Todays Idea- Central
Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>
"We'll be fine," Chris reassured her mother. "We'll take that shortcut that we use all summer."
They found the shortcut, and turned onto it. Chris had forgotten how narrow the road was, especially with drifts piled high, and wind blowing snow across the fields. Usually chatting on previous drives, neither woman had noticed how deserted the area was. When
another vehicle roared around a curve, Chris swerved, and skidded into a snowbank. The other car kept going.
The wheels spun uselessly as she tried to pull out. "Mommy, are we stuck?" toddler Phillip asked, from under his blanket in the back seat.
"Looks that way, honey," Chris admitted. They had only seen that one car since they'd turned onto the shortcut. How long would it be before someone came along? How long before the freezing temperature invaded the car's interior? And why, oh why, had she
worn SANDALS and pantyhose instead of warm boots?
Chris got out, her feet plunging into a high drift, and looked around. Lord, please send us some help, she prayed. Then she saw itâ?"-a silo and barn roof peeking up from the hills, about a quarter-mile away. "Mom," Chris leaned in the car, "I'll walk down to that
barn and see if anyone's there. Keep the kids warm."
The journey was incredibly cold, and by the time Chris pushed open the barn door, