would make the school board sit up and take notice.

And if they didn’t?

She wouldn’t let her thoughts go there. They absolutely had to change their decision. Her singing career depended on it. She already had her signature outfits designed in her head. Since every big recording star had a ‘look’, hers would be tight jersey tops, mini skirts, thigh-high white leather boots. Very retro. And her hair….oh, my God…it would be fabulous. She’d been fooling around with a new style. Pulled back. Feathered sides and bangs that framed her face. Fans would all want to copy it.

She could see it now. Recognized wherever she went. People lining up for autographs. It gave her the chills just thinking about it.

And absolutely nothing was going to get in her way. Nothing! This was why she had called her neighbor, Mrs. Humphrey and let her know that the board’s decision was being overturned. No need for her to call her record producer nephew and cancel. She promised to save her two front row seats.

Carrie’s mom drove her to school with a short pit-stop at her office to collect a card table, boxes of pens, clipboards and pads of lined paper. Her mom was wearing a pair of worn brown loafers with an Ann Taylor’s suit. Pleaseeee.. Someone get the fashion police.  But since she was being so supportive of the petition drive, Carrie decided to hold back on the critique. Besides, her mom had gotten the principal’s approval for the petition drive. Mr. Newman liked her mom. She chaired most of the school’s fundraisers.

Carrie and her friends setup their table to the left of the front entrance. As soon as the buses came rolling in, the girls were ready, shouting above the din and waving clipboards.

“Sign our petition to save the Christmas Concert.”

Kids flagged around, wanting to know what it was all about. Carrie explained their goal was to collect enough signatures to make the school board restore the Christmas Concert.

“I’m in,” a senior boy said, who had always been sweet on Carrie. “Where do I sign?”

“Me too,” echoed his buddy. “My dad says this will be the first Christmas without a school concert.”

While her friends took care of the upper classmates, Carrie waylaid the under classmen.

“Here. Sign this,” she said, holding out a pen to a group of female freshmen who obeyed without question, feeling honored to have been singled out by the leader of the cheerleading squad. Carrie and her friends were wearing their lettered jackets.

They had only ten minutes before the homeroom bell sounded. She was determined to get as many signatures as she could.

“I’d like to add my name to that list,” Mr. Parson said.

She handed him the clipboard.

“I really appreciate your support. Most of the other teachers wouldn’t sign.”

“That’s understandable,” he said, handing back the clipboard and adjusting his shoulder bag. “They’re afraid the board might take offense.”

“But you’re not afraid.”

“I’m retiring in a few months,” he said with a sly grin.  “What can they do to me? Hey, Tamara.” He waved to a tall, thin girl with mocha skin, wearing a grey sweatshirt, baggy jeans and a mass of tight black curls piled on top of her head.

“Come here and sign a petition against the school board’s decision to cancel the Christmas Concert.  You’re in the choir, aren’t’ you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, walking over. Seeing Carrie she nodded, shyly.  “Hi.”

“Every signature counts,” Carrie said with a winning smile while doing a full eye check. The girl was in serious need of fashion intervention. Where did she get those jeans? They’d go fabulously with her mother’s brown loafers. Ugggllly.

“Carrie has decided to use some of what she learned in civics class and put her citizen’s rights into practice, didn’t you Carrie?”

“I…er…guess.” Carrie spent most of his class writing song lyrics or secretly texting her friends. Who cared about government or policies or local issues? Boring.

“See you later, Mr. Parson,” Tamara said, slipping like liquid mercury into the stream of students.

“I admire that girl,” her teacher said, returning Carrie’s pen. “She has a hard life, and it hasn’t been easy fitting in here. The only African American student in sea of white faces. Yet, you have to give her credit. She doesn’t let it get to her. Still gets up at five every morning, so she can take two buses to get here. And from what I’ve heard from her other teachers, she’s a straight A student. I know that she never misses an assignment in my class. Speaking of which… have you chosen someone to help for your civics’ project?”

Carrie’s face went blank. “Civics’ project?”

“You were supposed to choose a person that needed help by today or receive a demerit. You do remember that this assignment is worth half of your grade.”

“Oh, that project?” she stammered. She had been so busy with the petition and everything, she had completely forgotten.

Mr. Parson was looking at her intently. She couldn’t tell him that she hadn’t given it a moment’s thought and now reminded, didn’t have a clue who she might choose.  It’s not like she hung around with losers.

Losers…

“Yes, I have,” she said, brightly, filled with sudden inspiration just as the homeroom bell rang. “I’ve chosen Tamara.”

Mr. Parson paused a beat, then broke into a broad smile. “An impressive choice, Carrie. An impressive choice, indeed.”

“Why thank you,” Carrie said, then quickly stacked the clipboards and papers into a cardboard box, shove them beneath the card table and hurried off to homeroom.

Bob was very encouraged by Carrie’s choice and surprised. Maybe he had misjudged her.

“All right, class, settle down,” Bob said, at the sound of the third period bell. “We’ve got a lot to cover, so let’s get seated. Jay, take that gum out of your mouth.  Heather, you know the rules about cell phones. You have five seconds to shut it off or loose it until your parents come to pick it up.”

While he wrote on the blackboard, the students eased into their seats.

“Tony launch one more spit ball and you’ll be visiting detention,” he said without turning around.

“You psychic or something, Mr. Parson?” Tony asked, slinking down into his chair.

A wave of laughter rolled across the classroom.

“Just experienced in moronic behavior.”

The laughter grew louder.

“Good one, Mr.  P.”

He pointed to the first item listed on the blackboard, ‘Choosing a Recipient.’

“By today you should all have chosen someone for the civics’ project. Now, who wants to start by telling us how they went about making their choice. Remember, no names. This will only be effective if these acts are done anonymously.”

He looked out into a sea of faces working hard to avoid eye contact. Some stared at the ceiling, others the floor tiles. The remainder were writing aimlessly on pads. He felt a sudden pang of disappointment.

He had hoped to find his students bristling with excitement, brimming over with stories of having found someone they could help and the joy that came knowing that they could make a difference in someone’s life. That’s what Christmas was all about. It was a season of sharing our gifts, our talents, but mostly our love. How could these kids be so dispassionate? Giving of oneself was the greatest gift of all.

The room remained silent. He leaned against the blackboard and folded him arms.

“Let me guess. No one has done the first leg of assignment? You do all know that you will receive a five point demerit off your final grade for not having been prepared, today, don’t you? ”

Alan McGowan, seated in the center row, raised his hand.

“Yes, Alan.”

“I don’t know a lot of people in town, so it’s been kind of hard. But I did ask Pastor Whitcomb at Abiding Faith Church if he’d help me. He said he would think about it and let me know. I’m supposed to meet with him today afterschool.”

“In your case, I’ll give an extension, but the rest of you don’t have any excuses. You’ve lived in Crutcher Pike all of your lives. I don’t understand why it is so hard to look outside of yourself and try to find someone who is going through a tough time and needs a little help. Are you trying to tell me that there are no needy people out there?”

“I tried to find someone,” Tyler complained. “But the only person that could use any help is my Cousin Mildred. She could really use a boyfriend, but I figured that fifty bucks wouldn’t be enough to fix that.”

The room erupted in laughter. Bob stood quietly, allowing the jokester his reward until an uncomfortable silence fell over the classroom.

“Carrie. Without giving away the identity of your choice, would you like to share how you came to your decision?”

Carrie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’d rather keep that to myself. You know, just write it down in my journal.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”  Bob attributed her reluctance to seldom having participated in many classroom discussions.  Carrie’s was bright and enthusiastic when dealing with her peers, but when it came to academics she was normally reticent.

“Carrie told me who she had chosen before class, and I have to say, I was surprised and very impressed. It showed a real depth of thought and commitment to this assignment. This individual had enormous potential, but because of circumstances, has challenges that make it difficult to succeed.”

He turned to Carrie. “I’ll be very interested in watching this assignment unfold.  All right, now…” he scanned the room. “Doug. Let’s hear about your choice.”

Doug had rushed out after class and was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear Carrie calling. He’d just had five points shaved off his civics’ grade for not having chosen someone. Great, just great. You idiot. You’re supposed to work on getting your grade point average up not get a demerit.

But Mr. Parson had showed no mercy. All those who didn’t have a recipient by Monday would loose another ten points. And he made it clear that the person chosen had better be well thought out. Not someone you just picked up off the street, he said.

“If you wanted to pass his class this semester, you’d better take this assignment seriously,” he warned.

Oh, he was taking it seriously enough, all right. His new set of wheels along with his social standing was resting on its outcome.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Carrie asked breathlessly. She had raced the length of the hall to catch up with him. “You took off out of the classroom like a rocket. Are you okay?”

He paused by his locker. “I need to ace Parson’s assignment or my old man will be all over me.” He kept the car business to himself. He didn’t want Carrie making anymore threats about Tommy Hawkins.

“So, what’s the big deal?”

He spun the combination lock. “I can’t find anyone. I’ve racked my head and asked around and nothing. How does Parson expect us to find a needy person in this town? The only people who ever need help are the ones that live down by the river and Abiding Church has them covered. Of all the stupid assignments…”

He thrust open his locker and jammed his books inside.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, leaning in close. He could smell her perfume. Normally, the scent drove him crazy, but not today. He had other, more important things on his mind.

“There’s got to be someone you know that needs help,” she added, twisting a lock of golden hair.

“Easy for you to say.  You already found your person. By the way, who is it?”

“You know we’re not allowed to tell,” she teased.

He flashed a crooked grin. “You won’t even tell me? Your steady?”

“We are not going steady.”

“We’re not? Then I wonder who I’ll give the great gift to that’s sitting on my dresser.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said coyly. “I told you.  I’ll give you my answer on Christmas Day.”

Doug knew what that meant. She’d only say yes if he had gotten the car. Suddenly he was in no mood to play games. His grin shifted to a leer.

“Well, maybe by then I’ll have lost interest.”

He slammed his locker closed then headed out, enjoying the look of shock on Carrie’s face.  This darn assignment was putting a real drag on his Christmas.

Pastor Peter Whitcomb had sent Alan off to mail a letter while he tried to think of someone who might fit the parameters of his class assignment. The boy had come to him a few days ago, all exciting about the new civics’ project, explaining that he was to find someone whose quality of life would be improved by an act of kindness on his part. Peter had to hand it to Bob. He sure had come up with a great way to share the Christmas message without infringing on the school board’s ban.

“But I don’t know anyone in town,” Alan had said. “So I was hoping that, since you’re a pastor and all, you might help me find someone.”

Peter had promised to think it over, but so far, he hadn’t come up with a viable candidate. The few people whom he knew could use the help like Ivan Chapman had revealed their needs in confidence. Ivan’s health was rapidly declining, and he needed help in sorting out a lifetime of clutter. Peter had made a few suggestions, all of which, he had refused.

Who else? Surely, there must be someone out there he knew that wouldn’t object to a little intervention.

“I could use a little intervention here myself,” he told the Lord as the phone in the outer office rang. Seconds later, his secretary buzzed him. Ray McGowan was on the phone.

“Hi, Ray. How are things in your neck of the woods?” he asked, cheerfully. “I hear that corporation still hasn’t been able to root you out.”

“You heard right,” Ray said. “Their big shot lawyers were here a few minutes ago, trying to intimidate me with veiled threats of closing us down. Some fire code violations. The Fire Marshal is here now.”

“Well, you hang in there.”

“I intend to. But that’s not the reason for my call. One of the shelter’s guests is a student at Madison. She’s missed the bus. I’d come and get her myself if I didn’t have this thing with the Fire Marshal. Any chance, you might be coming this way and could give her a ride?”

“Sure. I have a box full of food stuffs that Sylvia Dickerson and her group have collected.”

“Sylvia Dickerson? Really? I thought that since she’s handling the Griffin account she would have given up overseeing the monthly donations. Conflict of interest.”

“Not Sylvia. She never lets business get in the way of her church commitments.”

“Well, good for her. Can you hold on a minute?”

While Peter waited, he stared out the window. Alan was just coming around the bend. There was something oddly familiar about the boy’s features, the square jaw, deep-set amber eyes, high forehead. He reminded him of someone, but he just couldn’t place who.

Ray was back. “Sorry about that. The Fire Marshal needs to talk to me. I have to go. Thanks’ for  giving Tamara a ride. I told her to wait for you outside the main school entrance.”

“Fine. We’ll both see you in about twenty minutes.”

Alan bound in, trailing the scent of clean air and freshly cut pine. The Crutcher Pike Garden Club had been decorating the downtown for days.

“I mailed your letter. Mr. Findley says to tell you that you owe him thirty-five cents.”

“Did you tell him I was good for it?” Peter joked and watched the boy smile. He rolled back his chair and went to grab his coat.  “I have to do a favor for the director of the homeless shelter over in Titusville.  One of his guests needs a ride. Why don’t you come along? Maybe we’ll find someone there that you might use for your project.”

“Sure. I just need to call my mom. I’ll tell her I’ll hitch a ride home with my dad.  He’s heading some downtown restoration project.”

Alan was the son of the man who was trying to shut down the shelter?  How could he have forgotten that?  Well, this should be interesting, Peter thought, following the boy out to his car.

“I’m sorry, Ray. I know that you’ve tried to comply with the Fire Codes and I’ve allow you to limp along, but this development group has the town officials all worked up. They’re counting on those new stores to raise the tax base. I swear, every time I look into their eyes, I see dollar signs. In fact, they’re so excited about all that extra revenue that they’re working double-time to make certain that I cross ever ‘T’ and dot every ‘I’. They want  this place closed down, Ray.  That’s the bottom line.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know that if it was up to me, I’d work something out. You’re doing a great thing here. I hate to see this place closed down.”

Frank Cordin, the town’s Fire Marshal, had let the shelter slide in the past, but Ray knew that he couldn’t ask for anymore favors without putting his friend’s job in jeopardy.

“I understand,” Ray said. “Just tell me what absolutely needs to be done.”

Frank rubbed a thick black hand along his chin. “Well, for starters, you need to update the electrical. These old fuses went out in the fifties. Let’s face it. This system is more than antiquated. It’s a fire hazard. And speaking of fires…”

He pointed to a piece of water stained ceiling tiles. “And that sprinkler system only works in this portion of the building.  The other section has never been upgraded. You’ll need to install a whole new system to get it up to code and that’s going to cost a bundle.”

“I know,” Ray sighed. “I’ve gotten a few quotes. I’d need to win the Lottery to do it up right.”

Frank laid a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. What you’ve done these last twenty years is nothing short of a miracle. Without this place, the town would have a greater problem on their hands with people being forced to sleep in the streets.

“But I hear that the Griffin Group has offered to help set you up in a new facility across town. Why not take them up on the offer? Anything would be better than this rat trap, no offense intended.”

“None taken,” Ray smiled. “I’ve thought long and hard about that. On the surface, it seems like a reasonable solution. But my people need access to public transportation to get around. It’s the only way that most can get to the health clinic. Several of our clients are diabetics who need monitoring and a way to get their medicines. Then there are the growing numbers of the working poor we service.”

His thoughts immediately went to Tamara and her family. “At the moment, we have five single moms who need the bus to get to and from work.”

“Have you talked with the transportation department?”

“Until I’m blue in the face. So has the town council. They’re state run and don’t give a hoot. They say they can’t justify opening up a new bus line just to service our clients.”

Frank shook his head of graying black curls. “It sure looks like you’re between a rock and a hard place.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ray agreed.

“What are you goin’ do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, dear friend. I’m going to lay the whole thing at the feet of the Lord.”
Frank nodded in full agreement. “No better place. He’ll come up with something. As my granny used to say,  the only reason the age of miracles stopped was because folks started believing that they should take care of things themselves.”

“Amen brother.”

“What’s this? A prayer meeting?” Peter asked with a smile.

“Just concurring that there are some things better left in the hands of our Lord,” Ray said, smiling.

“I wholeheartedly agree. Hi, Mr. Cordin. I met your wife this morning at the Piggly Wiggly. She told me she had come in to buy the makings for a pumpkin pie. Something about it being your favorite.”

Frank snapped close his pen and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “That can only mean one thing. She’s getting ready to ask me if her sister, Hannah can stay awhile.”

“Is that a problem?” Peter asked.

“Not if she leaves her no account husband back in Mississippi. Never saw a man more practiced in the art of sponging off relatives.”
He clamped his thick hand around a metal toolbox. “Well, I’d best be going. Good day, Reverend.” He nodded at Peter and headed out.

“I take it the inspection didn’t go well,” Peter said, watching the Fire Marshal leave through a side door.

“The electric and sprinkler systems need upgrading,” Ray explained.

Peter let out a low whistle. “How are you going to manage that?”

“Don’t know, but then we’ve weathered dark storms before. We’ll weather this one.” He clapped his hands, dispelling the dismal mood. “Now, enough of this doom and gloom. Did you find Tamara?”

“She’s right over there,” Peter said, indicating where she stood talking with Alan. The pair had hit it off on the ride over.

“What a bright girl. She told me about how she invests her babysitting money and all about compound interest. She’s saving up for a home for her mom and siblings.”

“She’ss remarkable, isn’t she?” Ray said with pride. “Never saw a family stick closer than that one. Her mom works cleaning offices downtown. Sometimes, Tamara helps out. They lost their apartment when they started renovating the old hotel. Living mostly on the streets until landing here.”

“How long have they been guests?”

“Three weeks. The state won’t let me house them much longer. The terms of my license states that the shelter is to provide only temporary housing. Anything over six weeks is considered long term. They have until Christmas Eve to find a place of their own.”

Peter shook his head. “And in the midst of this, Tamara is commuting to Madison.”

“And getting straight A’s,” Ray added with a touch of  pride. “Who’s that with her?”

“That’s Alan.”

As the boy turned and waved, Ray felt a sudden jolt. The boy was the spitting image of his son, David when he was that age.

“He’s in Bob Parson civics’ class and needs help with an assignment. Bob has asked his students to find individuals that are in need of help and fill that need. It’s a lesson in how the collective small acts of kindness help to improve the quality of life for the greater good.”

“Bob thought this up?”

“Yep.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with the ban the school board placed on Christmas, would it?” he asked, smiling.

“It might.”

“Alan just moved here from out of state and doesn’t know a lot of people. He asked me if I might help find him someone to help. When you called, I figured, I’d bring him along. The shelter might be a good place to start.”

Peter called him over. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Alan this Ray.  He’s the director here.”

“Nice to meet you Alan,” Ray said, studying the young boy’s feature. Up close the resemblance was even more striking.

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Pastor Whitcomb says that you need to find someone to help for your civics’ project.”

“I think I might already have found someone, or maybe something that would make a difference.” Alan was all smiles. “I was talking to Tamara and she suggested that I ask Mr. Parson since the school board has banned the Christmas concert, it be given here as a fundraiser for the shelter. What do you think?”

Ray grasped the boy by the shoulders and gave him a hug. “I think that you’re idea is a gift fallen straight from heaven.”

“Looks like you might have your upgrade money,” Peter said, marveling once again at the providence of God.

“Then it’s okay if I ask Mr.  Parson if it’s all right?” Alan asked.

“If you like, I’ll call him myself right now,” Ray said, heading towards his office then stopped. “I don’t think, I got your last name in case Mr. Parson asks.”

“McGowan,” the boy said. “Alan McGowan. Maybe you know my dad. He’s in charge of the restoration project on Main Street.”

Ruth found Bob in the garage wrapped in thick strands of Christmas tree lights as he worked to untangle several lengthy cords.

She handed him the phone and refrained from her annual admonition that he should not just throw everything together into one big box.

He held the phone with a shoulder while continuing his work.

“Hi, Ray. I was going to give you a call later. I was going through our Christmas decorations and found the ones we stored here belonging to the shelter.  I thought I could bring them over this weekend. Get your guests to help out. I’ll have Ruth make some cookies. Maybe stop by the orchard and bring along some apple cider. The kids always get a kick out of helping. Ray…?”

He just realized that Ray hadn’t uttered a word. “You there?”

“I just met Alan McGowan.”

“Alan? Yeah, he’s a good kid.”

“Peter Whitcomb introduced us. He thought Alan might find someone here that he could help as part of his civics’ project.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bob threw down the mass of wires and sighed. It was hopeless. Maybe he should just chuck the whole lot and go buy new ones.

“He came up with a really good plan. I told him I’d pass it by you. He wants to move the Christmas Concert here and sell tickets. The proceeds would go towards some badly needed upgrades. The Fire Marshal just paid us a visit. He’ll have to shut us down if we don’t fix a couple of code violations.”

“Sounds like a great idea. Of course, I’ll have to pass it by Wade and Gloria, but I’m pretty sure they’ll be behind it. Since the concert will be off the school grounds, I don’t see how the board could object.”

“There’s another thing…”

“Oh?”

“Tell me more about Alan.”

Bob thought a moment. “He’s a good kid. Quiet. Transferred in about nine months ago. I keep meaning to ask if he’s related to one of the local McGowan’s. Wouldn’t by chance be related to you, huh?”

“I think he might be my grandson.”

Bob was stunned into silence.

“Alan is a dead ringer for David at that age,” Ray explained.” Same eyes, hair coloring. My wife’s family nose.”

“Just because he resembles David as a kid doesn’t mean he’s your grandson.”

“Alan’s father is heading the restoration project along Main Street.”

“So?”

“David heads that project.”

“David? Your David? You mean he’s come back and you never told me?”

Bob felt like someone had stabbed him the chest. He’d always thought they were best friends. How could Ray have held back telling him something of this importance?

“If you knew, I felt you’d want to start meddling. Maybe take it on yourself to set up a meeting. I couldn’t allow that.”

Ray was right, of course. But that still didn’t excuse him from not letting him know.

“You forgive me?”

“Yeah, but I retain the right to be really disappointed that you didn’t trust me for a while longer.”

“Deal.”

“So. Are you going to tell Alan that you’re his granddad?”

“Not just yet. I figured I’d get to know him first, then I’ll see how things go.”

“Makes sense.”

“Oh, and Bob, I’d appreciate it if you kept this confidential. I wouldn’t want word to leak out.”

When Ruth returned with Spareparts, she found Bob staring into space and the lights scattered on the floor. She gingerly stepped over the pile and handed Bob the leash.

“Spareparts needs a walk and I have to get to the church. Lily Hamlin can’t remember how many glass globes we used last year to light the stain glass windows. We need to do a count.”

The corgi jumped up and placed two stubby paws on Bob’s knees but was ignored.

“It’s the strangest thing…”

“What’s that?”

“I thought God had given me the idea for the civics’ project to teach my students the true meaning of Christmas. But now….”

“But now…what?” she asked, pulling out her car keys.

“Oh, nothing. Just an old man babbling to himself.”

She kissed him on the forehead and headed out while Bob wondered if the real the civics’ project was really about uniting a family?

Chapter Six – Memories

Ray sat alone in his darkened office lit only by the light flowing in from beneath the door. The dark was like a shield, blocking out distractions, better for thinking things through.

His fingers beat out a silent rhythm against his desk while he tried to digest the sudden turn of events. Above all, he must seek guidance from the One who had orchestrated all of this. How could he ever sufficiently express his gratitude? There were so many times that he had wanted to give up praying for David’s return. It had been over twenty years since he had left. Not a word since. Chances of him ever returning or getting in touch had grown less likely with each passing year.

But every time that Ray had been ready to give into despair, his Bible would seem to fall open of its own accord to Luke 18:1…

Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up.

He shook his head and smiled. And now God had honored those prayers in a way that he had never considered. Not only had he brought David home, but He had included a grandson that he didn’t know he had.

He wished that David would had tried to make contact by now, but Ray respected his reticence. But he figured God wouldn’t have brought him home if He didn’t have a plan of reuniting them. But like he had told Bob, he would not pressure his son. When David was ready to reconcile, he would allow him to make the first move. In the interim, all of the Griffin Group negotiations had been conducted through Jarrod Nelson.

That name drew his lips together in a tight line. He had Jarrod pegged the first time they met. When Ray explained the need for the shelter to remain on a main bus route, Jarrod reached inside his coat pocket and drew out his checkbook. “Here’s a twenty thousand dollar gift,” he said, holding out the check. “I’m sure it will help assuage your conscience.”

Ray had kicked him out and told his staff never to let him back in. After that, a team of lawyers had taken over. They had fared no better in convincing Ray to move the shelter. But Ray was no fool. He knew it was only time before the town would find a way to shut him down.

Ray rubbed his eyes. He was tired of the battle, but on the other hand, it had brought him his grandson.  I have a grandson…

The boy’s face had brought back so many memories of David when was a child. They had been so close then.

Ray chuckled remembering the many times he would be busy in his office and hear  the ‘cluck’ of David’s bike falling onto the grass, followed by heavy footsteps pounding up onto the wooden porch.  The screen door would screech under protest as David yanked it open and began yelling, “Hey, Dad! Dad! I’ve got something really cool to tell you.”

He’d dash through the office door and take a running leap onto the corner of Ray’s desk, his face flushed with excitement that bubbled over in a breathless monologue.  He’d seen a dog being chased by the dog catcher. Mr. Mellon had just bought a new car.  He had just won a place on the high school basketball team.

For over twenty years, Ray had hoped and prayed that David would return; his mind churning out scenarios where David would apologize for his anger and like the prodigal son, he would welcome him with open arms. They’d hug, make amends.      Of course, no reconciliation could erase the years of anguish spent pining his absence, but all that pain would be gone in a flash once he held him in his arms.

He had had such hopes when he learned that David was heading the downtown renovation project. For weeks after he arrived, Ray would begin each day with the prayer, “Let this will be the day that he walks through that door.” As the weeks passed into months, it was clear that David would not seek a reunion. He was here to do a job, nothing more.

His silence spoke more loudly than words that he still blamed him for not explaining himself to the Church Council and for his mother’s death. Even the passage of time could not temper the hot, piercing words flung the day of her funeral.

“The cancer didn’t kill her. You did. She died from heartache that could have been prevented if only you had just once thought more for your family than you did for your church,” David had raged. “You could have told them why you took that money, but no….not the great, holier than thou Ray McGowan. He’d rather make his family suffer than to divulge a confidence?”

David had been half right. He had loaned the money, but not to a crook. Johnny Chapman had been one of his dearest friends growing up and had been desperate for help. In good conscience, he could not turn him away.

He and Johnny had been friends since the sixth grade. Johnny was a year older since he’d been held back a year. Johnny had always been more interested in having fun than in school work. The other kids had given him the tall, angry looking classmate a wide berth, but not Ray. There was just something about him that made Ray feel that he desperately needed a friend he could count on. Besides, being with Johnny like grabbing hold of a rocket.

Johnny showed him how to hit the bubblegum machine outside the general store with the palm of your hand that made it release two pieces of gum instead of one. The fact that his family owned the store along with the bank, the railroad depot and the lumberyard, and that the gum was free for the asking never seemed like an option. Besides, what fun would there be in that, Johnny quipped.

Johnny was also worldly wise in ways that eluded Ray. One cool, summer night,  Ray and Bob Parson sat atop the town’s water tower pitching coke bottles on the rocks below while trying to act nonchalance as Johnny explained the physical changes that had taken place when he had French kiss his first girl.

But there was a darker side to Johnny that often worried Ray. He was always taking wild and dangerous chances. Like the time he laid on the railroad tracks, with a train roaring down on him, refusing to move until he had finished the final lyric to Palladin, singing in his falsetto voice, Have gun will travel reads the card of a man, A knight without honor in a savage land…” Bob Parson had been there that day and had thrown up all over his sneakers as the train roared past, unaware that seconds before, Johnny had rolled off onto the other side of the tracks.

Years later and several semesters of psychology behind him, Ray understood that Johnny’s destructive behavior was due largely to his dad’s rigid standards.  The family could trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower and included members who had fought in the the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and all the other wars that followed.

It used to pain Ray to watch Ivan Chapman ride Johnny about every facet of his life from what he wore, how he spoke, his friends; nothing passed the old man’s scrutiny or seemed to gain his approval. Johnny’s older brother, Samuel had died from influenza as a child, leaving Johnny as the heir apparent to the Chapman dynasty.

Then came the 1957 recession, a result of the tightened monetary policy of the Federal Reserve. As they entered the 60’s, the family fortunes had been reduced by nearly eighty percent. Chapman pressed harder for Johnny take his place in the family, making it clear it would be ‘his’ responsibility to restore the family’s monetary standing.

Johnny was sent off to Dartmouth, the family’s alma mater, directly after high school where he traded nights bent over a book for those bent over a bar. He managed to make it through two semesters before being expelled for burning an American flag at a rally against the Vietnam War. He later told Ray that he hadn’t been against the war. He had just the only one in the crowd with a match.

Johnny was sent home and subjected to his dad’s continual tirade that focused on having bore such a disappointing son. But the sentence that sent Johnny over the edge was when Ivan said, “I fear that God let the wrong son live.”

That night, Ray found Johnny with a near empty bottle of Seagram’s, standing on the railing of the expansion bridge that crossed the Kentucky River. Ray was home on break from college where he was majoring in psychology and theology. It had taken him every ounce of his newly processed knowledge to convince Johnny that he had a purpose and that his death would gain nothing.

Johnny disappeared after that night. The years slipped by as Ray followed the inner calling to become a pastor. He married, had a son and was pastoring the Abiding Faith Church when one night there was a knock on the parsonage door and there stood Johnny Chapman.

“I bet you never thought you’d see me again,” Johnny said, grabbing him in a crushing embrace.

It took him several moments to place this ruggedly handsome, man full of life and joy. “Johnny? Johnny Chapman? I can’t believe it. How are you, you old dog?”

He marched in, sank down in an overstuffed chair and suddenly, it was as if no time at all had passed between them. For the next hour, Johnny told him how he had wandered aimlessly around for nearly five years, driven only by the need to keep a distance between him and his father.  He slept in subways in New York City. Worked on cattle ranches in Montana and then one day happened upon a small cow town in Utah.

“And that’s when I met a man who changed my life.”

“Tell me about him.” Ray was anxious to learn what this man possessed that had brought about this amazing metamorphous.

“His name is Brad Simmons, Dr. Brad Simmons. I met him when he was getting ready to launch an American chapter of Doctor’s without Borders. I offered to go along. I thought maybe I could help tote their supplies, and he accepted.”

“I’ve heard of that group,” Ray said. “They do extraordinary work for the sick and disabled in undeveloped countries.”

“Exactly!”  Johnny’s eyes filled with passion. “Usually, we’re the only medical personal in a five hundred mile radius. People travel for days just to be seen. It’s like that everywhere we go.

“We’re stationed in Rwanda now. For the next three months, we’ll be traveling to native villages, offering wellness clinics and inoculations.” Johnny shook his head. “You know, that even after having done this work for nearly eight years, I still find it hard to believe that there are people dying from chicken pox and diphtheria.”

“Still toting packages?”

Johnny smiled. “No, in fact, I now have a someone who totes things for me.”

“Oh?”

“With Dr. Simmons’s help, I qualified for my para-medic certificate and now, I’m even thinking about going to medical school. Dr. Simmons says he’ll make some phone calls if I promise to return when I’m through.”

“I’m so happy for you, Johnny. This must be very rewarding,” Ray offered, still finding it hard to connect the man seated across from him with that of his old reckless friend.

They talked for a while longer. Ray filled him in about his life, family and the parish. Finally things wound down and he asked, “Have you seen your dad?”

Ivan Chapman had become something of a recluse since Johnny’s disappearance and the loss of his wealth. The Chapman’s large estate was about to be auctioned off. Ivan had been unsuccessful in reclaiming his family’s fortunes. Some said it was the final blow to the proud old man.

Johnny swung around and placed both feet on the floor. His voice sobered. “He and I had a long talk. I told him that this last year in the midst of poverty and degradation, I had discovered true wealth.”

“What was that?”

“Family. I owed my dad an apology I could have been a much better son. I told him that and asked for his forgiveness.”

“And did he grant it?”

A piece of dark brown hair slightly streaked with grey fell across his eyes. “He did and I cried like a baby. And more than that, for the first time he’s proud of how I’ve turned my life around and what I’m doing. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. To have him finally say that he approves of me is better than any fortune I might have inherited.”

Ray remembered how hard Johnny had sought to gain his father’s approval as a child.  He was thrilled for him.

“Speaking of your dad, I heard that he bought a cottage over on Spring Street.  That must have been quite an adjustment.”

“Yes, it was. My dad’s never had to fend for himself before either. There were always servants to do the cooking and cleaning. But we talked and I think I’ve convinced him to see it as an adventure. Something new to conquer.”

“Your visit must have been a real balm to his soul.”

Ivan was one of his parishioners and although he seldom attended Sunday services. When he did, Ray always felt saddened at the pain reflected in the old man’s eyes. He hoped that being reconciled with Johnny would help lessen that pain.

Johnny leaned forward and studied the floor

“Ray, I need your help.”

“Sure, anything.”

“I’ve done a stupid thing. Something that if my dad were to find out would ruin everything. A couple of nights ago, I paid a visit to Mack’s.”

“The bar on Cedar Street?”  That place was always being raided. Several of the town’s police officers were parishioners. Ray had a sudden sinking feeling.

“I just wanted to take a walk down memory lane. Reminisce.” He smiled that endearing smile of his.  “Not all of my childhood was bad. I had some good times.”

Ray nodded. Yes, there were those.

“I figured I might bump into some old friends. Catch up on old times. But I had a few too many drinks and when I was invited in the back room where a high stakes poker game was going on, I joined right in.”

“Oh, Johnny.” He knew what was coming. “How much did you loose?”

“Three grand.”

“Three grand?!! How did you pay it off?”

“I didn’t. I gave them a note.”

“Do you have that kind of money to cover it?”

“I can borrow it from Dr.Simmons once I get back. I’m returning on Friday.”

“Let me guess. The guys you gave the note to don’t want to wait.”

“I was hoping you could help me out,” Johnny began.

“Oh, John….”

“Just a loan. I swear.” He held up his hand. “I’m leaving Friday and can have the money wired to you by mid-week.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s the last person I’d ask. First, I don’t think he has it.  He’s been pretty much financially wiped out. And second, it’s taken me all these years to finally earn his approval, I don’t want to loose it. If he finds out about this….” Johnny leaned forward, his eyes filled with desperation. “Please, Ray. I made a stupid mistake. You’re my only hope.”

“Johnny, I’m a pastor. I don’t  have that kind of cash. I suppose I could take a second mortgage on my house…”

“That would take much too long. I need the cash now.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I wish I could help.”

Johnny fell back into his chair. “It’s all right. I knew coming here was a long shot. I didn’t really think you could help.”

Ray’s heart ached for his friend. He had worked so hard to change the course of his life. He had a career and a future. In a flash of anger, Ray wanted to lash out.

You stupid, stupid, guy. Why have you allowed yourself to be drawn back into that lifestyle? You’re not a kid anymore. You’re in control of your actions. Can’t you see the damage you have done?

Ray got up and paced the room. He was about to let him know how he felt about his total lack of self control when he happened to glance at Johnny. He had seen men facing death less anguished. Clearly, no amount of admonishment was necessary. Johnny was already drowning in remorse.

“I don’t have that kind of cash, but….”

Johnny looked up hopefully.

“There is the church organ fund. The organ is being delivered at the end of the month. I guess, I could…borrow…it if you promised to return the money before it was due to arrive.”

Johnny jumped up and held up his right hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I will have that money paid back by next week. I’ll wire it as soon as the bank opens on Monday.”

And so, Ray had given him the three thousand dollars, knowing that his conscience demanded it . Insisting that Johnny make certain that the funds were paid back  well before they had been missed, he handed over the cash.

“I will never forget this,” Johnny said, crushing him in a tight embrace. “This is twice that you saved my life.”

Back in Rwanda, coffee prices had suddenly taken a sharp plunge. Small farmers suffered. Famine followed. Hordes of roaming bands of gunmen looted and pillaged villages, taking out their frustration on anyone unlucky enough to come across their path.  Johnny was one of the unlucky ones. He was killed on his way to the medical outpost and died before he could transfer the funds.

Ray’s prayers for guidance as the date of the organ delivery grew near. Should he go to Ivan Chapman and explain what had happened and hope that he would offer to repay the church? Or should, Ray keep silent so that Ivan’s memories would be one of pride in a son that had finally turned his life around and died a heroes’ death, having given his life for the common good.

In the end, Ray decided to take full responsibility for the missing funds which he would see were repaid in full. But the church members demanded an explanation which he would not give. Ray simply bent his head, but refused to defend himself. Finally, the church leaders asked him to leave. Some would later labeled him a thief, an embezzler.

More tragedy followed. His wife’s death. His son’s anger and disappearance. If it wasn’t for Bob Parson, Ray might not have made it through those tough times. It was Bob who convinced him that the call God had placed on his life could not be revoked. Regardless of the personal toll, he must go on.

Bob was right. He had made a commitment from which there was no turning back which included keeping a confidence regardless of the expense. Hadn’t Jesus told his disciples to ‘count the cost’ before taking a vow to follow Him? That cost had come dearly in Ray’s life.

A few months later, he decided to open a soup kitchen in the neighboring town of Titusville, knowing there was no better therapy during times of trial than in serving those who suffered more then you.

Beyond his closed office door were the sounds of guests settling in for the night. Volunteers were on duty to hand out blankets and assign beds which were becoming much too scarce as the need increased. Ray leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. What would these people do if his son succeeded in closing them down? Even a move across town would be filled with pitfalls. It would takes weeks, maybe months before the new facility was up and running. Where would these people go?

His thoughts turned to Tamara and her family. Good people doing their best to make it through hard times. He had been making calls all week, trying to find them a more permanent home since their time at the shelter was quickly running out. So far, he hadn’t had any luck. There just was no available housing for low income families anywhere to be had.

“This is taking forever, “he told Tamara, shifting nervously in his chair. They were seated outside Gloria Hopkins’ office. Principal Newman and Mr. Parson were inside discussing Alan’s suggestion. They had been in there for nearly an hour.

“I know. It’s making me nervous,” Tamara said.

No surprise there. She hadn’t stopped swinging her legs back and forth since Mr. Newman had told them to ‘take a seat.’

“They have to see what a good plan this is,” he said as though by force of will, he could make them agree. Mr. Parson was already sold on it and so was Mrs. Hopkins. Now if they could only convince Mr. Newman.

Outside the football team was warming up. Grunts and commands drifted through the partially open window. He studied the team’s formation, hoping the distraction would take the edge off the anxiety he felt waiting for their verdict. Tommy Hawkins, the team’s quarterback was leading the exercises which as usual had attracted a gaggle of girls. There were strung out alone the bleachers top row like birds along a phone wire, trying to act as though they were uninterested in what was taking place on the field. Only everyone knew that the only reason they were there was the hope that one of the boys might look up and wave, especially Tommy. Alan shook his head. Sometimes girls could be so lame.

From inside Mrs. Hopkins office, voices were raised.

“You think that’s a bad sign?” Tamera asked.

Alan shrugged. He had stopped trying to decode what adults would or wouldn’t do.

Take the conversation with his dad this morning. As usually, his dad arrived home late last night, so he hadn’t had an opportunity to tell him about his idea of moving the Christmas Concert to the shelter and using it as a fundraiser. He was especially anxious to tell him how well it had been received.  Mr. Parson had been so excited about his suggestion that he had called a meeting with Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Newman for first thing this morning.

But instead of being pleased, his dad had jumped all over him, even questioning if the idea had been his alone.

“You sure the director didn’t plant this in your head?” His father’s voice had that steely edge it got when he was really mad about something.

“No, it was my idea.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Like what?”

His father grew quiet, like he was thinking. “Never mind. Just drop it. I want you to stay away from there, you hear me? That place could completely undermine my restoration project.”

“How?”

“Because no one wants to spend top dollar for a piece of real estate next to a facility that caters to the homeless and indigent.”

“But they don’t have any place else to go.”

“That’s not true. We’ve offered them a new facility across town,” he said, turning into the school parking lot. The buses had already arrived. Students were piling out, congregating in small groups where they would wait until the first bell.

“If Ray said no, he must have had a good reason.” Alan had taken an instant liking to the older man. “Did you ask him?

His dad pulled up behind the last bus. “You’d better go, or you’ll be late for homeroom.”

Alan unbuckled his seatbelt. “But dad, I don’t understand why you’re so against this. You and mom always said that it’s our civic responsibility to help those who can’t help themselves.”

“End of discussion.”

But it wasn’t the end. His whole life had been dictated by his father’s projects, never staying long enough in anyone place to put down roots. Crutcher’s Pike was the first place that he had ever felt as though he belonged. It didn’t even matter that his classmates ignored him. Heck, he understood. They had grown up together. He was the outsider. He had found other ways to fit in.

He liked talking with Pastor Whitcomb and helping out at the church and playing checkers with the old men at the hardware store. Some of the merchants called him by name. As strange as it seemed, he felt as though he had finally come home.

So as far as he was concerned, his dad could make all the ultimatums he wanted. There was no way that he was going to prevent him from helping Ray save the shelter. That was if the three people locked behind that office door would only give their approval.

“They’re sure taking a long time in there,” Tamara said, casting a look towards the music room. “You think that Mr. Parsons and Mrs. Hopkins will be able to convince Mr. Newman.”

“Convince them of what?” Carrie asked towering over them, balancing an armful of signed petitions.

“If we can move the Christmas concert over to the shelter in Titusville,” Tamara offered.

“We asked if we could give the concert as a fundraiser to help save the shelter,” Alan explained, momentarily forgetting that he was addressing one of the most popular girls in school. “The director will use the money to make some upgrades to the building so the town won’t close it.”

“Oh….” Carrie’s face brightened. “Maybe I won’t need these after all.” She laid the papers on an empty chair and slid into another.  “I think I’ll wait and see what they say.”

The threesome grew very quiet. Alan shuffled his feet and Tamara stared down at her hands while Carrie played with a lock of hair while slyly studying Tamera. Why did she choose her as her civics’ project? If she was really going to help, it would take a lot more than the fifty dollars that Mr. Parson had allotted

The girl was a complete mess. Just look at the way she dressed. My Godddd. The shirt she was wearing was about two sizes too big and those shoes were so old they were almost retro. And the hair….double ugh!

She did have to admit that Tamera wasn’t completely hopeless. She had a cute face.  Nice rounded checks. Almond shaped eyes. If only she’d use a little makeup to bring out those features.

While Tamara and Allan talked about where they would set up the concert…in the dining room or clean out the cavernous storage facility filled with thirty years of cast offs next door, Carrie studied the girl, trying to get a feel for how Tamara might look if she was dressed in some layered spandex tees, a pair of good jeans with her hair brushed softly around her face. She could actually be attractive if only she’d put a little effort into how she presented herself. Didn’t she know that people formed opinion about you based on externals. She had tried to convince her mother of that and for a moment… as she purchased those adorable Jimmy Choos…felt as though she had finally seen the light. Her work was done.

Then yesterday as she was searching her mom’s closet for the cashmere shell her mother had bought last week on sale, she had found them stuffed at the back. The brown flats were missing. Her own mother, a fashion disaster.  It was depressing. Almost as depressing as having chosen Tamara as her civics’ project. She openly studied Tamara.  Goddddd she had a lot of work to do if she wanted get even a passing grade.

The music room door opened as Mrs. Hopkins voice, lightweight and joyous, sang, “This will be our finest Christmas Program ever! I can’t wait to tell the choir. Oh, would you look here… two members. Carrie. Tamara. The best of news. The Christmas Concert is back on!”

Mr. Parson and Mr. Newman trailed behind their faces radiant.

“Alan, it looks like your suggestion for the Christmas Concert benefit is a go,” Mr. Parson’s said.

“Can Tamara and I work on this assignment together?” Alan asked, hopefully. He liked spending time with her. She wasn’t like the other girls.  “It’s kind of a big project and I could use the help.”

Bob nodded. “That’s reasonable. I’ll grade the project as one assignment, so I’ll expect double the effort.”

“Oh, we will,” Tamara said, clearly relieved. “Can I call Ray. He’s going to be so excited.”

“You can use the phone in my office if you’d like,” the principal offered.

“I’d like to help, too,” Carrie chimed in.

“You’ve already chosen an assignment,” Bob reminded her, raising an eyebrow in Tamera’s direction.

“I don’t mean as part of my assignment, Mr. Parson.  I just thought I could help in other ways, like with programs. My mom will help with those, I’m sure.”

“And don’t forget selling boosters,” Mrs. Hopkins added. “That will bring in some nice extra money.”

Alan chewed on his lower lip. “There sure is a lot to do.”

“And only a few weeks to get it all done,” Tamara reminded him then turned to Carrie. “If you’re serious, we’d like to have you. We could use all the help we can get.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Let’s meet in the library afterschool and we can put together a plan.”

“I’ll bring the cheerleaders. I know they’ll want to help, too.”

Bob watched the threesome take off down the hall in a shower of excitement, interrupting each other with suggestions, the girls playfully shaking their head as Alan threw out his arms to express a point.

“That’s an interesting group,” Gloria commented. “You know, I think that this concert is going to be a success in several different ways.”

“I agree,” Bob said. For the first time, he felt that this plan of his actually might work.  “Yep, I agree.”

Doug held the cell phone to his ear and tried to reach Carrie one more time. They had plans to meet at Johnny’s Pizza Palace around five, but he had to cancel. His dad had picked him up early from school. One of his guys had gone home with the flu.

“I just hope that nobody else catches this,” his dad said, climbing into the cab of his Ford truck. “We’re already stretched to the limit on this job.”

Once again, Doug was dumped into voicemail. He snapped the phone shut, not bothering to leave a message. Carrie never checked her voicemail.

For the remainder of the day, Doug cleared away rubble from behind the hotel. Landscapers were coming in tomorrow to lay sod.

“Hey! Doug!” Somehow his dad’s voice carried above the roar of nail guns, generators and back hoes.  “Finish loading that stuff in the dumpster, then go help Hank up top. Take one of the wheelbarrows. Use the freight elevator.”

Well, there went his plans to still meet Carrie. It was nearly five. Of course, he could remind his dad that he had promised that he could leave at five, but decided against it.

He grabbed the wheelbarrow and pointed it towards a side door. It would only end in another lecture about the benefits of a college diploma versus being a blue collar laborer.

“Jack, you got a minute?” David asked. He wore a yellow hardhat and a nasty scowl.

“Sure, what’s up?” Jack anchored an elbow on a set of floor plans stretched over the hood.

“I just finished speaking with headquarters and they want to push up the date on the furniture delivery.” He consulted his clipboard. “They want to setup the two main lobbies and the bar area this Friday. I just took a tour. The ceiling molding isn’t up and the floor drains behind the bar haven’t been put in. I thought we agreed that that would be finished by today.”

“Yeah, we agreed, but nobody passed it by Jarrod. He took my guys off the trim work and put them on the coffered ceiling on one of the condos.”

David looked like if he had rope, Jarrod would be swinging from the nearest rafter. “I’ll see that they’re sent back downstairs. And the drains?”

“They’re in. Plumber finished up this morning.”

“The grates are missing.”

“They sent the wrong ones over. I called the supplier. New ones coming tomorrow.”

“I appreciate it if you’d stay on top of this.”

“Will do. You sure you don’t want to take me up on that offer. Most of my guys would love the chance to take care of Jarrod.”

David smiled. ‘Don’t tempt me. But seriously, give me a call when it’s done. I’ll give you my private number.” He padded down his pockets. “I must have lost my pen.”

“I might have one in the truck.” Jack slid into the cab, flipped down the visor then checked the center console without any luck. His son’s backpack was on the passenger side floor. He grabbed the nylon pouch, unzipped it and shook out the contents. Papers flew on the floor along with a several pens.

“Got one.”

David tore off a piece of paper and scribbled down the number “I’m flying to headquarters tomorrow and won’t be around, but I want to know the second these are done.”

Rich nodded. “What about the punch lists?”

“We’ll do that when I get back.” David paused. “You and your crews have done a bang-up job, Jack. I appreciate it. Not many people take pride in their work anymore.”

“The quality of the job reflects the quality of the man.”

David smiled. “Your dad was always saying that. He was a great guy.”

“So was yours,” Jack said, stuffing the slip of paper inside his shirt pocket.

“Yeah, at one time he was.”

“Still is,” Jack countered. He sometimes helped out at the shelter.

David turned without comment. Jack watched him head towards his car, thinking it was time that David got over his anger. Maybe even introduce his son to his grandfather. He wondered if Ray knew about Alan.

Look at me, a real Dear Abby.

The mention of the bar grates had reminded Jack that he should give the supplier a call. Make sure he was on top of things. The clipboard with the supply order was somewhere buried inside his truck. He slid into the cab and began to stuff the contents of Doug’s backpack inside the case, hoping it was buried somewhere beneath. A graded paper caught his eye. C minus?! And when was Doug going to tell him about this?

“Hey, Jack. The trimmers want you on the third floor,” Kevin Erwin said.

Jack swung around and shook his head. His boss was dressed in a tailor made suit and gold cufflinks, smelling like he had bathed in cologne. Did he ever know what ‘trimmer’s were?

Jack found the clipboard and slide out of the cab.

“I’ll get on it as soon as I make a call.” Jack said, pulling his phone out from its leather belt holster.

“A call?” Kevin chuckled and crossed his arms. “Jack, Jack, Jack…” He shook his head. “This is exactly why you swing a hammer and I sit behind a desk. You haven’t a clue about time management, now do you?”

He could feel the heat rise along his neck. How he’d love to remind Erwin that the reason why he sat behind that desk had nothing to do with his time management skills and everything to do with his daddy’s deep pockets.

“Seems to me that a call can be made anytime, but since this project has a very tight timeline, it might be better if you took care of the pressing business on the third floor. You can make a call anytime.”

How he’d like to haul off and cuff that smug face. The guy was a first class imbecile. He suspected that it was due to interbreeding. The joke around town was that the Erwin’s married their cousins because they wanted to keep their money in the family.

“I had to make a call to the plumbing supply store to trace a back order on the grills for the bar. And no, it couldn’t wait until later, not if the bar’s to be completed on schedule.”

Jack was pleased to see that the comment had help deflate some of Erwin bravado.

“Is that it?” he asked, grabbing the clipboard. He’d use David’s office to make the call.

“You can kill the attitude, Jack.  I was just checking on my employees. Making sure everything is being done in a timely manner. You know how I like to run a tight ship.” He adjusted his cuffs. “After all, I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jack walked away.

Maintaining a reputation, hey? This from the same man who once hired an electrician without checking out his credentials? After the guy had finished up the job, one of Jack’s crew had uncovered an electrical glitch in the main panel. When they took it apart, it was discovered that the security system had been rerouted making it easy to dismantle the system from outside. After doing some research, Jack later discovered that the guy had learned his skills while serving five to seven for burglarizing a string of homes.  Of course, Kevin later disclaimed of ever having anything to do with his hiring. No surprise there.

Jack hop-scotched his way around piles of debris, tools and machines enroute to a side door while doing a slow burn over Kevin’s me boss, you peon attitude. You’d think that after this many years, Jack wouldn’t let Kevin get to him, but he always did.

If only he had been able to find the money to start up his own company, he’d have left him years ago. But with mortgage payments, health insurance premiums, one kid going into law school and another son about to start in a few years, he had put the dream permanently on hold.

The thought brought on the familiar stab of anger laced with remorse. If only he had could have gotten one good break he might have been able to realize his dream. But there was always something that stood in the way, primarily the lack of money. Seemed that as the years sped by, the distance between that vision and its realization had grown larger. He was probably stupid to keep on dreaming. Maybe the time for making dreams come true had passed.

“Eddie wants you on the third floor,” Johnny Nelson shouted as he passed by with a stack of two by fours hoisted on his shoulder. The guy was a gorilla. “Erwin was looking for you.”

“Yeah, he found me.”

Jack took the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping to burn off some his anger. Kevin always rubbed him the wrong way. He took the stairs two at a time.

Well, one thing was for certain. Doug was never going to have to take this type of crap from idiots like Erwin. He was going to college and earn a degree. From the day they were born, Jack worked to build up their college funds. As long as he had a breath in him, his sons would never become common laborers. No, sir. They would be respected, white collar businessmen.

He was slightly winded when he reached the third floor. He really had to do something about that middle age pouch his wife was always joshing him about.

He pushed open the fire door and was greeted by the angry sound of men arguing. It was coming from the end unit. His guess was that they were ticked off because David wanted them to disregard Jarrod’s orders (another first class idiot) and stick to the original plans. That meant a decrease in overtime and costly add-ons. Some subs lived for add-on’s.

He headed in that direction, his footfalls sounding heavy against the wooden floors which he just happened to notice that no one had made the effort to cover them with paper. If they had to be re-sanded and stained that would delay the project further. His bad mood went up a notch.

He reached inside his back pocket for his copy of the job orders that would spell out the original agreement. Doug’s test paper fell to the floor. He stuffed it back and quickened his step. After work, he and Doug were going to have a little talk about his grades and his car.

Chapter Seven – A Neighbor in Need

Ivan Chapman heard his neighbor’s pickup truck pull into the driveway next-door and wondered if he should step outside and ask if he would take a load of boxes piled to ceiling alongside his back porch to the dump.  But the Richmonds and he had never been exactly friendly. An over-sized mongrel dog that used Ivan’s property as his private latrine and a teenage son who continually cut through his bed of prized roses saw to that.     He surveyed the ruins which had once been a tidy living room and felt suddenly very old and very tired. But time was running out. According to his doctor, the heart disease that had plagued him for years could no longer be arrested. He had been given two to three months tops before he would join the long line of Chapman ancestors buried in the family cemetery. The news had come as no surprise. He had expected it.  At 87, no one lived forever.

He scanned the stacks of leather journals whose spines were cracked and flaking, piled alongside boxes filled with memorabilia that charted the three hundred year old ancestral history. Sadly, when he was gone, so was the lineage that had seen the building of this proud nation since 1689.

Although at this point, he would have preferred to burn it all, let the past be buried along with him, his staunch, aristocratic upbringing would not allow his life to go uncharted. He was the thirteen generation of Chapmans to have made Crutcher Pike his home and up until the ill-fated economic downturn experienced by Ivan some years ago that had reduced the family fortunes to ashes, his ancestors had always held prominence within the town.

During the country’s Golden Era, the Chapmans held their place among society’s elite. They might not have been as rich as the Vanderbilts or Astors, but they possessed enough disposal income to afford a summer home along the coast of Maine, a small brownstone in New York and, of course, Wakefield the family’s two hundred acre estate that had once dominated the north side of Crutcher’s Pike.

Wakefield…

Hundreds of acres of rolling hills, sylvan forests and lacy steams. The Manor house sat atop a hill, a Queen surveying her fiefdom, an imposing structure built of stone walls and soaring turrets with expansive views of the river. Inside were twenty-seven rooms including a massive grand hall that had played host to lavish parties and legendary Christmas galas. Across the imported marble foyer was a two-storied library filled with rare books, including the law books once owned by Aaron Burke, a distant cousin to the Chapmans.

Ivan had been one of a succession of heirs born into a world of privilege at Wakefield and the legacy would continue with the birth of his two sons, Samuel and Jonathon.  Their mother died in a car accident when Jonathon was three. Ivan could never come to terms with her death.

Instead, he focused on building the family fortunes as his father and grandfather had done before him. Most of their wealth had been csonsolidated around Crutcher Pike. It included a bank, a general store and several building along Main Street. There were also shares in a trucking company, two steel mills and several large tracks of land that skirted the north side of town and were leased to farmers.

Then came the 1970’s recession. Oil prices soared and gas was in short supply. Less farm products were being shipped overseas. Both the trucking industry and the land leases were hit hard. Ivan tried to shift his money into more lucrative ventures, but no one was buying land or buildings. Banks were consolidating, combining resources. His was passed by and then closed.

Suddenly, he was a man fighting for his financial life. Unable to pay the huge properties taxes on his holding, one by one, they were sold off for pennies on the dollar. Meanwhile, Wakefield had grown too costly to maintain. The estate was auctioned off along with the furnishings.

To soothe his conscience, Ivan decided that a detailed record of the

family’s history would be just as a fitting legacy, perhaps even more so than a manor. So with the skill of a shipbuilder crafting the perfect seaworthy vessel to carry a precious cargo along the corridors of time, Ivan had spent countless hours meticulously logging every detail of Chapman’s history. He catalogued documents, like the original land grant presented to the family by King William III of England; sorted through awards for bravery of every major war fought by the United States and a few lesser ones in-between; but skipped over mention of the brothel owned by Lieutenant Phillips Chapman during the Revolutionary war even if the proceeds did outfit an entire regiment during one the coldest winters in recorded history.

Ivan shifted boxes, making room for another column simply labeled ‘Personal History of Twentieth Century Descendents’. Both he and his sons were included in this timeframe and included birth and baptismal certificates; academic records; and awards. It also contained the death certificate of his eldest son, Samuel.

Ivan studied the small metal box in his hand. Inside were letters that Jonathan had written while in Africa.  After a tumultuous childhood plagued by one embarrassing scene after another—incarceration by local police, drugs—Jonathon had capped his exploits by being thrown out of Dartmouth, Ivan’s alma mater. Furious, Ivan wrote and told him not to come home and for twenty years, he had not heard one word. Much to his shame, Ivan had felt only relief at the silence. Since Samuel’s death, he had so little emotional reserves that the thought of dealing with Jonathan was too exhausting to contemplate.

Then one day, he received an airmail letter with an African postmark. Ivan pushed aside several folders and gingerly lowered himself down onto an overstuffed chair. The metal box felt cold under his arthritic fingers as he unclasped the latch. Inside were six precious letters that Jonathan had written, detailing his work with Doctors without Borders and the untenable poverty of the village where he had been stationed.

Jonathan had never shown a propensity towards writing, yet his letters were just as lyrical and thought provoking as any poet laureate. Descriptions of the relentless sun scorched days; the dearness of a few drops of clean water tricking down one’s throat;  a mother’s searching eyes as she entrusted her child’s life into a strangers hands made him feel as though he were standing right there, experiencing every emotionally charged moment.

Jonathan surprised him with a visit the following Christmas. It  proved to be a wonderful reunion which made him regret that he allowed so much time to lapse between them.

Later, he took Jonathon out to the garage.

“I have a little surprise,” he said, throwing open the overhead door.
“You kept my ’64 Mustang,” he exclaimed.  “There’s not a nick or a dent on it. And look at the paintjob. It looks the same as the day I drove it off the showroom floor.”

“I had it detailed,” Ivan said, grinning at his son’s pleasure. “A man came from the Ford dealership and spent the better part of a week getting it ready. In fact, when he brought it back, he offered me ten times what I paid for it, but I refused. I know how much you loved this car.”

Jonathan choked up with emotion. “I used to think you didn’t care about anything that interested me.”

Ivan had hesitated. Part of what his son said was true, but the years of silence that ensued between them had made Ivan regret not being easier on the boy. He had forgotten what it was like to be young and coveting freedom. Instead, he had demanded allegiance to an ancestry that even for him at times was as weighty as Marley’s chains.

“I knew how much this car meant to you,” he said, clearing away the lump in his throat.

Jonathan threw his arms around him and buried his face into his neck. Ivan felt the tears damping his collar.

“Can you forgive me for all the hardship I caused?”

“Can you forgive me for not being more understanding?” Ivan echoed.

Dusk had fallen. The room filled with shadows. Ivan reached over and snapped on the table lamp.

He turned back to the metal box and removed Jonathan’s final letter, the paper had browned with age. His hands trembled a mixture of old age and the memory of the pain and suffering he had caused another in protecting his son.

He carefully unfolded the letter, laid it across his lap and gently smoothed out the crinkles. Reaching inside his shirt pocket, he removed a small, wire-rim pair of glasses, smudge with fingerprints and tiny white flecks of something he could not recognize. He took a large, monogram handkerchief slightly frayed around the edges and in soft, rotating motions, worked until the glass was clean. Then tucking the wire handles around his ears and adjusting them on the bridge of his nose, Ivan lifted the letter towards the light. He reached out at the sight of his son’s handwriting, running his fingers over each word as though he could somehow absorb his essence; his spirit contained within the curlicues of black ink and spaces.

January 5, 1989

Dear Dad,

Words can’t express what it meant to share these past weeks with you.         You were right when you said that there had been far too many lonely years     between us. I accept full responsibility for that time and distance. Please forgive           me and believe me when I state that I never stopped loving you as my father.

I wish above all else, that I could have been the son you hoped for and not the son   you received. I can only imagine the pain my rebellion and lack of good judgment      has caused you. How you value the opinions leveled at our family name and how       you held it illustrious heritage in high esteem.  It felt so good to come home to             find your approval at the way my life has changed which I credit to your good example.

It is in keeping with that thought that I am doubly grieved at having to         confess that I have failed you once again..

The last night of our visit, I decided to visit an old haunt, a bar that I used   to frequent. My intentions were only to relax, have a little fun before going back            to Africa and kind of recharge the batteries. Unfortunately, I had a few too many   beers and decided to join a poker game in the back room. When the evening was      over, I was three thousand dollars in debt.

I was too ashamed to confess what I had done and ask for your help, so I    went to my old friend, Ray McGowan. As you know, he’s the pastor at Faith      Abiding Church. He loaned me the money from a church fund. I promise to wire           the money as soon as I returned here to Rwanda.

But when I arrived, I was told that all paychecks were to be suspended.        Something about the fear that money might make us a target. Our salaries are             being held in escrow. Passports and personal bank statements have been   collected and are being heavily guarded for fear of kidnapping in exchange for        ransoms.

I know how disappointed you must be in me for gambling. I can offer no excuse. Still, I must ask for your intervention. Would you please see that Ray is repaid on my behalf. As soon as I can make arrangements here, I will wire you the money.  Ray is a good friend and you have no reason to fear that this matter will ever go any further.

With much love,

Johnny

Ivan removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had planned to do as Jonathan had requested. He’d even written a letter, assuring his son that he would take care of it. He also assured him that everyone made mistakes. Even he had taken risks as a youth that he regretted. They would talk more when he returned home.

He remembered writing that letter now and how it had given him such pleasure to offer solace instead of condemnation. Above all, he was determined not to allow another incident to divide them.

But then, a few days later, he had received a telegram. Several gunmen had entered the small village where Jonathon’s medical group was stationed and began a killing spree. He later was told that his body was found draped over a mother and her child in an effort to shield them from harm.

He buried his son in the Chapman mausoleum next to the space that would one day be his and tried to take comfort in the manner in which Jonathan had died. His son had tried to save others at his own peril. He was a hero, a man of honor, no different than their ancestors who had given their lives down through the centuries for the cause of liberty.

Ivan made a pledge to his son’s memory. He would do everything in his power to maintain his son’s reputation as a man of honor. The years of disappointment were forgotten. So was Jonathan’s last letter and his confession of having once again fallen victim to his weaknesses.

Jonathon had said that Ray was a man to be trusted. That he would never divulge what had happened. But Ivan had lived in a small town all of his life and knew that the best way to insure Ray’s silence was not to acknowledge what had transpired between him and his son. Above all else, Ivan must protect Jonathan’s reputation.

He maintained that silence, even when Ray was accused of misappropriating church funds. Three thousand dollars was missing from the Abiding Faith Church’s organ fund, the exact amount loaned his son.  He reasoned that church people were a forgiving lot. He assumed the worse they would do was to give Ray a mild reprimand. But he had assumed wrong.

Several weeks passed. Ray maintained his silence, refusing to divulge what had happened to the missing funds. Finally, the church council dismissed him.

For a brief moment, Ivan considered paying a visit to the church leaders, pleading on Ray’s behalf. But such a confession would have made public Jonathan’s indiscretion. Instead, Ivan locked away Jonathan’s letter and decided the matter was closed.

He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his sweater pocket. It would have to be destroyed, something he should have done years ago. When he died, everything in this house would have to be sold, handed over to strangers. He wouldn’t take a chance that it might be discovered.

Heaving himself off the ottoman, he collected several boxes of items he planned to donate to the Goodwill—desk pad, ink well, box of Bic pens, mechanical pencils, small picture frames—threw on a coat and headed outside. He’d burn the letter with the rest of the papers in the barrel outside.

As he opened the back porch door, the sun, poised behind a ridge of evergreens that edged the trail behind the house, caught him right in the eye. The sun was setting. It would be dark soon.        Balancing the box on his knee, he shielded his eyes to pause to enjoy the sun’s rays tipped in gold that fell across the trees to sparkle like glitter. In a rare moment of reflection, he realized that the small cottage with its postage size yard had given him a sense of warmth and well-being that Wakefield never had.

The small plot of land behind the house was now hidden by a hard covering of snow; yet he knew that in the spring, the gardens of soft pastels would awaken to edge the white picket fence. He had never taken much interest in gardening before moving here. There had been others to tend to those things. But Ivan worked these gardens himself, planted every flower, mulched and fought against insects and marauding deer with the zeal of a soldier defending against an enemy invasion. And he had loved every moment, which was why he resented the neighbor’s boy using precious gardens as a shortcut. His complete disregard for Ivan’s property had cost him a favorite Astilbe that he had raised from a root. He found it crushed beneath a thick sneaker print. And twice, his bed of roses had been maligned.

A brisk wind brought him back to the present and the task at hand. The boxes stacked along the length of his back porch needed to be removed. They were a fire hazard. He’d move them to the garage until he figured out how to get them to the dump.  Daylight was quickly disappearing. Soon the trek to the garage would begin to freeze. He must hurry.  He pulled on a pair of worn garden gloves just as loud voices sounded from the Richmond’s house.

“I didn’t tell you about the C minus because I was going to ace this new civics’ assignment and knew that it would bring up my mark.”

“If that was the case, then why did you hide it from me?” a man’s voice growled.

“I knew that you’d get upset, so I decided not to tell you.”

“Nooo…you knew that I’d cancel the car. I have a good mind to call the guy right now and tell him  to find another buyer.”

“That’s not fair! You said I have until mid-semester grades come in. That gives me three weeks.”

“You really think that you can turn this around in three weeks. Ha! I’d say that you don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of bringing up that grade by then.  You’d have to get a solid A in this new project to pull that off. And I’m warning you, if you don’t buckle down and bring up your grade point average, the car won’t be the only thing you’ll loose. You need at least a three point eight to get into a decent college.”

“I keep telling you dad, I don’t want to go to college.”

“No, what you keep telling me is that you’re too lazy to work on bringing up your grades.”

“You never listen to me! I’m not my brother! I hate school.”

A door slammed, followed by the crunch of snow underfoot.

Ivan grabbed a stack of boxes and headed towards the garage, thinking that the father was right to insist the boy get up his grades.Halfway down the path, Doug Richmond flew over the fence that separated the properties and landed squarely in Ivan’s path. Startled, Ivan dropped the stack of boxes.

The boy froze in place. “Sorry, Mr. Chapman.”

“As you should be. You nearly gave me a coronary, whizzing over that fence.”

He was about to deliver his standard reprimand about trespassing and the need to respect private property, when he noted the boy’s crestfallen face. A sudden flash of

déjà vue. How many times had he seen that same expression on Jonathan’s face after one of their blows, a mixture of anger and hurt. His mood softened.

“Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t use your yard as a shortcut,” the boy said, looking down at the ground.

“No, you shouldn’t, but since you have, how about helping me get these stored in the garage?”

The boy studied him for a moment as though trying to calculate if this was some kind of trick. Finally, he shrugged and reached for the boxes. “Sure. You doing some holiday cleaning?”

“Holiday cleaning?”

“Yeah, my mom always tidies up around the holidays. You know, making room for the tree and things.” Doug hefted the box effortlessly onto his shoulder.

Ivan pulled out a keychain and pointed towards the side door of the garage.

“No, I don’t do much holiday decorating.  Just shifting through some things that I no longer have use for.” He inserted the key into a thick padlock, then swung open the door and flicked on a wall switch. “Just put that over there with the other ones.”

Doug was rooted in place, his eyes glued on the Mustang convertible covered in dust and cobwebs.“Oh, man….look at that beauty. It’s a classic!” Doug let the boxes slide onto the floor and rushed over. “Mind if I take a look, Mr. Chapman?”

“No, be my guest.”

“Whose is it?”  Doug asked, running a hand over the exterior. He opened the driver’s side and slid in. “Wow! This is like a time capsule. It’s in perfect condition.”

“It belonged to my son.” Ivan walked over and laid a gloved hand on the hood, releasing a rush of memories of that day so many years ago. Jonathan’s surprise at having found his father had kept it.

“Can I look underneath the hood?”

Ivan nodded. “There’s a flashlight over there on the third shelf on the left.”

With expert precision, Doug released the hood lock, slid out and reached for the light. The boy all but fell into the engine, his hand testing plug wires, the alternator then threading the wing nut atop the carburetor. He removed the air filter.

“Boy, these plugs look like they haven’t been changed in ten years.”

“Twenty,” Ivan offered.

“I can’t believe that you just let this car sit here all these years. You know if this was a child, they’d lock you up for abuse,” Doug quipped with such a note of seriousness that it made Ivan laugh.

“I’m afraid that the last time I took it out, I forgot to check the oil. The engine froze,” he said, joining him beneath the hood.  It was the day he received telegram that Jonathan had died.

“And you never got it repaired?” Doug asked in disbelief. “Gee, Mr. Chapman if this was my car, I wouldn’t let it sit around and gather dust. A car like this is meant to be driven.”

“Said with religious zeal,” Ivan said, laughing out loud.

The boy blushed. “I guess if you were to ask my dad, he might say that with me cars is a religion.”

“Was that who I heard you arguing with?” Ivan surprised himself by asking. He had never felt the need to intrude in anyone’s life before, certainly the life of this teenage nemesis.

“Yeah,” Doug grabbed a rag off a workbench and began to wipe away the smudges of grease. “I got a C minus on a civics’ exam. He’s kind of bent out of shape about it.”

“Wants you to maintain good grades so you can get into a good college, I suspect.”

“His plan, not mine.”

Ivan refrained from saying that he sided with the boy’s dad as he was seized by a sudden chill. “It’s getting cold out here.” He drew up the collar to his heavy canvas coat. “I think we’d better lock up.”

Doug reluctantly followed.

“So, if you don’t want to go to college, what’s your plan, if I might ask,” Ivan queried, resetting the padlock, then giving it a yank to make certain it was closed. Why was he asking? He really had no true interest in the boy.

“I want to work on cars. Maybe someday own my own garage.”

“That sounds like an honorable source of employment.’ And where did that come from?  He had always felt it necessary for young people to have a solid education. But then, where would we all be if everyone went to college and there were no more plumbers, carpenters or mechanics?

“Not with my dad, it isn’t. He wants me to get a degree, work behind a desk. That was okay for my brother, Terry. He’s heading to law school next fall. But I’m not interested in school. I mean, I know that I need an education, but I really don’t want to spend a large junk of my life in a classroom, studying things that bore me to tears.” Then with a wistfulness that was almost palpable, the boy turned and faced the garage. “I’d rather be restoring a car like that classic one in there.”

Ivan continued along the path that snaked its way towards the back porch. “I often thought about getting it fixed. My son loved that car. More than he loved me, I’m afraid.”

The boy stopped halfway down the path.

“Mr. Chapman, I have an idea.” The boy’s face glowed with excitement. “What if I were to work on it? Think of it as a kind of memorial to your son.  I know I could get it running again. I’ve replaced engines before. In fact, the car that I’m getting for Christmas needs the engine replaced. All I’d need would be a few pulleys to remove the engine. Friends of mine could help get it into my dad’s truck.  Then there’s a place outside of town that rebuilds them.

“I could do it, Mr. Chapman. Honest I could. I may be lousy at schoolwork, but I’m a whiz at fixing cars and that one….” he sighed like a lovesick calf. “That one would be a pleasure to work on.”

Ivan hesitated.

Doug hastily added, “Think of how much your son would enjoy seeing it restored.”

“It would have given him pleasure,” Ivan conceded. He rubbed the stubble along his chin, shocked to discover that he was actually considering the boy’s offer… this trespassing neighbor, killer of Astilbe’s, maligner of roses.

But there was something about the youth, his earnestness, his passion that reminded him of Jonathan. And like Jonathan, he had a father that was intent on transferring the father’s dreams onto the son.

“I have no doubt that you could restore it and do it admirably, but I don’t have a lot of money.” Most of what he had saved had been spent on doctors and tests.  “How much would something like this cost?”

“I’d work for free.”

“Yes, but I’m sure the people who rebuild engines do not.”

“Oh, yeah. That.”

“Yes, that.”

Doug hesitated as though calculating something in his mind.  “How much can you afford?”

Ivan pondered that. His financial reserves had taken a further hit this last fall with the collapse of the stock market. He must make certain that there was enough for any residue medical bills. Then there were the funeral costs.

He glanced back at the garage. He’d give anything to see that car working again in memory of his son before he died.

“I couldn’t afford more than two hundred dollars which I’m sure will never do.”

“If I could work it out so that it wouldn’t cost you more than that two hundred, would you let me fix it?”

The eagerness in the boy’s eyes tugged at his heart.

“If you can fix it for that amount, I will give you my permission.”

Doug threw out a hand. “Let’s shake on it.”

Doug helped the old man inside, even accepted a cup of hot chocolate. They talked for awhile, then he headed home.  It was getting late and there was homework.

Locked in his upstairs room with earphones screaming out the lyrics to Snoop Doggy’s ‘Drop It While It’s Hot’, he tapped a pencil to the beat as his mind wandered off the open textbook and onto the ’64 Mustang parked in the garage next-door.

He just couldn’t believe it. That car had been there the whole time he had been growing up and he’d never known it. He leaned back and studied the racing posters that ran along the opposite wall. Normally, he’d get lost in envisioning what it might be like to work on those beauties. But not tonight.  Instead, he did a bit of reflection.

Mr. Chapman wasn’t such a bad guy. He kind of liked him. He was just old and set in his ways like his dad.

His dad…

He leaned back, closed his eyes and groaned. He was really mad about the test paper and keeping the grade from him. Mad enough to cancel his car. There was no doubt about that. He had to get his grade point up and fast or loose the car and with it, his girl. Carrie had made that very clear. Oh, man. Sometimes life sucked. What was he going to do?

Then suddenly, it hit him like a thunderbolt.

“The Mustang!” he shouted, causing his father to bang on the bedroom wall.

“Keep it quiet in there! I’ve got to be up by five.”

“Sorry, dad.”

He jumped out of his chair and did a barefooted victory dance. This was it!  He’d use the Mustang as his civic’s project. By fixing up the car, he’d provide a service for someone who couldn’t provide it for himself. When it was completed, Mr. Chapman could sell the car and maybe use the money to buy something that he really needed. By the looks of the guy, he could sure use some extra cash. The coat he was wearing was ancient.

But a rebuilt engine cost five or six times the money Mr. Parson had offered. Where was he going to come up with the extra cash?

He’d find it. Somehow. Just the chance to work on that car was a once in a lifetime deal. He’d cross that bridge when he got to it. He pulled out the civics’ journal, flipped open to the first page and wrote: Recipient: Mr. Ivan Chapman.

This was guaranteed to get him an A. tucking his arms behind his head, he leaned back and smile. Yep, this was going to be a piece of cake and also a rare opportunity to test his skills on a classic automobile mechanic.

Even though the fifty bunks that Mr. Parson was dishing would never cover the cost of having the engine rebuilt, he’d work something out.  In fact, he’d do anything to get his hands on a Ford classic. God, he was pumped. He could hardly wait to begin.

His cell phone rang. It was from Carrie.

“Great news! Concert is on! I’ll tell you all about it later. Oh…Alan McGowan will now be sitting with us at lunch.”

Chapter Eight  - Griffin Corporation Headquarters

The five story glass and chrome office building that housed the headquarters of the Griffin Corporation was in stark contrast to the period architecture that had made Elliot Griffin a very wealthy man. This was due to his abhorrence to all things dated, including his most recent wife, who on her thirtieth birthday had received a divorce degree from her husband of five short years, along with an engraved Tiffany bracelet that read, Thanks for the Memories.

Elliot’s foray into the restoration business had been a fluke. He had just graduated college with a degree in finance and gone to work for Mr. Dunham Fillmore, small real estate developer, who had made a handsome profit in a string of strip malls along Jericho Turnpike on Long Island. He was looking for bigger and more lucrative projects. Elliot was hired to research, run numbers and secure financing, which he did for a number of years, making Fillmore a very rich man. In the process, he also married his daughter and was made a partner. The partnership didn’t last. Neither did the marriage.

Fillmore was not a risk taker like Elliot. Instead, he preferred to maintain his properties while Elliot wanted to sell and re-invest which he saw as a more lucrative paradigm.

Long Island taxes were stratospheric and tenant laws an albatross around landlord’s necks, taking six months to a year to evict deadbeat tenants while properties were often defaced and devalued. It was a windfall for renters, turned squatters and a financial drain on the landlords. If money was to be made, and Elliot intended to make a lot of it, there had to be a better way.

This was in the early eighties. People were moving out of the city in droves. With a rising crime rate and the desolation of the American family units, people hungered for the things of the past like established neighborhoods and a sense of community. They might live in an era of astonishing scientific breakthroughs, supersonic jets, instant communications and equal pay for all, but deep down they yearned for the simplicity of the Andy Hardy type moments portrayed on the big screen; those heartwarming encounters played out along downtown areas filled with people who knew your name.

Suddenly, buildings that would have been demolished without the blink of an eye were being labeled as historically significant. Downtown restorations were the new fad and town fathers saw an opportunity to turn abandoned main street areas into thriving, sought after hubs of commerce.

Savvy developers quickly joined the bandwagon, convincing town councils to sell these architectural dinosaurs for a penny on the dollar, back loans needed to restore and transform abandoned buildings into much sought after retail space, while providing tax credits for anyone willing to take on the challenge.

Elliot didn’t know a thing about historic architecture or reclamation but he was a savvy business man. He helped lead the charge on this rising new trend.  He began with the northern shore of Long Island once known as the ‘Gold Coast’, targeted waterfront towns like Cold Spring Harbor and Northport, and along the way established himself as the authority on downtown restoration projects.

He hired a restorationist architect to save the façades, then worked with reconfiguring interior spaces to best serve the needs of merchants. Trendy apartments and condos were fitted above the storefronts; many with small balconies so owners could sip their fifty dollar bottles of wine while looking down at the street crowds.

Marketing teams made certain that fashionable anchor stores were part of the mix, Ralph Lauren and Laura Ashley the favored choice. Word soon got around that trend setters, shopped along these tree-lined, architecturally reclaimed, litter free Main Streets, leaving the humble masses to shop at the malls.

The Griffin Development Group became the premier company in downtown restoration projects. Elliot’s picture appeared on Newsweek and Fortune. The rich and famous extended his fame by seeking his advice on restoring Chateaus in France and villas in Tuscany. These came with offers to stay on these private estates while he pondered how they might incorporate a full service spa and exercise room without denigrating the authenticity of the home.

Elliot seldom accepted the offers. He had no love of the past nor did he possess a need to reclaim historic buildings for future generations. Profits alone drove Elliot. He was notorious for keeping a tight reign on all expenditures.

“No one handles my money better than I,” he was found of saying.

The current focus of his attention was on Titusville. It had the highest projected capital returns of any of the projects he had ever undertaken and nothing made his heart race faster in anticipation than possessing all that lovely cash.

Part of the project’s charm lay in its history and the buildings that lined the main thoroughfare. Titusville sat along the Kentucky River midway between heavy forests laden with lumber and mountain ranges rich with coal. In its heyday, the town had been a hob of commerce and the buildings that had been left to time and disarray, reflected that wealth.

Experts on historic architectural design labeled these buildings as some of the finest examples of Victorian, Greek revival and early twentieth century Arts and Crafts style in the country. Once restored, it would draw architects from around the world to study their forms.

That was all well and good, but Elliot was more interested in the town’s close proximity to the Lexington Horse Park which had been chosen for the upcoming Equestrian Olympics. Nothing smelled more like money than the upper echelons of the equestrian crowd. Just the type of clientele that he was counting on to make this project a huge success.

There was, however, just one glitch that had begun to cause him some sleepless nights and if there was one thing that he wouldn’t tolerate (next to loosing money) was loosing sleep.

At the bottom of the newly restored Main Street sat the Eastwood Shelter—a repository of the homeless, the socially challenged, but more importantly, a giant threat to Elliot’s illustrious plans.

He had assumed it had been taken care of before the project began, but this past week, he had discovered otherwise when word trickled down that two high end tenants had threatened to cancel their leases if it wasn’t removed post haste. They explained that the close proximity of the homeless shelter would deter the clients they sought while drawing the type of people that would make security a nightmare.

Elliot had sent word to David McGowan that he wanted to see him immediately. His secretary announced his arrival.

“Send him right in.”

He watched the tall, broad shouldered man walk across the imported Brazilian tile floor while trying to formulate a plan. McGowan’s department continued to make Elliot an every richer man. He have a feel for these restoration project, coupled with a fine mind for finance, often bringing in projects way under cost while producing consistently large returns.

Elliot needed the shelter issued fixed, but he must be careful to do it in such a way as not to loose McGowan to a competitor. He had almost lost him once before over this project. Something about not wanting to move near his old hometown. David’s objection puzzled him. He had never faltered before when it came to a move, so what was the big deal about moving back home? It was temporary and then he’d be off to another project at another location.

But Elliot had sensed that if pushed, David might follow through with his threat and the last thing he wanted was to loose him to a competitor, so he tried a new tactic, one that seldom failed. He offered a new title, President of Commercial Development and a sizeable bonus. It had worked.

Elliot nodded towards one of Italian leather chairs opposite his desk.

David sat quietly, waiting for Elliot to begin. Once again, Griffin marveled at the man’s reserve. His father would have called it a ‘poker’s face’. Nothing that went on inside the man showed on the outside.

David knew why he had been summoned, the homeless shelter. He also knew that if Griffin hadn’t selected his son-in-law, Jarrod to head the project, this would never have been an issue. What kind of idiot begins a multi-million project without first making certain that the homeless center just a few yards away was removed?

David had told Jarrod that it was folly to begin without first having the facility moved. Any other executive would have agreed. But Jarrod was out to prove his worth to Elliot, probably hoping that one day he might pass over the reigns.

Fat chance. Under his command, Griffin Corporation would be bankrupt in five years. Elliot would never allow that to happen.

Meanwhile, David was saddled with an incompetent as a superior. While he had a degree in financing and twelve years of experience, Jarrod’s only credential was that he had married the bosses’ daughter.

Ignoring David’s warning, he had recklessly begun the restoration and with each completed phase, and no closer to having the shelter issue resolved, he had placed the company at greater and greater financial risk.

If the situation had been different, David might have quietly intervened himself. But since his father was the director, he had decided to let the situation ride itself out. Poor decision.

Now with the grand opening just three weeks away, Jarrod was panicking. Now he had a full staff of high-powered lawyers, (David wondered what that would cost the project in profits). He’s also taken to wining and dining the town’s council while hinting that cash awards were available to those who helped to close the center down.

This choicest piece of news was told him by Jack Richmond, who explained, “The town officers are livid at having been offered a bribe.”

Elliot leveled his eyes on David. He had seen that look before. It meant that the boss wasn’t pleased with the way things were going. David couldn’t blame him. Neither was he. He braced himself for an inquisition.

“What’s the problem?” Elliot began without preamble.

Before David could respond, they were interrupted by Elliot’s secretary’s voice over the intercom.

“The son-in-law is here,” she said with distain, knowing how it irked Jarrod to be referred to as ‘the son-in-law.’ David hid a smile. He wasn’t the only one in the Griffin Group who saw him as an opportunist.

“He insists that he be allowed to sit in on your meeting with Mr. McGowan.”

“Send him in.”

Jarrod, dressed casually in a polo shirt and kaki’s, strolled across the thick carpet as though the undisputed future heir of the Griffin Corporation. He completely ignored David.

“Hi, Elliot. I flew home to see my bride and she told me that you’ve been working much too hard.  I thought I might talk you into a round of golf.” He was all smiles.

“Maybe later. Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Sure.” Jarrod took the seat beside David, threw him a warning glare. “So…what’s up?”

“You know what up,” David said, not trying to hide his distain. The guy’s role as Project Manager was a disaster, everyone on the project knew it, and he would not pretend otherwise.

“Because of your decision to begin construction without first securing a new location for the shelter, we’re about to launch a multi-million dollar project that will probably fail when respective clients see a group of homeless people lining up just a few doors away.”

Jarrod stiffened. “You aren’t trying to place the blame on me, are you?”

“And where else should it be placed?”

Jarrod faced his father-in-law. “Elliot, I’ve told David for months now that he should force the issue with the Board of Selectman. After all, they’re counting on the tax revenue. They have the power to shut it down. But David, wouldn’t press them to act.”

“Is that right?” Elliot asked.

“I knew if this wasn’t settled amicably, the press would get wind of it and the last thing we wanted was see headlines that read “Homeless Evicted—Big  Corporation Puts Profits Before People.”

Jarrod humped. “No one is saying that they should be forced onto the streets. In fact, we’ve offered to move them at our expense to a new and may I add safer facility across town.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Elliot said.

“Except that the new facility is not on the main bus route needed by their clients,” David reminded him. “And the state run company refuses to establish a new line just for the shelter.”

“That’s a minor inconvenience,” Jarrod rebutted. “And one, I’m certain, the can be resolved once the town council puts pressure on their state officials. After all, our project will greatly increase revenue.” Jarrod leaned back as though that settled the matter, but not before shooting off one more shot. “If David had worked with me in this matter instead of against me, this would have been resolved months ago.”

“I wouldn’t have needed to work at all if you had simply done as I requested in the beginning and not have given the okay to begin work until the shelter issue had been worked out.”

“Elliot, you know my track record. The one I earned by working,” David fired back.

Elliot grinned.

“I would never have allowed the company to be put in this kind of risk if I had been project manager.”

Jarrod started to interrupt, but Elliot held up a hand. He fell silent.

“I’ve worked on dozens of projects for you down through the years, and I knew from experience that this could be our Achilles heal. It’s already having a negative impact on business leases. Three anchor stores are threatening to cancel their leases if we don’t have this resolved quickly. They know that it will negatively impact their Christmas sales.”

Elliot leaned forward. “Three?  I heard it was two.”

“Another threatened to cancel yesterday.”

“I don’t like this,” Elliot began. Then staring right at Jarrod added, “This has become a serious situation and needs resolution before the entire project goes under. Millions of dollars could be lost.” Elliot physically shuttered.

Jarrod knew enough to play it cool, not let the old man see that he was seething over David’s innuendos about his lack of experience, even though it was true. True, before his fortune and future had been enhanced by his marriage to Amanda Griffin, he had worked a string of meaningless jobs—car valet, window salesperson, pool cleaner. He had met Amanda when he was working behind the reception desk of a hotel that she had visited.

He donned a practice smile and casually leaned forward. “David is making more of this than it is.”

“You think the loss of several million dollars is a minor issue,” Elliot retorted, clearing annoyed at yet another of his son-in-law’s foul-up. His daughter’s unrelenting campaign that her husband’s be given a post in the company was proving fatal to the bottom line and Elliot was all about the bottom line.

“No…er…of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

“David, from here on, I want you to take over this project.”

“But Dad….I can fix this. Just give me a little more time…”
“Time we don’t have. The holiday kickoff is just a few weeks away.” Elliot addressed David. “I want you to find a way to settle this. Offer a cash settlement if you have to. Up to a quarter of a mill plus the new facility. If you have to, hire a private bus company to run his people around until the state thing can be rectified. I don’t care. Do whatever it takes, just get it done now!”

“There’s no need to hand this over to him. I can take care of this,” Jarrod insisted.

“You’ve already taken care of enough,” Elliot said with finality.  “Let David handle it from here on in. As he said, he’s experienced and his track record shows he knows how to get things done.”

Alan could hardly believe that Carrie Williams was texting him.

Carrie:            I asked my mom if her real estate company would pay for the                                   printing. She said yes! As long as she can do it anonymously.  So,                             that’s one thing we can mark off our list.

Alan:               That’s great! What about the boosters for the program?

Carrie:            Three of my girlfriends are soliciting downtown merchants.

Alan:               Sounds like you have it all under control.

Carrie:             Have you taken care of the chair rental?

Alan:               Mr. Newman says we can borrow the school’s. I just have to find                             someone with a truck that can help transport them.

Carrie:            I’ll talk to my boyfriend. His dad’s in construction and has access to                                    a couple of trucks. Gotta go. I promised to clean up the dinner                                     dishes.

Alan signed off and smiled. For the first time since coming to Crutcher Pike, he felt like he was part of something, no longer an outsider. And what really made it cool was that Carrie, the most popular girl in school, and he were now friends. Well, maybe not like close friends, but friends enough so that when they met in the school hallways she smiled or waved. He’d even been asked to join her table at lunch with her girlfriends as they went over their plans.

He owed Mr. Parson big-time!

This school assignment was working out to be the answer to his silent prayers. For the first time in his academic life, he looked forward to school.

Headlights arched across his windows, which meant that his dad was home from his business trip. His mom had been cooking for hours. She always liked to make a big dinner when he came home.  Instead of eating in the kitchen, the dining room would be set with the family’s best china. There’d be candles, cloth napkins and the monogrammed napkin rings his parents had received as a wedding gift.

Most of the time he enjoyed these welcome home dinners, especially his dad’s stories. He had a way of making every trip seem like a wild adventure filled with funny stories of near-missed connections; watching the captain of a plane standing on the runway, pointing to his jet and shaking his head ‘no’ to the mechanic; the time he nearly missed his connection and plowed into a group of nuns.

“They went down like bowling pins,” his father had howled with laughter.

But tonight, he couldn’t face his dad. Not after he had told him to ditch the Christmas concert idea. Alan had told his mom that he wasn’t feeling well. He’d eat in his room. It wasn’t that Alan didn’t understand his dad’s position about the shelter. Like his dad said, it would kill the sales on his new project. But Alan had seen the long lines of ragged people waiting outside for meals and later, tromping in, hoping for a place to sleep the night. It wasn’t like these people had chosen to be homeless or poor. Well…maybe some had.  But most, as Ray said, were just victims of circumstances. They needed compassion not condemnation.

When Alan had asked Ray why he had refused the Griffin Development’s offer to move the shelter to a new facility across town, he explained that area had no access to public transportation on which many of his people depended. That did seem unfair. These people already had several strikes against them. Why should they be further inconvenienced so that some rich development group could make more money? The query brought an instant sense of guilt since his dad worked for that company.

“Sounds like your dad is in a difficult position,” Ray said, when Alan confessed that his dad was heading the Griffin project.

“But there’s no reason that either one of us should loose,” he said, putting an arm around Alan’s shoulder. “God knows the way around this. Let’s lift up this matter to the Lord and ask that He make a way for both of our needs to be met.”

“Can He do that?” Alan asked.

“With God all things are possible, my boy.” He gave Alan a gentle squeeze, his voice sounding kind of funny when he looked into his eyes. “Yes, truly all things are possible with our Lord.”

The garage door opened making the floor beneath his slippered feet slightly vibrate, followed by footsteps entering the kitchen. Muffled voices sounded in the kitchen below. More footsteps. He knew that in a few minutes, someone would come up with a tray.  Probably his dad.

He hurried to shed clothes and quickly ransacked his dresser for his night clothes while wishing that Ray and his dad could be friends. Pastor Whitcomb said that Ray was the closest he’d ever seen anyone come to emulating Christ.

There was a short rap on his door.Alan dove into his bed and threw up the covers.

“You up, buddy?” his dad asked, entering with a tray.

“Hi dad.”

“Your mom said you’re not feeling well.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Tired, uh?” His dad set the tray on the night stand. “You’re awful young to be tired at seven at night. What have you been up to that would make you so tired?”

Alan shrugged. “School work, mostly.”

“I see.”

His dad’s eyes swept the room and rested on the computer screen and Carrie’s message.

“So, dad,” he nearly shouted, desperate to divert his attention. “How was your trip?”

“Same old, same old.”

“No new stories?”

His dad smiled. “A few, but I’ll save them until you’re feeling better. Now, I’d better leave you to eat your dinner before it gets cold. I’m afraid you mom insisted on chicken soup, but if you think you could make it downstairs, there’s large tray of lasagna.”

Alan smiled, feeling a deep love for his dad. Like Ray said, he was just doing what his boss wanted. He shouldn’t be blamed for wanting to close the shelter. It wasn’t his idea.

“I think I’ll just hang here and finish my schoolwork.”

“All right, but if you need anything, just give a call.” His dad ruffled his hair, started to leave then turned. “I’m really sorry about not having spent more time with you these past few months and canceling out on the tree farm. It’s just that….”

“I understand dad. I know that you have a lot on your plate with the opening and everything. It’s cool. We’ll spend time together when it’s over.”

His dad smiled with visible relief. “You’re turning into a great young man, son.”

“I had a good role model.”

His dad’s eyes grew moist. “We’ll cut that tree this weekend. I promise.”

“Thanks, hon. That was delicious,” David told his wife, pushing aside what was left of his second helping. He tucked his hands behind his head and leaned back.  “I miss these family dinners. I’ve had enough airport food to last me a lifetime.”

“And we miss them, too,” Marissa said, rising from the table and removing the plates.

“Here, let me help.” David pushed back his chair, grabbed the salad bowl and a handful of silverware then followed his wife into the kitchen.

“Do you know what our son said when I apologized for not being home more?”

His wife handed him a plastic bowl. “Put the rest of the salad in here. I’ll have it for lunch.”

“He said that he knew that I had a lot on my plate and he understood. You know, I keep forgetting that childhood doesn’t go on forever and that I’m missing out on a lot by not being around.”

“That will change once this project’s over,” Marissa reminded him while scraping off their plates into the garbage disposal. “With the bonus you’ll receive from this project, combined with what we have saved, there’s more than enough to tide us over while you establish your own construction business.”

“If there is a bonus.”

“What do you mean if,” she asked, rinsing the plates.

David leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. “Griffin made it very clear at our meeting today that he expects this opening to be a great success.”

“And? You’re not certain that it’s going to be?”

“That depends whether we get the shelter closed or moved in time.”

“But, did you tell him that you had nothing to do with that? Jarrod has blocked you on every front. He went against your advice, insisted on beginning the project before it was resolved.”

“Elliot knows.”

“Then how does this become your problem?”

“It becomes my problems because Griffin just made it mine.”

“Excuse me.” Marissa said, opening the door to the dishwasher. David edged back. “What happens if you can’t get it moved in time?”

“Then I loose the bonus.”

“Oh, David…” She paused from lining a row of glasses along the top tier of the wire racks. “I’m so sorry. I know how you were counting on this being your last job for Griffin.”

“It still might be my last job if I don’t get that shelter moved.”

“What are you going to do?”

David ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going to have to meet with my father and see if I can’t come to some kind of arrangement, although the prospect does not thrill me.”

“I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but I’m glad that you’re finally going to see him.”

“You’re right. I don’t like hearing it.”

“I also think it’s time that you told Alan about your father and your father about his grandson?”

David’s face grew hard. “The less our son knows about Ray McGowan, the better.”

Alan quietly made his way back up the stairs, the empty tray still in his hand while inside thoughts shot off like rockets.

Ray McGowan is my grandfather.

Join us next week at The Christmas Journal continues.

Copyright 2010 Katherine Valentine

Today, we receive an early Christmas present from bestselling author Katherine Valentine.  From now through Christmas, we will be sharing Katherine’s latest novel, The Christmas Journal, here in serialized form on CatholicMom.com.  Visit us each Wednesday for four new chapters as we journey through Advent to Christmas. To enjoy more of Katherine’s writing, visit her at www.KatherineValentine.com and please share your appreciation for her lovely work in the comments below.

Download each chapter in PDF Format:

• Chapter One – Christmas Banned
• Chapter Two – Heavenly Idea
• Chapter Three – Christmas Wishes
• Chapter Four – Coming Home

Chapter One: Christmas Banned

The Monday after Thanksgiving, Bob Parson was climbing Madison High School’s broad stone steps when it hit him with the impact of an arrow shot straight through his heart. This would be his last Christmas season spent among his students.          After forty years of teaching, he was retiring this June.

A lot had changed in those four decades. For one thing, he no longer had to wear a suit which was just fine with him. He had always been more a LL Bean than a Brooks Brothers kind of guy.

Classes were larger. Students’ rights were a big issue and sometimes clashed with trying to maintain discipline and an atmosphere of learning. But other than that, Bob saw nothing wrong with progress.

But what did upset him was the student’s growing lack of concern for others. Lately, everything seemed to revolve around their wants, their desires. Just the other day, he overhead sixteen year old Carrie Williams tell a friend that she had sent a list of acceptable gift choices to all her relatives.

“No sense in taking a chance that they’d buy something I’d hate.”

“What are you getting them?” the friend countered

“Oh, whatever…”

This was in sharp contrast to his childhood where a great deal of thought went into every gift. What was Aunt Tillie’s favorite color or Uncle Fred’s favorite pipe tobacco?  Most of the gifts were handmade which meant that they had to be thought out months in advance. Nowadays, kids tromped through the malls and bought whatever slid off the rack. They figured if the recipient didn’t like it, they could take it back.

But, oh, the memories they miss…

One of Bob’s fondest still shown as bright as the Bethlehem star. He was thirteen and had decided to fill the woodshed for his dad as his Christmas gift. Those were lean and hard years and his dad had been forced to work two jobs. Chopping firewood was reserved for Sundays, his only day off.

It hadn’t been easy, keeping his dad out of the woodshed while he worked to fill it, but with the help of his mom, he had pulled it off.

That Christmas morning, he could hardly contain himself as his dad open his gift. Inside was a note that read, “Look inside the woodshed’.

If he lived to be a hundred, Bob would never forget the look on his dad’s face when he had opened the shed door, a mixture of surprise and deep gratitude. For months afterwards, his dad would tell people of his son’s Christmas gift and Bob would swell with pride.

Now, if only he could instill the same sense of giving to his students, he would leave Madison a happy man.

The seven-forty-five bell rang as he passed through the front doors, signaling that homeroom would begin in ten minutes. The halls were already thick with students, toting book bags in one hand and cell phones in the other, many looking as though they had literally just rolled out of bed. The bell prodded them along. Footsteps quickened.

Bob turned sharply to head towards the main office and collided with Alan McGowan who was in his civics’ class.

Alan was one of a dozens McGowan’s currently enrolled at Madison High. McGowan ancestors had settled here in the early eighteen hundreds and had farms and businesses spread out for miles around.

Alan, however, had recently transferred in from another state. He kept meaning to ask which side of the McGowan family the boy was related to, but kept forgetting.

“Sorry about that,” he told the boy, reaching out to steady him from a fall. “You all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Alan blushed, slightly embarrassed.

“Glad to hear it.  It’s a little early to be taking out a student,” Bob joked.

He watched the wafer thin boy meld into the crowd. It troubled him that Alan had yet to win over any friends. But then, fitting in was hard for any transfer student, especially in Madison where the majority of friendships had been firmly established since kindergarten.

Kathy Johnson, Madison’s long standing school secretary, was busy at the copier as he breezed through the main office door.

“Morning, Kathy.”

“Morning, Bob.”

He flung his worn briefcase onto the counter then went to grab his mail just as an angry exchange bulleted out from the principal’s office.

“What’s up?” he asked Kathy, nodding towards the closed door while riffling through his messages. Most were from parents with kids in football, wanting to know about their son’s grades.  Anything lower that a C average benched them from upcoming games. School policy.  Thankfully, not his.

“Wade’s in with Gloria Hopkins.” Gloria headed the music department.

“I hope that means that he’s finally got up the nerve to ask her to shorten the Christmas Concert.” Bob kept sorting. “Two and a half hours is an awfully long program even with an intermission.”

“Oh, it’s been shortened, all right.”

Inside Wade’s office, Gloria’s voice rose to a fever pitch.

“What in heaven’s name is going on in there?” he wondered out loud just as the principal looked up and spied Bob. He frantically waved him inside.

“You’d better go, before Gloria starts swinging,”  Kathy said in the droll way she had of making even the most desperate emergency sound little more than an inconvenience.

As soon as he opened the door, Wade grabbed his arm and pulled him into the closet size room that had once meant to be only temporary when he arrived several decades ago..

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered, shutting the door and sealing him in.

“Oh, Bob….” Gloria cried, maneuvering her large, buxom figure out of a small cushioned chair and hurling herself across the room.

There was no place to retreat. Bob braced himself for impact.

“They’ve canceled my Christmas Concert,” she wailed, throwing her arms around his neck and all but cutting off all his air supply.

“There must be some mistake,” Bob gasped, struggling to breathe. “The Christmas Concert is a tradition here at Madison.”

“Exactly!”  She extended an accusatory finger in Wade’s direction. “That’s just what I told him.”

“There was a School Board meeting last night,” Wade said behind the safety of his desk.

“Yes, I know. I would have attended, but it was my anniversary.” He and Ruth had been married for forty-one years.

“At the meeting, the board decided that all Christmas programs would be canceled.”

“They canceled Christmas?” he repeated, trying to wrap his mind around such an unimaginable statement.

“Board, my foot,” Gloria raged. “This is solely Kinsley’s idea. I’d bet my next year’s salary on it. Emmitt Kinsley put the Scrooge in Ebenezer. He’s the only member of the Abiding Faith Church who ever refused to contribute to the Toys for Tot’s program. How anyone could work in a school system and not care about children is beyond me.”

“Now Gloria, I told you the decision was unanimous.”

Bob was confused.  “But the whole town comes out to hear the Christmas Concert. What if we just renamed it? Call it a Holiday Concert?”

“It’s not just the concert that’s been canceled,” Gloria blared. “The Board has banned anything pertaining to Christmas. No Christmas movies can be shown at recess. No Christmas decorations which is going to kill our new art teacher after spending the entire month of November working on her Christmas angel theme.”

Mary Ramses had replaced Helen Strokes as Madison’s art teacher three years ago but was still referred to as the ‘new’ art teacher.

“Why the ban? Why now?” Bob wanted to know.

“They were afraid that the Regional Board of Education might see it as a violation of separation between church and state,” Wade explained. “With the economy being so bad, they didn’t want to risk losing our state funding.”

“Wait until this news gets out,” Gloria warned. “There’s going to be a stampede of very irate parents storming your office, not to mention the town folks who look forward to our concert every year.”

“Yes, I know,” Wade sighed, running a hand through what used to be a thick mane of hair when he had begun this post.

Gloria gathered her things.  “I have to get to my room before the bell and try to figure out something to do with my classes now that we can no longer practice our Christmas repertoire.”

She swung a mammoth size purse over her right shoulder and grabbed an equally large bag filled with sheet music in her left hand. “You haven’t heard the last of this Wade Newman, I can guarantee you that!”

With that, she thumped out of the office and Wade slumped into his chair.

Bob suddenly felt a hundred years old. “I suppose that means the field trip to Hansen’s Tree Farm is canceled.”

Bob’s homeroom class traditionally cut down the Christmas tree that stood in the main vestibule. It involved a field trip to the tree farm. The raucous singing of Christmas carols down country lanes and through wooded paths.  Cups of hot mulled cider and Ruth’s sugar cookies. He looked forward to the outing all year.

Wade solemnly nodded.

“And the giving tree?”  The staff had maintained this tradition since his arrival. Bob was in charge of this as well.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“If there was, I would have done it,” Wade said, sadly.

The final bell for homeroom sounded. Bob left the principal to figure out what he was going to tell all the parents who would soon be calling.

He passed Kathy without comment, grabbed his briefcase and headed down the hall, thinking that within the span of ten minutes, all his dreams of making this the very most important Christmas ever experienced by his students at Madison High had just been shattered.

For the next few days, a blue funk settled over his soul, snuffing out the light that had always burned so brightly this time of year. For no one loved Christmas more than Bob Parson, especially in his hometown of Crutcher’s Pike, Kentucky.

He loved the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting from the opened kitchen windows along his neighborhood street that clung to the air like glitter.

He loved the decorations—yards of garland looped around staircases, mantels and strung along doorways tied with red ribbon bows;  angels keeping watch on tree tops, crèches of all sizes and shapes; and ornaments that sparkled as though rolled in coarse, white sugar; reindeer and sleighs, snowmen and elves.

He loved the excitement in children’s eyes that ramped like a generator, growing brighter and brighter and practically shooting out sparks as Christmas drew nearer.

He loved the smell of a freshly cut evergreen and the sting of the thorn-like needles as he wrestled getting it into its stand. It was the same green medal stand that had been used when he was a child although each year his wife, Ruth reminded him that there were newer, more stable versions available. This was due to Ruth’s being given the job of turning the metal screw tabs with just the right tension to make the tree stand perfectly straight which to Bob’s utter frustration seemed an enigma to his wife.

It usually ended with Ruth making an excuse to check the batch of cookies in the oven, and Bob contorting his body in ways not natural to the human skeletal frame in an effort to hold the tree in a straight line while tightening the metal screws against the trunk.

But besides the gaily wrapped packages and the miles of festive lights strung along rooftops and across the town square;  or the taste of hot, apple cider and the smell of newly fallen snow, the thing that Bob Parsons loved the most about Christmas was the way it made the world pause to consider the truly important things in life.

For these few short weeks, people reflected on those outside of themselves and in doing so, found the true message of Christmas imbedded in the gift of service. But this year, his final year at Madison High, he had been forbidden to share any mention of it.

Bob had never felt so low in his entire life and Ruth was starting to grow worried.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something else?” she asked after supper a few nights later. It wasn’t like her Bob to be down, especially at Christmas time.

“There’s some of that vegetable soup you liked leftover from last night if you’d rather that then the pork chops.”

He remained unresponsive.

She tried again. “I baked a red velvet cake. It has the lemon cream cheese icing that you like so much. How about I cut you a piece?”

“I’m just not very hungry, Ruth.” Bob pushed the half eaten dinner aside and placed his head in his hands. “I feel as though I’ve been sucker-punched. How could the School Board decide to ban Christmas my last year of teaching?”

How could they, indeed, Ruth wondered.  In all their married years, never once had she ever seen him like this.

That darn School Board! There wasn’t a person on that board who didn’t know Bob and his love of Christmas. They also knew that he was retiring in June. You’d think they could have at least held off one more year before instituting this ridiculous ban.

A ban on Christmas. Why she never! She shook a head full of soft, silver curls.

“I just assumed that I would leave Madison with fond memories of my last Christmas. I had so many plans,” Bob lamented. “I wanted to make this a Christmas that my students would remember. Get them really involved in the community. Show them what Christmas giving was all about.  But now….”

Spareparts, their Cardigan Welch Corgi, lean his head against Bob’s knee, signaling it was time for their after dinner walk. Bob pushed him away.

“Not tonight, boy.”

Ruth felt her own spirits sinking.  It was as if the board’s decision had drained her dear husband of all Christmas joy. Tears warm and bitter filled her eyes. What kind of holiday would it be without Bob’s outrageous, childlike enthusiasm?

All right, she might have complained about it over the years, but deep down, she enjoyed the way he filled the house with his silly antics—the goofy way he carried around a sprig of mistletoe and smothered her in kisses. Singing Christmas carols…badly and at full volume… as they walked along Main Street. Wearing that old Santa hat everywhere he went, including Sunday services. Thank the Lord, Pastor Whitcomb thought it was funny.

Bob sat looking out into space.

If she wasn’t a Christian woman, she’d pay a call on every one of those School Board members and give them a good piece of her mind. Their decision to ban Christmas was killing her Bob.

Well, she was not going to stand idly by and watch the man she loved turn into a lump of clay!

“Spareparts is right. You both need a walk.”

“Ruth, I’m just not in the mood,” he said stubbornly.

“Mood or not, you’re going.” She walked behind him and pulled out his chair, nearly landing him on the floor.

“Are you mad, woman? I told you I don’t want to take a walk, now leave me be.”

She grabbed an arm and pulled.

“And while you’re out, stop in at the church and talk to Pastor Whitcomb. You always say that he has an uncanny way of seeing right through a problem.”

“There’s no solution to this one,” Bob said, gravely.

“Balderdash!” Ruth said which was the closest that he had ever heard her come to swearing. It got his immediate attention.

“Now put on your coat.” She held up a warm woolen jacket and stuffed him inside. Then she turned to the dog, who was cowering in a corner, uncertain why his normally gentle voiced mistress’ had turned so gruff.

“Spareparts, go get your leash. Your walk is back on.”

News traveled fast in Crutcher’s Pike. Before lunch, Pastor Peter Whitcomb knew all about the School Board’s ban on Christmas which was why he wasn’t at all surprised to see Bob Parson and his funny little corgi coming up the stairs through his office window.

Bob gave his customary two raps and walked in.

“I saw your light. You busy?”

“Just trying to get a head start on my Christmas Eve sermon,” he said, shoving aside a yellow lined pad. “Millie just brought in a fresh pot of coffee. You up to a cup?”

“Decaf?”

Peter nodded.

“Then, I’d love one.”  He pointed to a spot on the carpet. “Lie down.”

Spareparts walked over and settled in more of a full body collapse than a lie down—front and hind legs fully stretched out that seemed to undiscerning eye to double the length of the long bodied dog.

“You take it black, right?”

Bob nodded. Steam rose as Peter poured and for some unexplainable reason suddenly reminded him of a joke which he shared.

“A man goes out for a cup of coffee around nine o’clock at night. He tells the waitress that he would like a piece of apple pie, a cup of decaf coffee and her phone number. Since she was considerably younger than the man, she asked suspiciously, ‘Why do you want my phone number? He says, Because if that’s not decaf, then I want to know who to call when I can’t sleep.’”

The pastor laughed and handed him a mug.

“Have a seat.”  He pointed to a pair of comfortable corduroy covered chairs flanking a small round table.

Bob sipped his coffee, remembering another night when he had sat in this very same space. Ruth had just found out that she couldn’t have children. Ray McGowan was the pastor then.

Poor Ray.  Another Christmas without his son who must be in his forties now. He sighed deeply.

“I remember Ray’s first Christmas Eve sermon,” Bob began, stirred by old memories. “You remember me telling you that Ray McGowan and I were childhood friends, don’t you?”

Peter said he had.

“He was so nervous.” Bob laughed. “He must have rewritten that speech a hundred times. He was determined to be the best pastor this church ever seen and he was until…” Bob let the sentence hang.

Peter knew about the incident that had cost Ray his career. He had confessed to having taken money from the church organ fund but refused to say why. Even though it had happened several decades ago, there were still occasional mentions of the church scandal.

“I never knew anyone more suited to being a pastor than Ray,” Bob said, warming to the memory. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but when my sister died, I later found out that he had ridden his bike to the hospital everyday afterschool to visit with her. He was only twelve then. It was a ten mile round trip. Towards the end, he was the only one who could get her to smile.”

Bob studied the floor. “I wonder how many kids today would give up their free time to visit with the sick sibling of a friend?”

“I don’t suspect many would,” Peter said, grabbing a coaster then setting his mug on a side table. His wife, Millie had trained him well.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” Bob said, sadly. “I suppose you’ve heard about the Board’s decision to ban anything related to Christmas?”

“Gloria called Millie right after your meeting with Wade.  I can’t say I’m surprised. These kinds of bans are becoming more and more commonplace across the country.”

Bob hunched over. “I guess, I was hoping that our town would be spared a little longer. At least until I had retired.”

Peter nodded.

“The Christmas message is our last stronghold against the narcissism that’s taking over our youth.” Bob’s passion for the subject made him edge forward as though the strength of his convictions could not be contained within so small a space.    Spareparts eyed him suspiciously, then sensing a move was not eminent, wedged his face between his paws and went back to sleep.

“I agree.”

“The principle of compassion for others was once taught in the home,” Bob continued. “As an educator, I know that the demands of today’s working parents have changed family dynamics. Even here in Crutcher Pike, parents are stretched to the limits. Sometimes it’s just easier to focus on the bare necessities of parenting, like school grades and trying to keep ahead of the laundry. Today’s family commitments leave precious little time for lessons about what our response should be to societal problems like homelessness or hunger. And I don’t have to tell you that far too few families make church a priority. Sundays are now spent on soccer fields or at the mall.”

Peter nodded sadly.

“That’s where the schools come in,” Bob said, rising from his chair. “Mind if I pour myself another mug of coffee?”

“Please, help yourself.”

“I only wish I could have been at that last Board meeting.”

“Yes, I heard you and Ruth went out to dinner for your anniversary. How many years does that make now?”

“Forty-one and I wouldn’t take back any of them,” Bob said, smiling then went back to his topic. “If I had been there, I would have reminded them that the central theme of Christmas is really about civic responsibility; and how close we are to losing an entire generation to self-absorption.”

He plopped back down in his chair. “Imagine twenty, thirty years from now, our town run by leaders who have never been taught to care about anything other than themselves?  It’s….” He searched for a word to convey this unimaginable idea. “Well, it’s down right scary.”

“I agree,” Peter said. Then with a grin, he asked, “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” Bob asked bug-eyed.

“You obviously feel very strongly about the future of your students and of our town.”

“Of course, I do, but even if I wanted to bring Christmas back to the classroom, the School Board’s decision has tied my hands.  If I go against their wishes, I risk loosing my job and my pension.” He sighed in resignation and leaned heavily against the back of the chair. “What a way to end my career.”

Peter rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands.

“What makes you think that your career needs to end on a sour note? Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Bob frowned, wondering what he could have left out. He had been working on a solution all day. So far, none of his plans seem plausible.

“Don’t factor out God. If He’s put the desire in your heart to teach your students the true meaning of Christmas, the School Board can not stop you.  Just relinquish your own need to figure things out and let Him show you the way.”

Bob saw the kindle of faith in Peter’s eyes and smiled.

“Why is it that I never think to go to Him in situations like this?”

“That’s why I’m here. To remind you,” Peter said, smiling. He bowed his head. “Now, let us pray.”

Chapter Two – Heavenly Idea

Bob was an early riser, always had been, but this morning he was up a full hour before dawn, charged with an idea so brilliant that he knew it must have dropped straight down from heaven. For suddenly, inexplicably, he knew how to convey the true meaning of Christmas to his students without breeching the School Board’s rules. He would disguise the message through a cleverly designed civics’ project.

He quietly slipped out of bed careful, as so not to disturb Ruth. Last thing that he wanted was for her to pepper him with questions. He only had a few hours before school began and a load of paperwork to prepare. There wasn’t a moment to spare.

A chill of excitement, like that of a child contemplating Christmas morning, ran along the nape of his neck. He could hardly wait to begin.

He turned on the hall light, paying special heed to avoid Ruth’s hand-hooked rugs, as he made his way towards the kitchen. Why she insisted on lining the hallway with rugs when she knew he was always tripping over them was a mystery. But anytime he complained, she would give him ‘the look.’

“Just pick up your feet,” she’d say, as though that settled the matter.

The kitchen was cast in pre-dawn shadows. He reached for the coffee canister, measured out enough for eight cups, although two was his normal limit, and started the Coffeemaster brewing. Reaching for his lucky mug, he caught his reflection in the darkened window above the sink. He was grinning from ear to ear. Yep, it was going to be the best Christmas ever at Madison!

He spooned sugar into the mug but lost count as he formulated course descriptions, content requirements and grade points, thoughts sparking like steel against flint.  He tore a sheet of paper from Ruth’s grocery pad and wrote down, Create timeline for students.

Yes, timing was going to be a little tricky. He rubbed the stubble along the edge of his chin. Even by starting the project today, students would have just over three weeks to finish.  Of course, they’d all complain, demand more time, but he must remain firm. It was imperative that it be completed before Christmas Eve.

Spareparts gave a small ‘yip’ and looked longingly up at his leash.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own this morning, old buddy,” he said, padding over to the back door.

The dog responded with the look of a martyr and slinked outside into the pre-dawn darkness.

With a fragrant mug of steaming coffee and an excitement that he hadn’t felt since the ban, he headed towards his den/Ruth’s indoor greenhouse.

For days, it had been like the pilot light used to jumpstart the joy of the season had gone out of his heart. Not since the death of his sister, had Bob felt so low. But praise the Lord, the light was back on and joy had come rushing in.

He moved a row of Poinsettias from his desk and set right to work.

By the time Ruth appeared at seven-thirty with an imprint of their chenille bedspread on her check and a strand of hair standing straight up on one side like a chopstick, Bob was getting ready to leave.

“You’re up early and looking chipper,” she said with a yawn.

“I was putting together a new assignment,” he said, patting down his pant’s pockets in search of his car keys.

“Don’t forget these.” She handed him his reading glasses. “You left them on the kitchen counter.  Do you have time for breakfast? I could scramble a couple of eggs.”

“Thanks, but no time. I have to make some stops before school and then hit the bank to transfer over some funds.”

“Why?” Her eyes hardened with suspicion and with good cause.

Bob was notorious for disengaging all common sense when it came to spending money around Christmastime. One year, he had nearly depleted their savings with the purchase of an antique horse sled that he insisted would be perfect for their front lawn. He planned to fill it with brightly colored packages and purchase a large spotlight that would illuminate it at night.  The manager down at Jensen’s Hardware store had told him that he could order one for just two hundred dollars and for a little extra, have it over-nighted.  Much to his chagrin, Ruth had put the kibosh on the whole thing. A sullen Bob had been made to return the sled.

“Don’t go fiddling with our savings account,” she warned him.

He grabbed his briefcase and gave her a peck on the check. “I’m not touching our savings. I’m withdrawing what I need from my fly rod account.”

“Bob Parson what’s this all about?” He was definitely up to something. “You’ve been saving for that rod for nearly two years. Why, you wouldn’t even dip into that account when the hot water heater blew last spring.”

“I know, but suddenly that money seems better spent on catching something bigger than fish.”

And with a kiss to her check, he bounded out the back door.

Unless the temperatures were below freezing or it was snowing, or warnings of a lightning storm, or a tornado, Bob walked the two miles to school. Crutcher Pike was a friendly town, so Bob always allotted an extra fifteen minutes or so to stop and shoot the breeze with folks along the way. Amazing what he could learn in that short span of time, better then reading the Pike’s Gazette.

But this morning, he broke with tradition. Even through the sky was clear as a bell jar without a cloud in sight and the temperature was a balmy fifty-five, he arrived with his Ford pickup and a cab filled with plastic shopping bags. He sped into the parking lot with just minutes to spare before the first bell.

The only available space had been in the far corner by the football field. He pulled in between two large, green dumpsters, wondering how he was going to get all this stuff inside by himself when providence provided. Two of his students were racing across the field.

He jumped out and gave a yell.

“Doug! Carrie!” They hustled right over.

“Wow, what’s all this stuff?” Doug asked, as Bob began handing him plastic bags filled with supplies.

“You’ll find out in class,” he said, moving one of Spareparts toys onto the floor. “Carrie, would you take these papers to the office and run off twenty-five copies of each?”

“Sure, Mr. Parson.”

“I’ll call your homeroom teacher and tell her that you’re on special assignment for me this morning. When you’re through, meet Doug and me in my classroom.”

“Great. I hate homeroom anyway. Mrs. Morris is always droning on about what’s happening in the news. It’s soooo boring.”

Bob refrained from lecturing on the importance of being aware of current events.  Instead, he grabbed three large sheets of poster board, pushed down the lock and slammed the driver’s side door.

“Does that mean that we’ll be excused from having to do the project?” Doug asked hopefully, balancing an armful of supplies.

“In your dreams, my boy. In your dreams.”

“All right, folks. Get into your seats and settle down,” Bob shouted above the roar.

“Billy, take that gum out of your mouth. And Tyler sit in the chair with both feet planted on the floor.”

With arms crossed, he waited patiently for the students to find their seats, feeling a strange exhilaration, like he was about to rocket off into space.  Finally all were settled. He reached behind him, grabbed a stack of papers, counted out enough for those seated in each row, then went down the columns, dropping a stack on the front seats with the order to ‘pass them back.’

“All right class. I want your full attention. We have a lot to cover this period and not much time.”

There was a few shuffling of feet and bodies hunched down in seats.

“This is your new civics’ project, and it will count for half of your semester’s grade,” he began to a chorus of groans.

“As you know, civics is the study of government, citizen’s rights and duties. It’s that last part of the definition that this new assignment will address. Through it we will explore how our active involvement in the needs of those in a community can help to enhance that community. For instance, I’m sure that all of you have seen the new walkway the town has built that surrounds the lake.”

“I helped my dad this summer lay the asphalt,” Tyler Klein offered with a hint of pride. His father worked for the highway department. “I tell you one thing I learned last summer.”

“What’s that?”

“I am most definitely not going to be following in my father’s footsteps. When that stuff splatters, it burns the skin right off you.” He pushed up a sleeve to prove it.

“I’m sure we all appreciate your sacrifice, and I hope that this means you’ll be studying twice as hard for your SAT’s so you can get into a really good college,” Bob said, smiling.

Tyler rolled his eyes and slunk back down in his seat.

Patricia Robb, captain of the cheerleader’s squad, raised her hand.

“Yes, Patricia.”

“My mom and her friends jog around the lake every morning. She says it’s really beautiful.”

“That’s an excellent point,” Bob countered enthusiastically. “An improvement by the town crews ….”

“Don’t forget about me,” Tyler interjected.

“And the sacrifice made by Tyler…”

Tyler bowed to the cheers of his classmates.

“Has enriched our community by creating a place for people to exercise which in turn enriches their health. Now, follow me here. Healthier people contribute more through their jobs and talents which further enriches our community. This in turn continues to make Crutcher Pike a wonderful place to live. More people want to live here. Housing prices rise.”

“I didn’t know my summer job had done all that,” Tyler joked. The classmate seated behind him slapped him on the back, uttered, “Good job.”

“That’s the whole point in stepping out and doing something positive for your community. You never know the type of ripple effect it might have.”

He let the class digest that last thought. When he felt they had finally absorbed it, he continued. “But there are many ways to enrich a community. One of which is to reach out to individuals in need and become activity involved in seeking a solution that will provide for those needs.”

“Like how?” a boy in the back row asked.

“Start by looking into the faces of people that you meet everyday, especially those you might not know. Most of us are so involved in our own inner dramas like…”

He cast an eye over his classroom.

“Will I make the varsity’s basketball team?”

Several students turned to Jerry Fillmore and Pete Hampton who were both vying for the forward positions.

“Will I get the lead in the next school musical?” He nodded towards Carrie who had a beautiful singing voice.

Carrie smiled, filled with the confidence of youth and endless possibilities.

“..or any of the other issues that occupy our minds, that blinds us to the suffering or heartaches that surround us.

“Like the worried look of a parent who doesn’t have enough money to pay for his child’s medicine. Or the haggard face of a woman, trying to make the food in her pantry last until next month’s food stamps arrive.  Or the sadness reflected in the eyes of an elderly person who longs for companionship.”

Bob looked out into a sea of blank faces and felt a momentary flutter of sadness. He slid a hip onto the desk and soldiered on.

“Let me give you an example of how in helping one person, you can enrich your community. As an example, let’s take Mrs. C., a single mother who receives public assistance. She has a handicapped twelve year old child. This child uses a wheelchair. But they live in a house that does not have a handicapped ramp.

“Because of this fact, Mrs. C. needs to be home to help her child up the front steps, she can only work part time. Now, if Mrs. C. had a ramp, the child could let himself into the apartment unaided…which would allow his mother to work fulltime and get off public assistance… which in turn would reduce the welfare rolls and later trickle down to reduce the community’s taxes… which would allow your parents to put more money aside for your college… which would later improve the quality of your life.”

“So what you’re saying, Mr. Parsons,” Alan McGowan interpreted. “Is that when we help others we really end up helping ourselves.”

“Exactly, Alan. But there’s another benefit that I hope you will discover.”
“What’s that, Mr. P.?” Tyler asked.

“A feeling deep inside that warms the heart and soul when you know that you’ve done something to change someone’s life for the better.”

He had expected a lot of eye rolling with that comment, but surprisingly the students seemed to be quietly taking it in.  Slightly encouraged, he turned to Carrie with a lighter heart and asked if she and her friend, Missy would hand out the journals.

“You are to use these to chart your progress. Write why you choose your recipient.   What their need is and how supplying that need will enrich their lives or that of the community. You know the drill. We’ve just covered it.  Keep your eyes and ears open. I think you’ll be surprised by what you discover here in your own town. Oh…recipients cannot be relatives or friends.”

Groans rippled across the classroom.

“Now, some of these needs will require a little bit of cash to fulfill.”  Bob withdrew a small stack of bills and waved them in front of the class. “Each of you will receive fifty dollars…”

The room erupted in a chorus of jeers and jokes about visiting the local mall.

Bob raised a hand for silence. “This money is only to be spent to meet the needs of your recipient. In the back of each journal, I want you to provide a full accounting.  That means listing what it was spent on, and why you felt it was needed. I’ll expect receipts for all expenditures. Without those, you will receive an F and your parents will be sent a bill for reimbursement. And yes… you will have to get an okay from me before spending it.”

More groans.

Bob was interrupted by the sound of the bell. Students began to collect their things. He spoke over the din.

“I expect the name and reason behind your choice to be logged into your journals by the end of this week. I’ll be checking each one. Oh, and class…”

All eyes turned to him.

“This assignment is due the day before Christmas vacation. No extensions will be given and as I said before, it will count for half of your semesters’ grade. Remember mid-term grade notices go out to your parents on the twenty-third.”

“Oh, man…..”Tyler moaned. “Maybe I will join my father’s crews.”

Chapter Three – Christmas Wishes

For Alan McGowan, three o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his new school. It was better than some he had attended over the years. At least here, the teachers were nice. He especially liked Mr. Parsons.

And the kids? Well, if not openly friendly, they weren’t openly hostile either. Two moves ago, things had gotten so bad that his parents were set to send him to a private school, but then his father received notice that he was needed on another job, so the family packed up again and moved on.

Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if he had siblings. At least then, he’d have someone to commiserate with.

He glanced wistfully at Doug Richard and his girlfriend Carrie Dickerson surrounded by a group of friends. What must it might be like to stay in one place, to have roots, to be able to say to someone, “Remember when?”

Finally, the last bell sounded. Alan scooped up his books and joined the tide of students, streaming towards the front doors. His dad was picking him up.  They were finally going to get to spend some time together like they used to before the move.

His father was the President of Commercial Development for the Griffin Investment Group who specialized in downtown revitalization projects. This new assignment involved restoring the business area in Titusville, a neighboring town.  Alan wasn’t exactly sure what it all entailed, only that it was supposed to be the biggest project his dad’s company had ever undertaken. Then there was the bonus money that his dad was saving to open his own business.

Alan suggested that they settle down here. Crutcher Pike was a nice town. His dad had been born here, although he wouldn’t talk about it.

Alan especially liked the Abiding Faith Church, but was careful to keep that to himself. His father hated anything to do with religion.

“That is never going to happen,” his snapped, surprising Alan with the vehemence of his response.

Alan bounded down the school steps, feeling like he was ten again.  Today, the ‘men’ in the family were going to tag a Christmas tree. Alan had done the research. Hansen’s tree farm was about three miles from here. According to their website, they served hot cider and homemade cinnamon donuts. Kind of hokey, but it would be fun.

The important thing was that he and his dad were finally going to spend time together. They had always been best buddies, but since this new project began, his dad was seldom around and when he was home, he was constantly on the phone.

But not today.  This was their exclusive time together. His dad had promised. Just the two of them alone, no interruptions. He was pumped with excitement.

Buses were lined up out front. Students shuffled and jostled as they piled inside. Doug and Carrie were boarding their bus. They made a nice couple, although Carrie could be a little flirty around the school jocks, Alan thought, tucking his head down before either could make eye contact. He headed towards the main parking lot just as the sky began to thicken with cloud cover and the air turned cold and damp. It felt like snow which would only make things even more perfect.

He pulled up his collar; his cheery mood going up a notch as he pictured his dad and him walking among clusters of evergreens that were robed in white, the air thick with flakes that caught on their noses and eye lashes. Just like one of those Christmas greeting cards that he’d seen in the Canterbury Tales Book Shop downtown that depicted a father and son bringing home a Christmas tree strapped onto a small sleigh as snow gently fell.

He liked visiting downtown.  It wasn’t big like the ones in some of the other places where he’d lived. Those were filled with trendy cafes and boutiques where his mom and her friends liked to shop.

Crutcher Pike Main Street was lined with an assortment of different, yet interesting stores, like the butcher’s shop that hung hams and sides of beef in the window; and the taxidermist with a real stuffed bear’s head over the front door. There was even an old fashioned general store that sold penny candy.

But his favorite was Jenson’s Hardware Store. It was a cavernous place that had been added on so many times during the years that it was easy to get lost. The floors were uneven and if you weren’t careful you could trip just walking in a straight line.

A huge pot belly stove set off a few yards from the cash register was the only source of heat. Most days, a group of men would be seated around it. Some came to play checkers. Others just to sit and shoot the breeze.

Pastor Whitcomb had introduced him to a few. Sometimes, they’d invite him to play a game. He politely remembered to let them win. Besides, he didn’t care about winning. It was the fellowship he craved, almost like having a bunch of grandfathers. He missed not having one of his own.  His mother’s folks had died when she was a kid, and his dad always changed the subject whenever he asked about his folks.

The buses’ engines began to rev. One by one, they began to pull out. Alan stood on tiptoes, searching for his dad’s Lexus with the Griffin logo. Still no sign of him. Maybe he had gotten a late start, he told himself, trying to ward off a gnawing fear. Sure, that was it. Heck, there was still plenty of sunlight left to find and cut a tree.

He scanned the horizon and stomped his feet. He sure wished his dad would hurry. His toes were turning into icicles. He should have worn insulated socks. There were dozens of pairs pushed to the back of his underwear drawer. When they lived in Vermont, he and his dad went skiing every weekend.  The memory made him smile.

His dad used to say that in Vermont as soon as a kid could walk parents strapped on a pair of skis.

That’s where Alan had learned to ski, and if he did say so himself, he was pretty good at it. He remembered the look of pride in his father’s eyes when he had raced around orange cones on a challenging slope to win his first trophy.      Since they moved here, there hadn’t been much time for things like that.

The memories faded as the cold began to seep deeper into his bones. The parking lot had thinned out.

“You need a ride, Alan?” Mr. Parson asked, clutching an overstuffed briefcase.

“No thanks. My dad’s on his way. We’re going to cut down our Christmas tree.”

“Yeah? That’s exciting.” Mr. Parson turned up his collar. “Sure feels like snow. I hope he gets here soon, or you’ll be frozen stiff.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Alan said, hoping that Mr. Parson’s didn’t sense his rising concern.  His dad had forgotten his promises before.

“Well, you have a good time, but if you get too cold, ring the bell by the front door. A janitor will let you in to thaw out.”

Mr. Parsons headed towards the far end of the parking lot. Alan watched him climb in and start the engine. It was several minutes before he finally headed off towards home.

Alan thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. He sure wished that his dad would hurry.  Trying to divert the numbing chill, he turned his thoughts onto the discovery he had made during lunch. It had been too cold to do anything outside, so after lunch the other kids had paired off. Some went to the music room, others to the gym. Alan decided to take a leisurely walk around the empty halls. That’s when he discovered a large glass case filled with trophies, and one of those trophies had his father’s name engraved on the brass plate. David McGowan was listed as one of the basketball team members who had won a state championship.

For the rest of the day, he couldn’t get that out of his mind. Why wouldn’t his dad talk about growing up in Crutcher Pike? All he knew was what his mom had told him. That his dad had left right after high school and never returned. But why? Had something happened to make him hate the town?

The school property sat on a small knoll. Alan scanned the road below. Still no sign of him.

It sure would be great to visit the neighborhood where his dad had grown up.  Just the thought filled him with excitement.  For the first time in his life, he might have roots. Half the kids in school were named McGowan. Maybe some were relatives.  He was too shy to ask, but how cool would that be!

Alan was so lost in this new world that he didn’t see his mother’s car pull up against the curve until she beeped the horn. As soon as he saw her, his spirit felt the heavy crush of disappointment.

“I’m sorry, hon,” she said. “Mr. Parson saw you standing in the parking lot and called.  Dad must have gotten busy at work.”

Wordlessly, Alan threw his book-bag in the back and he slid inside.

“Your dad got stuck in a meeting. But he promised that you two will still go tag that tree this weekend.”

Wordlessly, he fastened his seatbelt while his mother began to chatter away

about the special meal that she had made him and how after dinner they would watch the video that she had rented of a recent movie that he had enjoyed.

He knew what she was doing. What she always did lately when his dad copped out on him.

Encased in silence, he let her ramble, forcing back bitter tears and stared at the passing scenery as snow coated the countryside.

Doug feigned interest as Carrie went on and on about the unfairness of the School Board having canceled the Christmas Concert.

“Mrs. Humphrey’s nephew is the biggest record producer in Hollywood, and she promised to bring him along. He handles Black-eyed Peas, Jordin Sparks, Pink…”

She continued to count off a roster of singing stars, many of whom meant nothing to Doug. He wasn’t much into music. Cars were his thing.

“This was going to be my big break,” she said, flinging a lock of perfectly streaked, blonde hair over the shoulder of her fashionable Abercrombie and Finch Hoodi—a totally impractical choice in this type of weather. But then with Carrie, it was never about practicality, Doug thought, only about looking good.

Meanwhile, he was thinking about the test paper stuffed in his book bag. Mr. Parson’s had given him a C minus.

He glanced out the window. Snow was falling heavier now.

If he didn’t pull his civics’ grade up fast, he could kiss his car goodbye—a Mitsubishi Lancer turbo-charged Evolution. Sweet. He got a buzz just thinking about it.

There was only one problem. His dad had made the car conditional on maintaining good grades and a C minus would pull down his average. Mid-term grades went out on December 23. He stretched out, feet into the aisle and crossed his arms. That didn’t give him a lot of time to fix things.

“Right?” Carrie asked. Her eyes were pinned to his face.

“Right.” He hadn’t a clue what he had just agreed to.

“That’s what I think.” Carrie smiled then sailed on. “A petition signed by every student would make the school board rethink their decision. Besides….”

Doug went back to his own thoughts.

This was all his brother, Terry’s fault. The brain in the family. Whizzed through grade school. Maintained a 3.8 average all through high school. Won a scholarship to Duke University and would soon be on his way to law school. Now his father wanted Doug to follow suit. Only Doug wasn’t interested in school. He wanted to work on cars. He was really good at it and secretly dreamed of one day owning his own garage, a dream he was careful to keep to himself.

“No son of mine is going to earn his living with sweat equity,” his dad was always saying. He worked in construction. Supervised crews. He was good at what he did, but wanted more for his sons.

“My son’s are going to sit behind a desk and let others do the dirty work.”

Doug saw nothing wrong with working as a laborer. He sometimes worked with his dad on construction jobs. Besides, he liked working under the hood of a car, his hands thick with grease. But no matter how hard Doug tried to convince his dad that not everyone was college material, his arguments fell on deaf ears.

“You’re going to college and make something of yourself, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

“Doug?” Carrie playfully poked him in the ribs. “This is your stop. At least it is for a few more weeks until you get your car.”

His face took on a pained expression.

“You are getting your car for Christmas, right?” She stared right at him with those laser-like eyes of hers.

“Sure,” he said, with as much authority as he could muster, considering the civics’ test paper inside his book bag.

She saw right through him. “If not, I suppose I could always get a ride from Tom Hawkins.  I mean, you can’t expect me to keep riding a bus. It’s soooo un-cool and Tom’s new RAV is so cute.”

“Yeah, well if that’s your idea of a cool car, be my guest,” he quipped, grabbed his books and headed out to the accompaniment of giggles from her gaggle of friends seated several rows behind.

He kicked a loose stone, sending it far into the street as the bus pulled away. Great! Now he not only had to worry about loosing his car, there was the added pressure of loosing his girl to one of Madison’s football jocks. Could things get any worse?

His house was the fourth one down from the bus stop, but he was in no mood to go home, not yet. He needed time to figure out how he was going to pump up his grade average.  He wasn’t concerned with math or science. He kept a solid A. In those two subjects, at least, he was like Terry.

In contrast, he found English, history and civics hard going. Even though it was a struggle, he managed to keep up his grades in the first two, but it was tough.

Mr. Parsons was a great teacher, but the subject bored him to death. His mind kept drifted off during class which was why he had scored so poorly on the pop quiz that Mr. Parson’s had sprung on them last week. In retrospect, he guessed he should be happy that he had received a C minus and not an F.

A few houses down, there was a trail that wound through the woods, making its way up a big hill that overlooked the town square.  Neighbors used it to jog or walk their dogs. He headed that way, relieved to find it was empty. The snow had forced people inside. He welcomed the solitude. He had stuff to work out.

Getting a car had been his goal ever since he turned sixteen last May. He had worked all summer as a go-fer on his dad’s construction site over in Titusville. It was a huge project. Some big investment company was turning a section of the downtown area into trendy condos and fancy stores.

It had been hard work.  He didn’t even want to think how many wheelbarrows of stuff he had carted to the dumpsters or bags of heavy cement up shaky ladders. But he didn’t mind if it helped him get closer to his goal.

Doug still worked an occasional Saturday, and a few weeks back had overheard one of the men causally mentioned that he had a Mitsubishi Lancer turbo-charged Evolution  he wanted to sell. He had blown the engine and was asking three thousand.

Doug planned to get it rebuilt.  There was a garage on the other end of town that did that kind of work.       He’d string some winches inside their garage. Have some friends help haul it out and borrow his dad’s truck to cart it over. Piece of cake.

He discussed it with his dad who agreed to waggle with the guy. He got him down to twenty-five hundred. Doug paid fifteen hundred up front as good faith money. His dad would pay the rest when they had the car towed the day before Christmas. But he warned Doug that if he didn’t keep his grades up, the car would be resold.

Even though the storm was picking up, the tall evergreens acted as a buffer. Doug wound his way along familiar paths, his mind a tangle of thoughts and emotions all fused on that car. He wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted before.

There was a small clearing up ahead that provided a panoramic view of the town below. He slid onto a large boulder, drew his legs up to his chin, just as dozens of Christmas lights began to pop on along Main Street and let his mind wander.

This Saturday was Crutcher Pike’s Christmas Tree Lighting ceremony, the official kick-off of the holiday season. Town crews had been perched on the fire department’s hook and ladder for days stringing lights on the forty foot blue spruce outside of city hall.

It was one of Doug’s favorite times of year. They’d be lots of caroling and bell ringing.  The mayor would give a speech. All the stores would stay open late and the sidewalks would be packed with people bundled up against the winter chill, their arms filled with packages.

Almost everyone would later find their way to the Christmas Café in the basement of the Abiding Faith Church. Two dollars would get you a gingerbread man and a mug of homemade hot chocolate. The mugs always read Merry Christmas from your friends at Abiding Faith Church and the year.  Doug’s mom had a box filled with mugs, some dating back to before he was born.

Later, his mom and her friends would join the long line of folks waiting to get their first peek at the church ladies’ annual gingerbread village.

Between the sale of the mugs and the tickets for the village, this was the church’s most profitable fundraiser. Monies went to the homeless shelter in Titusville that was run by their former pastor, Ray McGowan. Doug never met the man, but like most everyone else in town, he knew the story behind his dismissal.

Darkness settled over the town. A shooting star arched across the landscape. Doug closed his eyes and made the wish dearest to his heart. A guy his age needed his own set of wheels.

He dusted himself off, collected his things and headed towards home. His mom would start to wonder where he’d gone.

Sections of melted snow had turned to ice, making the pathway slippery in places. He carefully treaded his way along, his thoughts, like magnets, coming back to the sticky problem of his grades.

The only way to raise his grade point average was to ace Mr. Parson’s new assignment. But where would he find someone who fit Mr. Parson’s course description? It wasn’t like he knew anyone who needed food or shelter. All of his friends lived in homes like his. Their dads had decent jobs. As far as he knew, no one went without necessities. In fact, Doug had a hard time keeping up with all the Ipods, Wii’s; video graphics and the other high-tech stuff his friends were into.

Doug hung his head down and scuffed his boots in the snow, burrowing out a trail.

Just his luck that Mr. Parson’s would choose the hardest assignment of the year at a time when he needed to boast his grade average the most. Regardless, it was his only way out since it counted as half of his semester’s grade. He tried to work out the numbers in his head. If he got an A that would bring his C minus up to a B. And if he could get an A plus that would definitely guarantee him the car.

But he knew Mr. Parson. To get an A plus meant he’d have to do something out of the ordinary. Maybe he should offer up a kidney.

Darn! He looked forward to the Christmas holidays, but he could feel the joy seeping out of this one faster than the air in a tire that had just run over a box of nails.

This was going to take time, a lot of it. Time that he would have rather been spending with his buddies like going to the mall and getting their pictures taken on Santa’s knee. That was always a hoot. Or playing ice hockey then later watching holiday cartoons (his favorite was the Grinch who Stole Christmas) while pigging out on platters of Christmas cookies that his mom had scattered all over the house.

Instead, he’d be helping out some loser. He kicked at a lump of snow, sending out a white shower.

Lights were on in old man Chapman’s house who lived next-door. The old man was a notorious grump. Hated kids, him in particular which was why Doug liked sneaking through his property every chance he got just to get his goat. With the fresh fallen snow, the old man would see his footprints and go ape. The image made him laugh.

He could make out Chapman’s silhouette seated in the back parlor. His chin was resting on his chest. Must have fallen asleep watching television again.

Doug leapt over the fence in one fluid movement, landing squarely on both feet, as the sharp, staccato barks of his Golden Retriever, gave him away.

“Buddy, be quiet,” he said in a hoarse whisper which only set the dog to barking louder.

The back porch light flicked on. Doug made a run for home, catapulting over the clump of bushes that separated the properties in a giant leap just seconds before Mr. Chapman appeared at the back door.

“Who’s out there?” the old man demanded as Doug scurried across the drive and in through the back door of his house. “If I catch anyone on my property, I’ll fill their be-hinds with buckshot! Hear me!”

Chapter Four - Coming Home

David McGowan and Jack Richmond were too engrossed in the list of items that must be completed in time for the Wayside’s Inn grand opening scheduled in three weeks to notice that Sylvia had stepped away to answer her daughter’s text message.

Halfway across the cavernous grand ballroom, her feet felt as though they were being squeezed inside a vise. Whatever had possessed her to buy a pair of stiletto heels? Her daughter, Carrie that’s who.  That was absolutely the last time she would take fashion advice from a sixteen year old even though the added height offset her five foot two body and emphasized her slender frame.  God, it was murder being a pigmy in a world seemingly comprised of mostly Amazon women.

She quickly scanned her daughter’s message and rolled her eyes. Lately, everything with Carrie was an emergency. Sylvia’s fingers flew over the keys.

Be home in an hour.  Will discuss then.

Carrie would try to engage her one more time before giving up. That was a given. She carefully lowered herself onto a marble-topped coffee table stationed near the bank of floor to ceiling windows that fronted Main Street. She’d worry about getting up without landing on her head later. The pain subsided. She sighed with welcome relief as she studied the two men seated across the room.

Could it really have been over twenty years since we had last been together?

David’s brow was knit into a tight frown. She remembered that frown. It emphasized the small scar just below the hairline acquired at the state’s High School Basketball Championship their senior year.

A sweet swell of nostalgia rose on an incoming surge of memories. An opposing player had tried to snatch the ball. David turned sharply, catching the other player’s ring just above his eyebrow.  The force tore open a large gash that later required ten stitches. Although the referee tried to get David to sit out the rest of the game, he refused and ended up making the final basket that had won the championship. That was David. He was never a quitter. Well, except when it came to his dad.

Hard to believe that all those years had passed since the threesome had roamed the corridors of Madison High swearing, with the hubris of youth, that they would remain steadfast friends for life. But life hadn’t been as malleable as they had thought. David had left Graduation Day never to return.

With his razor sharp mind, Sylvia always knew that he would make a success of whatever career he decided to pursue and he had. At forty-three, David was the President of Commercial Projects for the Gibbons Development Group, a multi-billion dollar conglomerate with a seat on the trading floor on Wall Street. It dealt mostly with construction related products and industries.

David’s division specialized in restoring downtown areas across the country and turning them into profitable orbs of commerce. Through his leadership, a succession of decaying cityscapes had been transformed into profitable retail spaces designed to attract high-end consumers, mostly baby boomers who had grown tired of shopping in tiered malls, by offering them one-of-a kind, upscale shops and trendy cafes where herds of equally affluent friends could gather—a regular urban, retail Disneyland for the upwardly mobile.

When David had first asked Sylvia’s real estate firm to take on sales for the Titusville project, she had Googled the company and discovered that David’s division had listed eight figure profits for six consecutive years.  Twice his work had been recognized by the prestigious Great American Main Street Award by the National Trust.

That a way to go, Dave!

And Jack Richmond? Her smile broadened. Good dependable, likable Jack. Dressed in worn jeans, faded flannel shirt and construction boots, he looked every ounce the part of a construction worker. If Sylvia had to describe him, she would say that Jack Richmond was one of the few men she knew who was comfortable being just who he was.

He was a great husband and father, and the best contractor around. Too bad, he was linked to that tyrant, Keith Erwin, an argumentative, know-it-all, braggart with a major chip on his shoulder. He was a senior their junior year at Madison. No one could stand him back then. That much had not changed.

In fact, if it hadn’t been for Jack, Erwin’s company would have never become the success it was since it was doubtful if he knew a piece of plywood from a floorboard. The only reason Erwin even owned a company was because he came from what euphemistically known as ‘old’ money and lots of it.

After getting kicked out of a succession of colleges for partying too hard, his father summoned him home and set him up in a construction business. At the time, there was a shortage of builders, so the old man hired Jack, who came from a long line of skilled craftsmen. Under his care, the business had flourished which Kevin flaunted with a succession of expensive automobiles. Currently, he sported a poppy red Lamborghini.

Like most in town, Sylvia felt that Kevin should have made Jack a partner years ago. After all, it was Jack who had built the business from nothing. But folks also knew that was unlikely to happen. There was no way that Kevin Erwin wanted Jack Richmond thought of as an equal.

David’s raised voice broke through her revelry.

“I thought this was completed last week,” he told Jack, pointing to a new item he had discovered on the list. Papers were strewn across a banquet table at the far corner of the ballroom.

“It was completed,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair.

“So? What happened?”

“Jarrod decided to add on a few extras.”

David’s face hardened. Jarrod Byrd was Elliot Griffin’s son-in-law and a major pain in the butt who insisted on second guessing every decision David made. It was his first stab at overseeing a project and from the cost overruns he was creating, probably his last.

“Why didn’t you call me like I asked?”

Sylvia knew that this wasn’t the first snafu on this project that the boss’s son-in-law had left for David to clean up. Jarrod and Kevin would make a good pair.

“Jarrod stormed in a few weeks ago to remind me that he was the manager on this project and made it very clear that I was not to call you. I thought about going around him and if it was just my job on the line, I would have,” Jack said, clearly frustrated at being caught in the middle. “But I had my crew to think about. Most of the guys live paycheck to paycheck. They can’t afford to be laid off.”

David exhaled like a bull facing a matador. “Jarrod’s going to be the death of this project yet if he keeps dreaming up new ad-on’s.”

“I know a couple of guys who wouldn’t mind seeing that Jarrod was permanently deployed somewhere else,” Richard sniggered. “Once he’s out of the way, we could wrap things up in a couple of days.”

The familiar chuckle in his voice made David look up. For just a second, a grin broke through David’s stoicism. They were sixteen again, planning a sneak attack on the girl’s locker room.

God, how Sylvia had missed that grin. Since his returned, David had been careful to remain all business, seemingly intent on keeping his old friends at a distance.

As quickly as the grin had surfaced, it died. “So, how do we fix this?”

As the men discussed ways around this sudden glitch, Sylvia’s Blackberry chimed, announcing another text.

You have to come home NOW. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.

It was always urgent.

Will be home in an hour.  Unless you’re bleeding or have suffered a head trauma, it can wait until then.

She thought about getting up, but her feet had just stopped throbbing. Besides, watching these two guys working shoulder to shoulder made her feel like a teenager again.  Only gone was tall, leggy David whom she had dated throughout her senior year and who had lived in sweat pants and baggy tee-shirts.

Boy had that changed.

She took inventory of today’s outfit. Pair of grey flannel pants and a soft cashmere sports coat the color of a newborn fawn that outlined a set of powerful shoulders, looking every ounce the successful, polished executive that he had become.

He was always been handsome, but now… She sighed.

David sported the seasoned good looks and confident demeanor that often came to successful men with age. He was a man who men would gladly follow and women would spend sleepless nights fantasying about. Before the blowup with his dad, she had shared some of those fantasies, dreaming of one day being called Mrs. David McGowan.

Too bad, ladies. He’s happily married.

She had met his wife, Jillian. Wanted to hate her, but ended up liking her immensely. She was bright, warm and a thoroughly nice person. Much to her chagrin, she had liked her instantly.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like if things had worked out differently between David and her. But it hadn’t been in the cards. Their senior year, David’s father, the pastor of Abiding Grace Church, was accused of stealing church funds, a charge that she refused to believe even to this day. David hadn’t believed it either and tried to force his dad into explaining the missing funds. His dad refused. Finally, the Church council had no alternative but to ask for his resignation.

David was devastated. That coupled with his mother’s sudden death from cancer, had proven an emotional overload. Instead of staying and trying to work things out, his response had been to leave and sever all ties, vowing never to return to Crutchers Pike which was why she had been taken back when nine months ago, after a twenty-plus year absence, he had suddenly appeared in her office and asked if she would head the real estate division of the downtown Titusville project.

“I only want the best for this project. And my research says that you’re the best fitted to market the units,” he had told her

The comment made her wonder. Was she really the best or did some part of him wish to reconnect with the life that he had left behind?

She glanced up at the tall, coffered ceiling. The American chestnut beams (now extinct) had been restored to their former beauty, softening the expansive room with a soft, golden glow. She had to admit the finished project was impressive and in three weeks, the ten luxury ‘units’ with commanding views of the river would go on sale. Starting price point?  Two million plus. Access to the amenities, however… personal chefs, state-of-the-art spa, a gym and trainers, and a twenty-four hour concierge whose job was to provide residents with the choicest seats at any event, including the coveted Kentucky Derby…were several thousand dollars a month extra.

She shook her head. Not bad for a former rundown hotel that for the last ten years had been broken into two dozen low income rentals.

Shadows filled the room. It was getting late. She needed to work out the final details of the project’s kick-off dinner dance before her mind completely closed down. It had been another very long day.

David had asked her company to coordinate a lavish holiday dinner dance to kick off the event.  If the list of notable political figures, the rich equestrian crowd and a sprinkling of celebrities (Tony Bennett and the CEO of a major production company among them) was any indication, the Griffin’s Group newest project was off to a great start with only one hang-up, a major one.

Everything hinged on convincing the Titusville Shelter on the corner of Main and Chester Street to accept Griffin’s offer to move them into a new facility across town since she seriously doubted if the clients willing to lay out six figures to live in Titusville’s trendy downtown area would want to share their space with the downtrodden and the homeless.

Of course, all of this should have been settled way before the project had commenced. Another one of Jarrod’s snafu’s. No doubt David would have to fix this one, too.  Poor David. Ray McGowan, the shelter’s founder and director, was also David’s father. As far as she knew, neither had spoken since David had left.

She carefully worked herself up into a standing position, fighting against the pain shooting through her feet like an electrical charge. Dusk was quickly morphing into night. Outside, the light from a line of gracefully arched, wrought iron lampposts caught soft, feathery snow flakes as they drifted across the main thoroughfare.

Good God! How would she ever make it through the snow to her car in these shoes?!

She threw on the overhead lights. David looked up, blinked against the sudden glare then glanced her way as though only now realizing her absence. She pointed to her watch. He nodded.

She started back across the room, her toes crying out in torment.

Jack bundle up his papers and headed out. “Nice shoes,” he said with a smirk. “Sure you don’t want me to wait around and carry you to your car?”

“Very funny,” she countered, slugging him in the arm as he passed. She took two more steps and thought…

You know, maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.

It was nearly eight o’clock before David finally climbed into his Lexus hybrid and started home.     He pulled out of parking lot, nodded towards the security guard and headed towards the highway. At the moment, the falling snow was melting as it hit the asphalt, but all that would change as water turned to ice once the temperatures began to drop. He turned onto the interstate and waited for a caravan of sixteen wheelers to past before carefully pulling out.

This project had been different from the beginning and none of it was good, most in part due to Jarrod. David had worked with his share of incompetents and idiots down through the years, but this guy took the cake. It really ticked him off that he had forced Jack to remain silent about the add-ons. The idiot! What did he think?  He wouldn’t find out about it?

If he had even a modicum of business sense, he would never have begun this project without first resolving the issue of the homeless shelter. David had cautioned him to wait until the shelter had been moved. But would he listen?

“I’m in charge and I will make the decisions,” he said when David voiced his concerns. “And if I say we begin now, we begin now!”

David had wanted to retort that the only reason he was ‘in charge’ was because he had married the boss’ daughter, but held his tongue. All he needed to do was to keep his cool, finish this project and then he was out of here—out from under anyone’s dictates. With the money he had saved plus the bonus that came with this job, he’d finally be able to open his own company.

Up ahead a line of trucks kicked up rivers of brown slush. David switched his wipers to high and hit the windshield cleaner to clear away an arch of brown streaks. It only succeeded in moving the wintry mess to the outer rim where it froze. He leaned forward, trying to make out the exit signs. It was like looking through a ship’s portal.

Since Jarrod was related to the company’s CEO, David knew that if they failed to have the homeless shelter moved, the fallout would land squarely at his feet; not to mention put his bonus in jeopardy.

And now with the holiday party and grand opening just a few weeks away, he needed to guarantee a resolution. He could oomph the pressure through the town council who stood to gain in tax revenue with the launch of the project. Have the mayor send out the fire marshal again. Although they had tried that once before, church groups had rallied and found the funds needed to do some minimal upgrades.  Still with a closer inspection, David was certain they would find the facility remained seriously under code.

Keeping a sharp eye on the road up ahead, he tried to reason this through. If the fire marshal did discover enough violations, he could order the shelter closed immediately. His men would then strip off the signs.   Have Jack do a quick, bang up job of fixing the façade to match the rest of the restored buildings. Even if it wasn’t finished before the opening, it would look presentable enough not to give cause for alarm with the new customers.

But the downside…and there always was a downside when things weren’t properly planned…could be that by condemning the shelter (especially around Christmas) could start off a firestorm of bad publicity.  And if there was one thing that Phillip Griffin hated, it was bad publicity. Still it might be the only way out.

David decided to ask the marshal to do another inspection then report back to him. He was bound to find something. The place was ready to fall apart at the seems. Then, if need be, he could use it as leverage. Force his dad to move to the new facility across town. Not that he was looking forward to coming face with face with his dad, but he’d do what needed to be done.  He would get the Griffin PR department to play up the new facility and all its advantages and downplay the eviction. Should work.

The car ahead swerved. He eased off the gas, creating a cushion between the two vehicles just in case it spun out of control. There were a few white knuckle moments as the car ahead began to fishtail before the driver was able to bring it back under control.

David took a deep breath and released the tension along his shoulder blades. His exit ramp was just up ahead. He was eager to get off the interstate. He threw on the directional signal, turned onto the ramp and kept the speed well under the posted 25 mph, leery of black ice.

As much as he hated to even think it, there seemed no way out of confronting his dad. He didn’t have much time. The grand opening was just a few weeks away. Once he received the Fire Marshall’s report, he would make an appointment. He had successfully negotiated through tougher situations. He’d get through this, right?

But just the thought filled him with dread. He would make it clear that it was purely a business call. David was not interested in dredging up the past or repairing a relationship; yet it was those very images of his youth that seeped in like a cold wind through a crack in the wood.

It had been his senior year. He just helped win the State Basketball Championship and wore the scar that it had cost him proudly. Buoyed by the victory, he felt a new awakening, a surge of energy. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be his best friend.

Riding on this new popularity, he threw his hat into the race for class president Lost by ten votes, but enjoyed every moment of it. He hardly had time to catch his breathe when Sylvia talked him into taking a bit part in the senior play. That year it was South Pacific.  He was a native. His only line was to grunt with approval when a bunch of girls in straw skirts and lei’s swept by.  The audience roared with laughter.

Although all this popularity was new, he had always had a solid circle of good friends. Most he had known since grade school. Many bore the McGowan name. That’s how it was in Crutcher Pike. Families had lived here for generations. Few ever felt the need to leave although the youth looked forward to going away to college, but parents never worried. They knew they would be just as happy to return. It was expected that children take over the family business or farms.

That senior year was a time for dreaming. David’s thoughts were on college. School had always been easy.  He decided to take a double major. Engineering and finance although his dad had hinted he might take a few theology courses. He had never stopped hoping that he might follow him as a clergyman. But David wasn’t interested.

Spring had been unseasonably hot that year. He and his friends spent a lot of time down at the river. The future was so bright, it was blinding.

Then the scandal…

David never got the whole story. All he knew was that money was missing from the church’s organ fund and that his father had admitted to having taking it, but refused to give any details.

David pleaded with his dad to explain. He dad was the most honorable man he knew. He would never steal from the church. He loved that church and its people, oftentimes to the neglect of his own family. His dad never turned down anyone in need.  Nights, days, weekends, blizzards. The phone would ring and he’d be gone. He’d even taken off one day in the midst of a tornado warning. A young mother had called, saying there was no food in the house.

Ray McGowan had given his heart and soul to the care of his parishioners and the love of his town. Then why, David had asked himself everyday since, hadn’t he shown the same concerns for his family by telling the church council what had happened to the funds?      Didn’t he care what other people were saying, the lies they were spreading? He had overheard one parishioner say that ‘where there was smoke, there was fire.’ At that moment, David forgot turning the other check. All he wanted to do was to punch that man so hard that they’d have to wire his jaw. That would keep him from spreading malicious innuendos.

Meanwhile, the mood was changing in town and David was taking the hit for his father’s silence. Except for Sylvia and Jack, others suddenly found excuses not to be seen with him.

He came to the end of ramp, doubled checked to make sure it was clear then turned onto the main route.

He should have kept in touch with Sylvia and Jack.

He thought about today. The three gathered around the table and felt a surge of pure joy. God, how he had missed them. They had been such good friends. The ‘Three Musketeers” his dad had called them.

But at that moment in time, it had seemed easier to sever all ties. He wanted nothing that reminded him of the pain and the shame his father had brought.

His father…

Would he recognize him, he wondered? It had been well over twenty years since he had last seen him. His dad must now be in his late sixties, early seventies.  Although he refused to admit it, he had missed his company. There was a time that they had been very close.

Growing up, he had idolized his father; considered him most honorable of all men. It used to give him such pride being called the “Reverend’s son,” knowing that everyone in town revered and respected his dad. But none more than David. When he thought back on that time, David realized that all of his youth had been spent working to be just like him.

Then the scandal.

He pleaded with his dad to do something. Show everyone that they wrong about him. The McGowan’s were not thieves. Why wouldn’t he just tell them what they wanted to know?  What had happened to the money?

But his pleas fell on deaf ears. His father made it clear he didn’t care what others thought. He was not at liberty to explain. Finally, the church council had no other recourse but to dismiss him. David watched in hurt and anger as his father carried a cardboard box from his office and across the street to their small bungalow style home. Never once did he break his silence.

Two weeks before graduation, David’s mother died. She had been battling breast cancer for over a year. David felt that the worry and shame had quickened her death.

The service was held in a chapel a few miles from town. The church council had thought it best that the funeral not be held at his father’s former church.

That day, the sky was canopied under a canvas of grey clouds that hinted rain.  As the coffin was lowered into the ground, his dad put a hand on his shoulder. David shrugged it away and went to stand on the other side of the casket.

Later, he said some terrible things to his dad. Told him that his mother had not died from cancer. She had died from shame and it was his fault.

His father lurched back. Almost lost his balance, as the words struck him like a physical blow. His eyes filled with a deep, wounded sadness. Tears stained the labels of his black suit but David was unremorseful.

He never went home again. He stayed with a friend until graduation and left town after the exercises. He planned never to return.

Fate, however, sometimes has a way of making us face the things we hate the most, he thought, pulling up close to the curb. Somehow he had found his way to their old bungalow. He put the car in drive, its exhaust creating a plume of steam. His parents had scrimped and saved for years to purchase this home. Although the church had provided a parsonage; his dad said that he wanted something of their very own. Something he could count on when he got older. Something to leave to his son.

It hadn’t been easy on a preacher’s salary, but his dad had made it happen, like he made so many other seemingly impossible things happen when David was a boy.

“Can’t think of a better place than Crutcher Pike to live out my last years,” he always said. His dad had loved this town, even when the folks had turned against him. Never once did David hear him utter a negative word.

He studied the small house with a practiced eye. It was called a shotgun cottage. Two bedrooms, a kitchen and living room were off a long hall that went the full length of the house. It was called it a shotgun house because you could stand at the front door and take a shot that would go clear out the back door.

While part of his brain calculated the improvements that needed to be done, the other flooded with memories.  The smell of his mother’s cooking as he walked up the front path. The sound of a wood fire, the crackle and hiss of logs on a cold winter’s night. Games of Monopoly that went on for days played out on a large square table that was tucked beneath the front window, strategically stationed so that his father could keep an eye on the church across the street. Lemonade sipped on the front porch on hot, steamy southern nights and the ‘ting’ of June bugs hitting against the overhead bare light bulb.

Apparently the house was empty. The windows were dark and curtainless. The exterior, however, looked in pretty good shape—shrubs neatly trimmed, house painted. He noticed the gutters needed replacement and an upstairs windowsill showed the first signs of dry rot.

His cell phone rang. He felt a sudden stab of guilt as though he had been discovered peeking in a neighbor’s window.

The readout said it was his wife. He took a steady breathe before answering.

“Hi, hon.”

“Where have you been?”

“At work.”  The question confused him. Where else would he be?

“You promised to take Alan to pick out a tree.”

“Was that today?”

“Don’t you do that. I reminded you this morning.”

Darn! He had completely forgotten.

“I’m sorry. It was a crazy day. One meeting on top of another. It slipped my mind. Look, I know I screwed up, but I’ll make it right with him.”

“Do you have any idea how disappointed he was? He looked forward to this all week.”

“I said I’m sorry.” Even to his own ears, it sounded lame.

“You’re always sorry, lately.”

“I don’t have to tell you how crazy things get when a project is about to be launched. Jarrod is still adding things, making the focus shift off finishing last minute details to major undertakings. Then there’s the grand opening. I had to meet with Sylvia…”

“I don’t care about your project. What I care about is our son. Do you know how many times this makes that you’ve broken your promise?”

“I got tied up. Time got away from me….” he began, but Marissa cut him off.

“You’re always tied up or in a meeting, or putting out a fire, or whatever. You should have seen his face when I pulled up. If it hadn’t been that Mr. Parson saw him standing alone in an empty parking lot and decided to give me a call, our son might still be there waiting for his father. A father that cares more about disappointing his boss than his son.”

“That’s not fair.” He truly felt rotten about forgetting their outing but he was drowning in last minute details. There was the issue with the shelter, the cost overruns, not to mention the holiday kick-off dinner dance, another one of Jarrod’s project that he had inherited. He was indebted to Sylvia for taking it on.

He realized there was silence on the other end.

“Marissa?”

“I’ll tell you what not’s fair, my having to constantly make excuses for you. That’s not fair.”

He rubbed the bridge above his nose where a killer headache was brewing. “Can we discuss this when I get home?”

“I’m too tired to discuss this tonight. Besides, nothing ever changes with you, David. It’s always business before family. Fine. You’ll find your pajamas in the downstairs bathroom and pillows and blankets on the living room sofa.”

And with that, the phone went dead.

As soon as Carrie got home, she sent out an e-mail blast to all of her friends. The Christmas Concert absolutely had to be reinstated.  Her entire life depended on it.    How many chances did a singer get to perform in front of a major record producer?

She really owed Mrs. Humphrey big time, for insisting that her nephew attend the and Carrie was making sure that he wasn’t disappointed. This year, she had made the lead solo and was performing her own take on the classic, I’ll Be Home for Christmas certain that it would do for her what Somewhere Over the Rainbow had done for Katharine McPhee on American Idol. All her friends agreed.

But unless she could figure out a way to get the school board to change their minds, her one chance at stardom was over.

God, she hated school board officials. They were so lame and their stupid decision was going to cost her her big break.

Carrie never doubted the strength of her talent. In her mind, she was destined to be the next Britney Spears. No one else in school could hit those high notes with perfect precision or sing the trills that dazzled the crowds.

Well, maybe there was one other. That girl who was bused in from Titusville, Tamera somebody.  But her looks? Ugh! She was straight Salvation Army.

Carrie twisted a long strand of blonde hair and struck a full lipped, sexy pose while thinking that even if Tamera had a good voice, she would never attract the producer’s attention. It took more than a great voice to make it in the music industry. You needed the whole package—talent, poise, stage presence, all of which Carrie had in spades, along with a size four body. No carb’s ever passed these lips.  The record producer would have signed her up on the spot.

Would have…

Hot molten tears coursed down her perfectly highlighted checks in pink rivulets. This was so unfair! She chewed her bottom lip. There had to be a way to revive the concert. There just had to be!

She sunk down in her chair and went back to her e-mail.

“Meet me in the cafeteria before first period,” Carrie wrote, her fingers flying across the keyboard, alerting everyone on her extensive contact list. “We can’t let them do this to us.  We’ve been practicing for that concert since October. And besides, Madison High’s Christmas Concert is a tradition and everyone knows it’s unconstitutional to mess with a tradition. ”

She wasn’t at all certain that was true, but if it wasn’t, it should be.

Carrie and her cyber-friends commiserated for several hours before one, by one, they signed off. Dinner was being called. Homework needed to be done.

Carrie logged off then headed downstairs wishing that her mother didn’t have a late meeting.  Maybe she could think of a way to make the school board change their minds.  He mom owned the real estate firm in town. People listened to her.

She pulled out her cell phone and texted her mother.

When R U coming home? I need U. It’s urgent! My entire life is about to be ruined.

Join us next week at The Christmas Journal continues.

Copyright 2010 Katherine Valentine

Editor’s Note: Today, I am thrilled to share the following original children’s story from renowned author Katherine Valentine. This precious story is Katherine’s gift to our CatholicMom.com family of readers.  We hope you enjoy sharing this story with the children in your life and that you will visit Katherine at www.KatherineValentine.com to enjoy more of her writing.  Lisa

It was almost Christmas Eve and all the Christmas trees on Mr. Stilton’s Tree Farm had been taken home. All except the four trees that stood on a small hill behind the barn—Blue Spruce, Basil Balsam, Southern Pine and Tiny Tree.

As night slowly descended, the trees found it hard not to grow discouraged. Each one wanted more than anything to be taken home and to wear a Christmas Star, but now it looked as though their dream would never come true.

“Mr. Stilton said that if we’re not sold this Christmas, he’s turning us into firewood,” said Blue Spruce fearfully.

“Now, Blue, there’s still plenty of time left before Christmas Day arrives,” Tiny Tree said, trying hard to keep everyone’s spirits up. “I’m sure someone will come along and take us all home.”

“No one will want me,” said Blue, his branches sagging as they did under the weight of a heavy snow. “Just look at the empty space along my back. Who wants a Christmas tree that’s missing so many limbs?”

Southern Pine leaned over in the wind and sighed. “I dare say, Mr. Spruce that you have a far better chance of being chosen than I do,” she said in a soft southern voice. “Just look at me. All these branches and not one pine needle.”

It was true. Southern Pine hadn’t a one.

“Why, I’m as naked as a Jay Bird,” she said sadly. “No one wants a Christmas tree without pine needles.”

“Now, let’s not give up hope,” encouraged Tiny Tree. He couldn’t bear to see everyone so sad. “Why, I bet there are plenty of folks still left who haven’t chosen their Christmas tree.”

Basil Balsam forced back a tear. “It’s hard to have hope when everything seems so…so…hopeless.”

Basil had been passed over several times this week.  Folks said that he had too much trunk and too few limbs.

“Blue Spruce is right. We’ll probably all end up as firewood.”

With everyone growing so sad, it was hard for Tiny Tree to keep up a brave face. He, too, had hoped to be chosen this Christmas to wear a Christmas Star. It was the highest honor a Christmas tree could hope for. But Tiny Tree was just 41½ inches tall. Too big to sit on a table, yet too small to be placed on the floor which was why everyone that had visited the farm in search of a perfect Christmas tree had passed him by.

Folks just shook their heads and said, “He’s just too tall.” Or “He’s just too small.” And then they would wind their way along the paths that lead to another tree that was just right.

Just as his branches were about to sag, an old woodsman came crashing out of the forest, dragging a large, empty sleigh. A pack of dogs nipped at his heals.

“Get back, you mongrels!” he shouted. “Smelly brutes.”

A large black and white Great Dane, the size of a small pony began to sniff at the edges of Southern Pine’s branches.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed, drawing them aside.

The woodsman ignored Southern Pine’s protests, walking right past her to pause in front of the Tiny Tree.

“Now what do we have here?” he asked, rubbing a chin full of whiskers as he looked Tiny Tree up and down.

Tiny Tree felt his branches quiver with excitement. Maybe he was going to get to wear a Christmas Star after all.

“I need a Christmas tree for my cabin,” the woodsman explained. “Something small that the dogs can’t knock over.”

He eyed the dogs darkly then stepped back and titled his head to one side.

“I bet if I strung a rope around your middle and hoisted you up over the rafters, these mongrels wouldn’t be able to knock you over.”

Tiny Tree had often imagined himself dressed in gold and silver balls that dangled from his limbs and small white lights peeking out from among his pine needles. But he’d always pictured himself standing straight and tall on a brightly polished floor. He had never thought about being hung from the ceiling.

“Stand back,” the woodsman told the dogs as he pulled the sleigh around, parking it right in front of Tiny Tree.

“Just jump aboard,” he instructed.

Tiny Tree gathered his branches and was about to take a giant leap, when he happened to glance at Blue whose branches drooped sadly towards the ground.

He and Blue had been friends since seedlings, and he hated to see him so sad, but what could he do?  The woodsman couldn’t use two trees.

Then suddenly he had a wonderful idea!

“Mr. Woodsman,” he began. “Have you taken a look  at Blue Spruce? I think he would make a much better choice.”

“You do?” asked the woodsman.

“I would?” echoed Blue Spruce in great surprise.

“Yes, you would.” Tiny Tree explained. “Blue Spruce hasn’t any back branches which means he would fit perfectly in the corner of your cabin, safely out of the way of your racing dogs. And besides, it’s awful hard to decorate a Christmas tree when it’s hanging from the rafters.”

“You do have a point there, Tiny Tree,” the woodsman walking over to Blue Spruce and examining him more closely.

“He would fit nicely in the corner next to the fireplace. And it’s true that my dogs couldn’t knock over a tree that was tucked neatly into a corner. By golly…I’ll take him!”

So, the woodsman did as Tiny Tree suggested and asked Blue Spruce to hop onto his sleigh. Then he threw thick, brown rope over his shoulder and started up the hill towards home, dragging the sleigh behind as the dogs once again nipped at his heels.

“Well, at least one of us will get to wear a Christmas Star,” Basil Balsam said with a sad wistful note, watching his friend disappear into the woods.

Southern Pine agreed, heaving a mournful sigh.

Several moments later, an elderly couple came tottering up the path.

“Watch you step, Ma,” the man told his wife, carefully leading her up the steep hill.

Tiny Tree straightened his trunk and shook out his branches to display them as their finest. The couple was headed their way.

“What do you think, Ma?” the old man asked, walking right past Southern Pine to study the Tiny Tree.

“It’s certainly a nice little tree,” the old woman said thoughtfully. “But we have so many ornaments. I don’t think they’ll all fit.”

Southern Pine sniffled, watching her chance at wearing a Christmas Star fade. The sound filled Tiny Tree with a deep sadness and he knew at that moment, he just couldn’t let himself be chosen over Southern Pine.

So, he asked the old couple. “How many ornaments do you have?”

“We have too many to count,” the old man confessed. “Some were given us by friends and others by our children and then our grandchildren. Why, we’ve been collecting them ever since we got married. That was fifty years ago.”

The old woman sadly shook her head. “But we only use a few because no tree can hold them all.”

“Southern Pine could!” exclaimed Tiny Tree. “Her branches have lots of room, especially since she doesn’t have any pine needles to get in the way.”

The couple turned to examine Southern Pine more closely.

“Tiny Tree does have a point, Ma,” the old man said, looking over Southern Pine’s bare limbs. He took a measuring tape out from his back pocket and began to measure her from top to bottom.

“Why, it just might work, Ma,” he said with a note of excitement in his voice. “Without pine needles, I bet we could fit them all.”

“Oh, Pa, the children and grandchildren would be so pleased to see all of their ornaments displayed,” the old woman said, clapping her hands with glee.

And so, the old man and the old woman took Southern Pine to their home at the edge of town. That year, the couple took down all the ornaments they had stored in their attic and found every one fit along Southern Pine’s bare branches.

Back on the farm, it was growing dark. There were no other trees to help stop the cold winter wind that blew over the fields. Basil Balsam and Tiny Tree shivered.

“Well, I guess it’s just you and me,” Basil Balsam said, feeling as hopeless as a Christmas tree without a Christmas Star could be.

Tiny Tree searched his brain for something cheerful to say, when a young boy and girl came bounding up the hill.

“Look, Basil!” he shouted, pointing a quivering branch in their direction. “There’s still hope that one of us might wear a Christmas Star.”

“They’re probably going to pick you, and I’ll be firewood by tomorrow,” Basil said, forlornly.

“Hurry up, Johnny,” the girl told her brother.

The sun had just slipped over the hills and the lights from the village hadn’t yet been turned on. Shadows hid the path.

“It’s almost Christmas Eve,” she said. “We need to find a tree before it gets too dark.”

Their mother was in the hospital and the children wanted to surprise her with a Christmas tree. They thought it would help to cheer her up.

The children stopped in front of Tiny Tree.

“This one will do nicely,” the girl said.

“I think so, too” agreed the boy. “It would fit perfectly in our mother’s hospital room.”

Basil Balsam’s deep, mournful sigh echoed across the farm.

“Passed over again,” he lamented.

Tiny Tree’s heart nearly broke. He couldn’t bear to see his friend so sad. So, although Tiny Tree knew that this was his last chance to wear a Christmas Star, he decided to give it away to his friend.

“Is your mother in a hospital bed?” Tiny Tree asked the children.

They nodded.

Tiny Tree shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that she would never be able to see me if I were placed on the floor, and I’m much too big to sit on a table.”

“He’s right,” the boy said, turning to leave. “Come on. Let’s go. We’ll have to think of something else to cheer her up.”

“You can’t celebrate Christmas without a Christmas tree,” the girl sobbed.

“”You can still surprise your mother with a Christmas tree,” Tiny Tree said, waving a branch in Basil’s direction. “He would be the perfect tree. He has a long truck and high branches just right for viewing form a hospital bed.”

“Why, yes!” the boy exclaimed, taking a step back.

“”Why didn’t we see that before?” the girl asked, as she envisioned how beautiful Basil Balsam would look with his branches reaching up over he mother’s bed, decorated with stands of tiny white lights, gaily colored glass ornaments and a string of popcorn laced around his branches.

And so the boy and girl gently laid Basil Balsam on their red wagon and started down the hill.

Night was quickly falling. Shadows thickened across the snowy hills that encircled the village, and the night sky grew as dark as black ink.  Stars appeared and shown like a thousand polished diamonds.

Tiny Tree looked out over the empty tree farm, his pine needles chattering in the winter night’s breeze. He was the only tree left on Mr. Stilton’s Tree Farm. Everyone else had been taken home.

He thought about Blue Spruce tucked in a corner of the woodman’s cabin; his branches covered in tinsel and bright colored lights. And the sound of the dogs racing happily about as the woodsman smoked a pipe, the smoke curling up the chimney.

Then he pictured Southern Pine with her branches gaily colored with hundreds of cherished ornaments, displaying them proudly to all of Ma and Pa’s children and grandchildren.

As he pictured Basil Balsam, beside the hospital bed, decorated with paper chains and strings of popcorn, smiling at the way the mother’s eyes lit up with joy as she gathered her children close to her side.

But mostly, Tiny Tree pictured each of his friends with their top branch held high and a Christmas Star perched on their heads. And, although he was glad for his friends, he was a little sad, knowing that he would never get to wear a Christmas star.

….And tomorrow, Mr. Stilton would chop him up for firewood.

“I hope I make for a warm fire,” he said, gazing down at his trunk.

Just then the sound of church bells rang out in the distance. It was Christmas Eve. Christmas carolers joined the church bells and drifted up from the village down below.

Tiny Tree watched as colored lights twinkled gaily over doorways and lampposts, and when he leaned just a little to the left, he could see around the corner of the big red barn at the bottom of the hill to spy the twelve foot Christmas tree that stood on the town’s green, a giant red star poised on its head.

Slowly, his spirit began to lift as the wonder of Christmas, like fairy dust, softly fell across his heart. He closed his eyes and drank in its magic.

“Tiny Tree,” a voice echoed from the night’s sky.

He looked up and what he saw made him quiver all over. Why, an angel was slowly drifting down from among the stars. He was as tall as Mr. Stilton’s barn and was dressed in a robe that sparked with jewels.

“My name is Gabriel,” the angel told him and when he spoke, his voice sounded like the tinkling of hundreds of tiny bells. “God has sent me with a gift for you.”

“A gift? For me?” Tiny Tree stammered.

“God has seen how you gave away that which you treasured the most, the chance to wear a Christmas Star. By your compassion for others, you have shown that you possess the real spirit of Christmas.”

“I did?” Tiny Tree’s voice shook.

“You put the love of others before yourself and in doing so, you allowed God to share His love through you.”

“But I only did it because I didn’t want them to be sad. And I knew how much it meant for them to wear a Christmas Star,” Tiny Tree explained.

Gabriel smiled. “And wasn’t that your dream as well?”

“Yes, well….”

Gabriel’s smile broadened as he removed a golden trumpet from the folds of his robe. Putting it to his lips, he blew. At the sound of the trumpet, the heavens opened and the night sky flooded with a brilliant ray of golden light.

“Wow!” Tiny Tree shouted as hundreds of angels appeared.

“These are the angels who announced the birth of a Savior to the field full of shepherds,” Gabriel explained. Then he bent closer to Tiny Tree and whispered, “Look, they carry a star.”

It was unlike any Christmas Star that Tiny Tree had ever seen and filled the valley with a dazzling white light.

“This is the star that once pointed the way to a manger,” Gabriel said.

“It’s so bright!” Tiny Tree said, shading his eyes.

“That’s because it carries the light of God’s love,” Gabriel said. “The same love that you showed when you gave away what you treasured most. It is the love you displayed for your friends that has earned you the honor of wearing the brightest Christmas Star of all, the Bethlehem Star.”

Gabriel beckoned the angels to gather around and to place the star upon Tiny Tree’s highest branch. Tiny Tree could hardly contain his joy as golden rays of light blazed out from the star, illuminating the dark night.

The angels began to sing, their voice sweetly washing over the night skies….

O Holy Night…a star was brightly shining…

Tiny Tree stood straight and tall, as the Bethlehem Star shown out over the world. And at that moment, he knew that Christmas wasn’t about wearing a star or the gaily wrapped packages tucked beneath branches.

The true spirit of Christmas was knowing that we are loved by God.

The End

Copyright 2010 Katherine Valentine

“And God did extraordinary miracles through Paul, so that even handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched him were taken to the sick, and their illnesses were cured and the evil spirits left them.”

Acts 19:11

Can pieces of ordinary cloth carry healing power?

In the Book of Acts, we are told that the handkerchiefs and aprons touched by Paul carried healing power.   In Matthew, Jesus’ robe becomes a powerful conduit for healing as the woman with the issue of blood reaches out to grab hold of its hem and is completely healed.  The healing power which surged through His shepherd’s robe was so intense that our Lord stopped to ask who had touched Him.  “I felt power going out from me,” He said.

Patchwork quilts also carry healing sewn within its cloth.  If you doubt this statement take a hand sewn quilt and wrap it around your shoulders.  Can you feel the incredible comfort and quiet peace it brings?   No store bought comforter or blanket can duplicate it.

Animals seem to inherently know the special properties present in a handmade quilt.  Although our home is completely carpeted, my two dogs always seek out one of my quilts before settling down for the night.  And when they are ill, no amount of coaxing can get them to move off their special quilted beds.

The famous black muralist, John Briggers, was greatly influenced by his grandmother’s quilts and his work is filled with patchwork patterns.  Mr. Briggers believed that his grandmother’s quilts carried healing and wrote that when she laid them over his bed at night he felt that he was covered in  ”a blanket of love”.

I can’t explain the feeling of warmth and healing that these simple pieces of sewn scrap fabric generate anymore than I can explain the sense of peace one gets when seated in old, New England church.   It simply is.

Recently, I was sent a story of a group of quilters who sewed a prayer quilt for a friend who had cancer.  Their story is truly miraculous.

♥

Cathy Hardly learned that she had breast cancer on the same weekend that she was to take her daughter to college.  And although she was a dedicated Christian and loved the Lord with all her heart, the prospect of cancer and its implied threat of death terrified her.   Recently, a friend had died from breast cancer and the vivid devastation wrecked by this disease, the pain and suffering it entailed, acerbated her terror.

Further medical tests confirmed the cancer had metastasized into three other sections of our body.    Days later, Cathy went into surgery to remove the cancerous tumors followed by an aggressive therapy program in a heroic attempt to save her live.

But through the dark and seemingly endless valleys, Cathy maintained her simple faith in a loving Father.  She had complete confidence that God knew her pain, fears and anguish.  She trusted Him to provide the strength to carry on when she no longer could make it on her own. God did not fail her.

Later, Cathy would be amazed at the number of people God had sent to hold her up before His throne in prayer.    A quiet and reserved type of individual, Cathy never sought the company of large social crowds.    So when her good friend, Becky Fueger, called to say that she was gathering women to make her a prayer quilt, Cathy felt in her heart that it was more likely to be a prayer “pillow”.   But then Cathy had not counted on the extraordinary power of God towards those who call upon His name.

As I tell this story, I am reminded of Simon, who was pulled out from among the crowds along the route to Calvary, to help Jesus carry His cross.  Becky Frueger became Cathy’s cross-bearer as she quickly took charge of the quilt project.  She traced countless quilt block patterns, and Xeroxed hundreds of sets of instructions which included a request to pray over each piece of fabric that was cut.  The packets were then delivered to Cathy’s church which became the main distribution center.

Becky then began to make endless phone calls, calling God’s army of prayer warriors into action.  She solicited prayers from family, friends, bible study groups, even complete strangers.  Everyone she met, she shared the story of the prayer quilt and asked if they might like to participate.

Becky’s doggedly persistence paid off.  Within less than a month, she had received over 400 responses along with 400 scraps of fabric, enough to make a queen size quilt.

People sent pieces of bridesmaid dresses and beloved baby quilts.  A young child contributed a piece of his favorite Dallas Cowboy bed sheets to Cathy’s quilt in hopes that she would be a “winner” in the battle against her disease.   Other pieces had been inscribed with scriptures and crosses.

Becky could imagine the sacrifice these fabric squares represented.  Imagine taking the scissors to cut up these treasured memories, she thought?  God’s people had truly been moved by God’s call to pray.

Becky later said, “I was completely overwhelmed with the outpouring of love that came flooding in for Cathy.  In fact, I often found myself crying as I read the stories that were attached to many of the pieces of fabric”.

While Cathy underwent chemotherapy, the women came together to assembled the quilt blocks.  Each one was lovingly sewn by hand as the women prayed over each stitch. Prayers for Cathy’s complete healing, wisdom for the doctors, and peace of Cathy’s family were embedded in every seam.

But before the quilters could assemble the entire top, Cathy’s doctors scheduled a bone marrow transplant.   Knowing the grave importance to the success of this procedure, the women elected to deliver the unfinished top to Cathy’s hospital room.  They ceremoniously placed it on top of her bed as a symbol that they had “covered her” with their prayers. And God honored those prayers.  Not only was a matching bone marrow donor miraculously supplied, but the transplant was a complete success.

Cathy remained in the hospital to ensue against infection, and she requested the quilt top be allowed to stay with her.  Its presence seemed to bring a deep sense of comfort for it was a visual reminder that she was not alone in her struggles.

Although the days passed slowly, Cathy didn’t seem to mind for a wonderful phenomenon had begun to take place.  The quilt, with its simple homespun patches, began to draw people, like a beacon, from all over the hospital—nurses, orderlies, visitors, residents, doctors.   They all came as though under the influence of a force that was much greater than themselves.    They came to visit and to touch and admire the soft, cotton quilt blocks.    And while they visited, Cathy told them to the story of the prayer quilt and of the Lord’s power to save.

Cathy’s radiation treatments followed all that summer leaving her body covered in red, swollen patches, like an extreme case of sunburn.  She suffered greatly and the heat greatly increased the discomfort.  But no matter how uncomfortable the weather, Cathy never missed the weekly gathering of women who met in the church basement to quilt her prayer quilt.

Finally the prayer quilt was finished, a living epistle, a visual symbol to the power of God’s people, who when joined together in prayer, can create a  covering of faith so strong, that nothing—not fear, not illness, not even death—can  penetrate.

Cathy could attest to that.  After the quilt was finished, her doctors stated that she was cancer free.

Fear Not….

Never fear a trial for it is at those times that Heaven is at its best!   Once a prayer of great need is issued the entire halls of heaven go into action.   The Holy Spirit goes forth to write your name on the hearts of others, inciting the saints to pray.  Then our Father sends forth legends of angels to harvest those prayers and bring them before His throne where Jesus stands ready to fashion them into a covering of protection that He first wove 2000 years ago.



Copyright 2010 Katherine Valentine

Thankful for our wonderful, Catholic faith and its reliance on the saints to help lift our prayers when we grow weary, I had used this special mass to petitions all those who had gone before us…friends, family and church members… to join with Paul and me in asking God to open a door so we could return back home to Connecticut.

Three years ago, Paul and I came to live in Kentucky where our son had purchased a car dealership. It necessitated him moving his family up from Florida, and he asked if we would like to join them, hoping that it would make the transition a little easier for our two granddaughters. He had purchased a small farm, envisioning a family compound that had amble space for us to build a retirement home.

Although this meant leaving our beloved Connecticut and a lifetime of friends, our daughter, grandson and our wonderful church community behind, we felt that God was calling us go. So, we sold our home in Connecticut, invested our savings in our new home and began to put down roots.

Two years later disaster struck when the economy took a sharp decline and our son lost the dealership. His home (including ours) went into foreclosure. Devastated, our son quickly sank into a deep depression and began to make one horrendous decision after the other. Soon, the family shattered. Everyone went their separate ways, leaving Paul and I alone.

With little financial resources, our immediate needs were for a new source of income and shelter. As we had done so many times in the past, we went to the Lord in prayer, trusting Him to provide and He did not disappoint. The new owners of our son’s dealership hired Paul (who had just turned seventy-three) to drive people to and from service appointments. Even more miraculous, God enabled us to remain in our home as the foreclosure proceedings were repeatedly delayed.

Meanwhile, I used the time for deep reflection. I have discovered throughout my spiritual walk that God often uses difficulties to help us make needed course adjustments. In my case, I felt I had gotten off track in my writing which I’m sure accounted for not having sold another book in almost three years. Finally, in response to a dear priest’s suggestion that I ‘go back to my first calling”, I began to write for the Lord and not for agents or publishers or what they thought would sell.

The ride home this evening took about thirty minutes and wound through gentle rolling hills dotted with cattle. Suddenly, in the distance, the sun began to force its way through the cloud cover. Mist rose off the lowlands as a most unusual cloud formation in the shape of a mountain range began to take form.  We could make out clusters of trees, including evergreens whose tips pierced the sky. It stretched out for miles with gentle flowing ridges, reminiscent of the particular mountain range that encircles our Connecticut home. I knew it very well, having painted it many times as an artist.

While Paul and I edged forward, filled with awe, I suddenly felt that this was more than a mere coincidence or some weather type anomaly. God had sent me a sign using a cloud, as He once done for Elijah. Elijah had prayed for rain and a small cloud, the size of hand appeared to presage the answer. And so it was with this cloud formation. The mountainscape was a sign that our prayers to return home to our beloved Connecticut had been answered.

The next day, I was preparing dinner when the phone rang. It was the landlord of this particular housing complex that I had toured on a recent visit home. The primary reason for not returning home was the lack of affordable housing, yet on that day, I discovered a charming apartment complex just one street over from the town’s main thoroughfare filled with darling shops, my favorite café and lined with historic homes. It was perfect, except for one slight glitch. All the units were taken and there were five other people ahead of me on a waiting list. So, I had placed my name at the bottom of the list and returned to Kentucky.

But, now the landlord was calling to tell me of a vacancy. Did I still want it?

“YES! YES! YES!” I shouted, while tempering the urge to ask how I had managed to jump to the first of the list. In my heart, however, I knew the answer.

The One who had sent the clouds shaped in a familiar mountain range would certainly have no problem rearranging a few names on a slip of paper.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

I would walk down Atlantic Street, make a right onto Fifth Avenue and another right at St. Anthony of Padua’s Catholic School which I attended whenever catechism classes were in progress. My parents were too poor to send us to Catholic school, yet I would have given anything to have attended.

It was through these dedicated nuns that I would discover a deep love for the Church and the importance of the Sacraments which was why on any Saturday; I would be part of a group of neighborhood kids making their way to confession.

It was a quiet processional as we concentrated on the sins that we had committed during the week. The nuns emphasized the importance of searching our conscience. Occasionally, someone would ask if this or that was a sin. We’d all join in the discussion, each adding our personal point of view as we interpreted what we had been taught through the Baltimore Catechism.

Back then, evil thoughts were the bane of my existence although I was always trying to worm my way around them.

Hitting my sister had only been a fleeting thought. Surely, that couldn’t have qualified, right?

But then one of the group would issue the oft repeated phrase, “If you thought it, you bought it.”

I was thirteen when a new girl invited me to accompany her to a drug store in town. I didn’t know her very well, but she had a certain edginess that as a pre-teen I found intriguing. I also knew that my popularity would go up a notch once word had gotten around school that she and I had walked downtown together to the Charles and Dime store.

Once inside, we found the makeup aisle and began to study the nail polish display. As I remember, there was a new bubblegum pink shade that I thought was especially beguiling and mentioned it to this new friend.

“So, get it.”

“I don’t get my allowance until Friday,” I said.

“So, steal it.”

Steal it??? Had I heard her right? My heart skipped a beat as I watched her cast a cool eye down the aisle to make certain we were alone, then snatch a bottle off the shelf and slipped it into her purse.

“See how easy it is? Now, you do it,” she dared.

As clear as a bell, I heard, Thou shalt not steal.

My mind went into overdrive as I tried to think up a way that she and I might still be friends, yet not put my immortal soul in danger. I refused to follow her lead, she would not consider me one of the cool kids, and I desperately wanted to fit in.

Then, in a flash, it came to me.

I slipped a bottle of nail polish into my purse, completely oblivious to the shade and followed my friend out the door, my heart beating so fast that I felt sure I would faint.

Several streets later, we parted and I pretended to walk towards home until I saw her turn into her street. Then I high-tailed it back to that store and with my heart beating even faster, returned the polish that I had stolen.

That Saturday afternoon on way to confession, I asked the group if I really needed to confess this, since after all, I had returned the item.

“You thought it, you bought it,” the group said in unison.

As I drew nearer the confessional where the priest we had dubbed “Father the Flamethrower” (for his tendency to hail down fire and brimstone on penitents who had committed a grievous sin) sat waiting, I knew I was dead meat and that I would be at the altar rail that Saturday for a very long time.

Maintaining Church Laws in an Era of Unaccountability

We live in the most complex time in human history. The lines of right and wrong are constantly being blurred.

As I write this, a noted Israel official said in response to the counter attack on Gaza that a ‘country which does not maintain its borders will perish.” I believe the same holds true to moral borders.

In our effort to remain ‘politically correct’ the temptation is to go along with current trends. Like that of my childhood friend who urged me to sidestep one of God’s commandments, we must learn not to be seduced by our base leadings or powers to reason, but remain steadfast to God’s law and a higher call of accountability.

Through Mary’s example, she reminds us daily that it is our duty as Catholics to obey the tenets of our faith regardless of the popularity of the day. Let us denounce what the world heralds as acceptable and stand firm to the profession of our Holy Catholic faith.


Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Several weeks after Peter’s death, three well-meaning friends approached her with the news that she had very little money to live on. They spread charts and lines of figures across the dining room table, pointing to the dire necessity of her selling off the summer cottage on Cape Cod that was filled with wonderful memories; and that she should consider moving into a very modest apartment if she wished any money to be available to send Peter Jr. to college.

She listened to their advice, grateful that they had cared so deeply for her husband that they would see a dire need and offer their help. But as they spoke about taxes, interest, depreciation, upkeep, she couldn’t help but feel that something was missing from their counsel.

In To Live Again, Catherine recalls: “Alone in my room later, I stared out the window into the moonlight shining on the swaying treetops. Suddenly, standing there at the window, I knew what was the missing factor was.

“These three friends, who saw my many inadequacies…who had meant to be so kind, had reckoned without God. I remember how often Peter had faced this same attitude with his church officers. He would come home from a trustees’ meeting sad and grim.

“Catherine, no matter what’s presented for their approval, their litany is always the same. ‘But Dr. Marshall, where is the money coming from?’ Where’s their faith in God?”

Suddenly, it was as though Peter was standing with her in that room, whispering in her ear, reminding her of God’s ability to save regardless of the circumstances. How many times had she heard him say…

“Either God is with me—I am that I am—a fact more real than any figures or graphs. Or He was not. If He was there, then reckoning with Him was certainly not being ‘realistic’. In fact, it could be the most hazardous miscalculation of all.”

Catherine relates the amazing details of God’s faithfulness in her book, To Live Again, which chronicles how God answered her needs by fulfilling a dream of hers to be a writer, and in the process has blessed generations of readers who have stumbled over her books.

Catherine Marshall discovered one of the purest truths of a Christian life. God is in control of all things. There is no problem outside of God’s ability to save, nor His desire to do so. He holds our futures within His omniscient hand. Impossibilities are grand avenues of hope to Him.

I, too, can testify to God’s faithfulness. Like, Catherine, when I needed financial resources to allow my husband to retire, God gave me an idea for a series of novels. And even though I had no experience as a novelist, the first one sold with a six figure advance.

No matter what you’re facing, no matter how dire or ostensibly hopeless the situation, do not despair. God has the answer already tagged with your name.

And while you’re waiting for deliverance, don’t let Satan’s tempt you to doubt with the lie that God only intervenes for a select few. That’s pure balderdash! God has no favorites.

There’s an old hymn that says it best…

It Is No Secret What God Can Do
The chimes of time ring out the news,
Another day is through.
Someone slipped and fell.
Was that someone you?
You may have longed for added strength,
Your courage to renew.
Do not be disheartened,
For I have news for you.
It is no secret what God can do.
What He’s done for others, He’ll do for you.
With arms wide open, He’ll pardon you.
It is no secret what God can do.
There is no night for in His light
You never walk alone.
Always feel at home,
Wherever you may go.
There is no power can conquer you
While God is on your side.
Take Him at His promise,
Don’t run away and hide.
It is no secret what God can do.
What He’s done for others, He’ll do for you.
With arms wide open, He’ll pardon you.
It is no secret what God can do.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

I have always spoken to the things that surround me.  I pat the dashboard of my car after it has bravely navigated a treacherous icy hill and say, “That a girl!”.   I tell my tea kettle to not to boil over, “I’ll be right back”, and I always talk to the quilts and hooked rugs that lay in my lap to assure them that they are “coming along just fine”.

In spring and summer, I talk to my garden and I know that the flowers are better for it.  For instance, every morning with my coffee, I speak to the garden that surrounds my patio.  I have asked my White Nancy’s to please fill the border that I had extended  but to keep off the grass and they have obliged, and the soft, pale white, pink and red Astibles (who are really quite vain) nearly double their size every two weeks, should I tell them that they are the focal point of my garden.

The garden that is around the side house and whom I rarely visit, but water and feed with just the same care, never blooms as well.  I believe it is the need of good conversation, not fertilizer that it craves.

My Nana talked to plants.  She was a great gardener. From early spring to fall, dozens of varieties of the most fragrant roses lined her fences with deep ruby reds, and riotous yellows.  She spoke to her roses everyday and planted a fish near its roots once a month.  Her roses were the envy of her small Long Island village.

I went to live with Nana when I was three years old.  My father had been hurt on a construction job and was hospitalized.  With mounting bills and no savings, my mother was forced to go to work.  There were no daycare centers in 1950, so I was packed off to my Nana’s for the next two years.

Nana was a large woman in every sense of the word.  She appeared as round as she was tall (5’ 10”), strong willed and strong boned whose authoritative voice threw commands like darts in a sharp German accent.   She always wore the same outfit- navy blue or black house dress which buttoned down the front over her amble bosom, thick, orange stockings that she rolled down around her ankles when at home and rolled up when she left the house, and serviceable rubber soled shoes that laced in the front.  Her waist long white hair, that held only a hint of the soft, lemon yellow of her youth, was always neatly pinned up and tucked underneath a hair net, and  when she smiled it was a toothless grin because Nana believed that her dentures, like her patent leather shoes, were to be worn only when leaving the house.

She frightened all of my cousins.  They never came to call.  But I loved her and entered this new living arrangement with enormous excitement.  I don’t ever remember missing my mother.  Nana was infinitely more interesting.

Although Nana insisted upon the highest Christian standards and proper manners from me, she had a few flaws that could have used some work. Especially when it came to neighborhood gossip.

Nana could spread gossip faster than a crop duster and her primary source was the party line. Once, while listening in, she overheard a neighbor say he was “selling his new kid”.  Nana never had more than a tentative grasp of the English language throughout her eighty-eight years, so she  interpreted the “kid” to mean a child instead of a goat.   Soon wild tales were circulating about this man and his wife and how they made their living by selling their children through shady adoption agencies.  I always strongly suspected that Nana’s gossip played a major role in that family’s decision to move out of town.

Nana was an expert gardener and her two acres of land were fairly overrun with raspberry and blackberry bushes, vegetable gardens and hundreds of soft colored cosmos which buried all the walkways in summer.  Everything grew with little fuss.  I often reflect on myself and my gardening friends who are forever weeding this or spraying for that.  My grandmother never did any of it.  I strongly suspect it was her no-nonsense style.  Her plants just knew that if they uttered a complaint she would simply rip them out by their roots.

I loved working in Nana’s garden and can still see vivid images of her bent at the waist grasping a small medal spade whose handle had disappeared underneath her thick, broad hand.  She would dig into the rich topsoil, plop a seed into the hole (which I was absolutely convinced would never amount to anything even remotely resembling a plant) pat the dirt around it.  She would then instruct me to water which necessitated frequent trips up the rather formidable hill to the spigot by the back door of the house.  By the end of the morning, I was quite happy to take a quiet nap in the shade and leave Nana to her other chores.

So Nana planted and I watered and soon strong, healthy, green shoots emerged from out of the brown earth.  A miracle!   We feasted on the bounty from that garden all summer long, and felt infinitely wealthy as Nana’s larder was quickly filled with glass canning jars of tomatoes, preserves, spiced peaches, and string beans all lined in perfect rows like a vast army whose regiments would defend our family against hunger during the winter months.

Later, Nana’s larder would become a living lesson in Christian charity.   Although Nana seldom had a dollar to spare in her black leather pocketbook, she freely gave to anyone in need.

I can still hear Nana’s voice, “Mrs. Samson’s husband has been laid off from work, bring up a few jars of my canned tomatoes”…or…”Mrs. Capinello has just had another baby. Go fetch a jar of my spiced peaches and some raspberry preserves.  They have so many mouths to feed and God has blessed us with such bounty.  We must always share what He has entrusted to our care. ”

And when I climbed down the dark, basement stairs and unlatched the wooden door to Nana’s pantry, I would always pause with child-like wonder as I viewed the miraculous bounty of riches that lined the shelves.   Then I would remember how it had all begun from a tiny, dried seed that Nana had planted with absolute faith of its outcome.  And through her faith, she had fed us all.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

For the last year, I have been telling people to ‘fill up your lamps and trim your wicks’. In my spirit, I felt something coming that would try the souls of the faithful. Its root was founded in America’s growing distance from its Christian foundation. Morality, ethics, the sanctity of life was being replaced by the popular much embraced heresy that all paths lead to a Universal Being and proclaimations that there were no rights or wrongs, just multiple choices. But we only have to look to the Old Testament to see the devastation to a nation that embraces these tenets when God removes His hand from a people. I believe we are seeing that now during this financial holocaust.

Many of you are already without employment and wondering what is to become of your family. Will you be able to keep your home? Your car? What will you do for medical needs?

There are few trials that I haven’t hit straight on. Cancer, the tragic death of a beloved three year old granddaughter; stripped of all our worldly possessions at a time when most couples think about retirement. For over twenty years, Paul and I had no health insurance. Yet, let me encourage you not to fear by my testimony. Not once has God ever refused to provide a need from housing, to purchasing a car, or to providing our medical needs and expenses.

Having experienced God’s faithfulness first hand, let me assure you that He will not allow the faithful to go without provisions. The same God who has kept our family all through those years is available to you.

God is a provider to those who earnestly seek Him

God is a loving and generous Father to all who call upon Him through His beloved Son, Jesus. There is no need that you could ever encounter for which He cannot and will not fill. Ephesians 3:20 states, ‘Glory to Him whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine…’

Did you get that?  His power is working through you! You are already equipped with everything you need to weather this storm. Romans 8:15 in the Thompson Chain Reference Bible it reads…For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of Sonship. And by Him we cry, Abba, Father…”

About fear…

Don’t let fear rob you of God’s peace. Fear is the greatest weapon at Satan’s disposal.   If he can get you to fear, then he can get you to doubt in God’s saving grace and His promise to provide.

Always remember. You are a child of the most high God. Through the shedding of Christ’s blood and the power of the Cross, your birthright had been established through Christ by God. You are God’s child and with that comes all the rights and privileges detailed in the Bible.

The Word is a lamp unto my feet

As we enter into the Lenten period, I urge you to establish a family Bible study period each evening. Think of the Bible as the ‘Owner’s Manual’. If you don’t read it, you’ll never know what glorious rich promises upon which you can depend.

Jesus said that ‘the words I have spoken to you are spirit and they are life’. As you read and discuss the Word of God, your minds and hearts will be open to the generosity and power of God to provide regardless of the circumstances.

It doesn’t matter what the rest of the country is facing.  Six million people out of work. That has nothing to do with you! You’re not one of the mainstream. You’re a child of a powerful, supernatural, Father who is not governed by circumstances or man’s economic laws.

During times of difficult trials, study the story of Joseph in Genesis 37 and then work your way through Exodus.  Let your heart not be trouble, but comforted as you read how during some of the most dismal circumstances, God’s faithfulness shined through. Let the story of deliverance encouraged you, fill your hearts with peace. As the old hymn says, “What He’s done for others, He’ll do for you.”

End you Bible study by asking God to open your eyes so you might see God’s workings on your behalf. Watch for God in the events of your life.

…..A chance meeting that results in a redirecting your course that leads to

the answer you seek.

…. An unexpected check or the discovery that you’ve overpaid your taxes,

or some other unexpected provision.

I once petitioned God for a new car. I needed ten thousand dollars. Even a dear priest friend tried to caution me from believing for such a large petition. But I stood firm on God’s Word and a short time later, Paul received a check for ten thousand dollars from Social Security for payments he was not aware were owed.

Begin a family prayer journal to log the requests, leaving room for the answers. Soon you’ll begin to see God’s hand move in ways you never would have imagined. Most importantly, you and your family will begin to discern His intervention and your faith will be emboldened

When the storm is over, the wicked are no more, but the upright stands firm forever

I know how hard it seems to maintain your faith in God’s blessings during these troubling times, but make a commitment to ‘Fast’ from doubt. Sometimes faith isn’t about the power to believe, but the refusal to doubt.

If you’ve lost your job, or your pension, or your life’s savings; if you’re a young couple with a family and are facing foreclosure on your home; if you’re a senior who facing a challenging illness…

…do not lose heart.

God can and will find a way to deliver you. And when you stand in awe of His saving grace, remember to share your testimony of faith with others so they, too, can find the courage to trust God’s benevolent grace.

This I believe: I shall see the goodness of Yahweh, in the land of the living.

Put your hope in Yahweh, be strong, let your heart be bold…

Psalm 27:13-24

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Paul and I measured two inches around our home, yet when I spoke with friends many had gotten as much as eighteen inches, and they live only a few miles away!   Strange how nature will deposit nearly a foot of snow in one area and then leave only a dusting in another.  It reminds me of my coffee cakes that I sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar.  No matter how hard I try to make my dusting even, I always seem to get more in the middle of the cake than on the outside.  Perhaps Nature has the same problem with snow.

The only sound that can be heard from my window is the river coursing through the woods.  The chickadees and wood hutches have taken cover from the storm and have not yet reappeared. For a moment, I revel in the silence of a winter morning that our early New England ancestors must have known.  No car horns, snow blowers or jets sailing overhead.  Just the hushed wonder of a winter’s morning soon to be awakened by Spring’s song. I waste no time in throwing on my Parker and gloves. My German shepherds appear like fathoms.

“A walk?” they say. “We’d love to!”

How very peaceful our valley appears with its blanket of snow thrown over its slumbering fields where tucked beneath lie hyacinths, daffodils, Lilly-of-the-valleys and tulips. As I walk through the woods steeped in snowy silence, I begin to talk out loud to God.  At the sound of my voice, my shepherds turn and look up at me with inquiring eyes.

“Are you talking to us?”  they ask with tails a wagging.

I pat them on the heads and continue with my conversation with the Lord.  They quickly resume their private walks assured that I am speaking to My Master and not to them.

My walk leads me along the river’s edge where I pause to watch the water coursing through our small valley and feel God’s presence close beside me.  I hear His voice clearly here, alone as I trek this winter wonderland. I ask specific questions. He answers, not in lofty phrases, but in simple everyday pity sentences.

I once asked Him when people began to become indifferent to their neighbor’s needs.  He answered, “When they started building back patios instead of front porches”. The more I thought about that response, the more profound it became.

I love these silent moments where God’s voice is so clear. There are few intrusions here, except the rustle of dead leaves when a squirrel tries to remember where he has buried that supply of acorns, or the “caw” of an irate crow as I pass under his tree.  Little more.

It’s a pity that so few seek solitude in nature. Silence is the portal through which God has spoken to men through the millenniums; one often used by prophets or saints who separated themselves from distractions in order to hear God’s voice more clearly.

The opposite seems to be the norm nowadays. Lately, I feel as though society works overtime to fill any empty space with some form of activity—music blaring from boom boxes, television shows, movies, videos games, and endless sport- type pursuits.  Most restaurants are so noisy that it’s near impossible to enjoy a quiet conversation. ‘St.’ Paul and I have almost stopped dining out for we don’t enjoy yelling over our soup to be heard!

I am mindful of the story of Elijah would stood on the top of a mountain in the presence of  the Lord and waited for the Lord to pass by.  First three was a great and powerful wind that tore the mountain apart and shattered the rock, but the Lord was not in the wind.  Then came an earthquake and then a mighty fire, but the Lord was not to be found in either of them.  Then came silence and Elijah could the Lord’s gentle whisper instructing him how to go on.   So many people are uncomfortable with silence.  I wonder what they fear that God may say?

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Now, I must pause here, to state emphatically, that I had no intention of owning another German shepherd.  There was already a beautiful ninety-five pound, black and silver shepherd named, Amadeus, who dwarfed our small home.  But from the moment Harley tore through the patio screen door, rushed up to Amadeus and nudged him with his nose as though to say, “High Buddy,” then curled up on the couch and went to sleep, he was ours.   We changed his name to Wolfgang and traded in my Ford Taurus sedan for a Chevy mini-van.

Wolfgang was a “people dog”.  Unlike most shepherds who are only interested in their owners, Wolfgang loved everyone and was a very exuberant greeter who especially liked to be the first to welcome people to our home.  But since he was not a barker, and he would hurl himself at new arrivals with the speed of a sixteen wheeler on the open road, this led to some anxious moments for new arrivals.

Newcomers were easy to identify.  They are the ones with the sharply rising crescendo of terror to their voice. “No….no…oh…help!!!”

Our friends, however, grew quite accustomed to Wolfgang’s exuberant greeting and simply stopped his onslaught by shouting, “Where is your ball?”  Immediately the brakes go on.  Front legs lock.  Back claws dig deep into the ground.  He would pause, look around for his faithful companion—the ball—then seeing it gone, his eyes would fill with panic.

“Good grief! Here is a new playmate and my ball is nowhere in sight!”  Then he was off in a frantic in search of his beloved ball, always happy to oblige another lover of the sport.

Wolfgang loved his ball.  He ate with it beside his dinner dish; he would place it on the coffee table for safekeeping when he curled up on the couch for a cuddle; and he slept with it between his paws at night. There was nothing in the entire world that he would rather do, than to play ball.  So we played and played and played…

We played in the morning.  As soon as our feet touched the carpet, Wolfgang appeared with the ball in his mouth. We’d snatch it away then pitch it down the stairs hoping that we can make it to the bathroom before he returned and pounced on our bare feet.

We played ball as I tried to type at the computer. I’d throw the ball back over my head with one hand and type with the other. This maneuver, however, did not seem to qualify in the “Wolfgang Book of Rules and Standards for Tossing a Ball”.  Wolfgang would tuck his head underneath the keyboard that I lay in my lap and flipped it up into the air.

By mid-afternoon, we both needed a break and we all (including my “bed troll” Amadeus) would take a walk along the dirt path that dipped into the woods by the side of our house.   The ball has been left at home. This caused Wolfgang great anxiety at first, but soon he would be off chasing a squirrel into the woods.  Midway through our walk, he would drop a stick at my feet.

“Want to play toss the stick, instead?”  asked his inquiring eyes.

Later, after supper had been served, both shepherds have been properly walked and the dishwasher was busy humming, I would take my cup of tea into the living room where Wolfgang tried to entice me into one last game of toss the ball.

Although my husband, Paul, had ordered him to “stay” and lay down by the hearth, he would slowly slither over to my side of the room, tip his head upon my knee and drop his ball into my lap. I would try to ignore him, but it never worked.  I would eventually melt under his hopeful gaze.  The permanent bare tracks in the carpet that ran from one end of the living room to the other was testimony to my inability to say no to any shepherd with hope in his eyes.

Wolfgang went home to the Lord in 2003, and I hope he is the first thing I see when I get to heaven. His joy for life; his unbridled enthusiasm; his ability to forgive any transgression as though it had never occurred have taught me deep, spiritual truths.

God sends many teachers. Not all arrive in human form. Sometimes they come in ninety pound, furry packages with soulful brown eyes and long, wet tongues and an obsession for tossing a ball.  They come to teach us lessons in forgiveness, persistence, friendship, hope and the simple joy in being with the ones we love. No wonder DOG spelled backwards spells GOD.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Night has just begun to settle as he carefully thread his way  along the village green and onto Mary’s house,  but it was still light enough for Father Jennings to make out the planters outside the town hall filled with newly planted mums. Until last week, red geraniums had grown there.  He smiled, remembering how Mary faithfully tended those plantings from spring to fall for so many years.   He often saw her with a water can in hand, watering her charges just before morning Mass.  He wondered how many people enjoyed those plantings, yet had no idea who had been so faithful in their care.

A sudden crisp, autumn breeze blew across the town green as the priest turned onto South Street.  He pulled up the collar to his black jacket and paused to zipper it close. Images of Mary dotted the landscapes of his thoughts as he continued along the familiar road.

Mary was never one to stand out in a crowd.  She preferred to stay in the background.  If there was a church dinner, Mary could be found in the kitchen, sleeves of her sweater rolled up to her elbows, her hands busy scrubbing out the pots.  He often spied her car a serviceable white, Chevy Cavalier parked outside the nursing home and knew that Mary was inside setting up a video or playing cards with the residents.

She took communion to the sick, arrived every Friday with a Ziploc bag filled of hard boiled eggs to help make sandwiches for the soup kitchen, could always be counted on to help man the phone at the rectory whenever the church secretary was on vacation and quietly supplied all new mothers with a hand-knitted baby sweater.

Father Jennings turned onto the brick path and climbed up the wooden stairs to the small yellow cape. The porch light was on.  He called through the front screen door.  One of Mary’s daughters quickly appeared and showed him to Mary’s room at the back of the house. After making certain that her mother didn’t need her care, she left Mary and the priest alone.

“Hello Mary,” he said softly, pulling up a chair close to the bedside.

“Hello Father,” she said weakly.  “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he assured her and meant it.  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mary?”

“Yes, Father,” she said.  “There is one thing.  I’ve been thinking about meeting Jesus and how wonderful that is going to be and how I wish to tell Him how much I’ve always loved Him. But I’m a little worried.”

“About what?” he asked.

“You know Father that I’ve never been good with words.  Some people know just the right thing to say.  I’ve never had that talent. What if I get up to heaven and can’t find the words to express my great love for our Lord?”

The priest smiled and lovingly took her hands into his.  Raising them up he said, “If words fail you, Mary, just show Him your hands.”

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

I suppose that down through the years, I have given away hundreds of rosaries to those who have lost their faith, or left the Church, or were in the midst of a great trial. And strangely, as it might sound, the recipients will often return with stories of how Mary has interceded on their behalf—a brain tumor that no longer appeared on x-rays; a granddaughter returned after many years absence; the peace it brought to a dying man; a young boy lying in a coma after being hit by a car who regained consciousness when a priest pinned one to the child’s pillow. The stories go on and on.

Giving away rosaries began nearly twenty years ago. My husband, Paul and I were invited by friends to attend a healing service in a small non-Catholic church. It was an informal affair. A minister spoke briefly then a group of people gathered at the front of the church to lay hands on those wishing prayer. It was quite lovely.

Paul and I were seated towards the rear, observing the service. I was quietly saying my rosary, a special pleasure for after decades of secretly wanting a silver rosary; my husband had surprised me with one for my birthday. It was a beautiful strand, imported from Italy, thick silver beads with a crucifix that lay on a lattice type cross. I’m seldom attached to ‘things’ but this I dearly loved and never removed them from their case without giving thanks.

As I prayed my rosary, I kept one eye on the proceedings up in front where I happened to notice that a street lady was making her way towards the front of the line. I have a special love for the poor and downtrodden, so I stepped up the prayers, asking the Lord to meet her needs.

Finally, it was her turn and I waited for them to place their hands and begin to prayer.  Instead, I watched in horror as they turned her away. I couldn’t believe it. What kind of Christians were these people?

My heart filled with compassion and my eyes with tears. Unbelieving, I watched this broken woman walk back down the aisle and slip into the aisle across from me.

I stepped up my prayers, asking our Holy Mother to deliver this poor, wretched woman from whatever ailment that had led her here.

Then in a quiet voice, I heard Mary say, “Give her your rosary.”

My first thought was that she must mean the plastic ones in the back of my car that I had bought for CCD.

I heard her voice again. “Give her your silver rosary.”

I’d love to tell you that I obeyed without question, but I did not. Instead, I began to ‘explain’ why that would not be a good idea. The woman wouldn’t appreciate the value of the rosary. I had waited thirty years to finally be given such a beautiful strand…and so on and so on.

Then I heard her voice again. “Give her the silver rosary.”

And I knew in my heart that she would not ask again. Rather than disappoint Our Mother, I took a deep breathe, steeled myself and took the three small steps across the aisle with my beloved silver rosary in hand.

The street lady had been praying and looked up when she felt me standing over her. I held out the rosary.

“These are filled with prayers,” I said and slipped them into her hand. “I hope they give you comfort.”

Funny, how we never really look into the eyes of the poor. We see them pass, get an impression of their poverty, their despair but keep our eyes focused on the ground. This day, however, I looked directly into the eyes of the destitute and saw an angel smiling back at me.

Since that day, I have prayed over hundreds of rosaries. Sometimes I hear the Our Lady say, “Pray for peace” or renewal, return, faith, health, healing, reconciliation…the list is endless. And then I stick them in my purse and wait, and inevitably, someone will come across my path and I’ll feel a ‘push’. I remove the rosary and slip it into their hands.

“These are full of prayers,” I tell them. “I hope they give you comfort.”

Each time the response is the same rather Catholic, Protestant, Jew, atheist…doesn’t matter.  They take them relevantly into their hands, their eyes flush with tears. I always chuckle when I discover their need which always aligns with the type of the prayers that were said over them.

Then the stories filter back.  This one found healing. Another reconciliation. Another new spiritual depth. Another a true miracle. Some elect to keep the rosary, but most pass them on. New stories surface.

Recently, with priestly counsel, I have answered the call to begin a ‘Ministry of the Holy Rosary’. Conducted through parishes or groups, it begins with a small seminar that explains the power of the Rosary and how it can be used as an evangelical tool, a healing vessel, or a chalice of hope.

After refreshments, or lunch, a mass is conducted where the priest blesses the rosaries set aside for this special ministry. Participants are then instructed to begin a nine day novena through the rosary, for the person who Mary will send to receive this gift of prayer. And don’t be surprised if that person is not of the Catholic faith. Because of one strand given to a local Bible Belt Protestant and the miracles that had ensued, I am now sharing this wonderful devotion with other Protestants.

Mary came once to give the gift of the birth our Savior, and perhaps, now, she is giving him again to heal a world filled with turmoil through the Rosary.

For those wishing to conduct the “Ministry of the Holy Rosary” program in your parish or group, contact Katherine Valentine through TMG Catholic Speaker’s Bureau: Speakers@MaximusMG.com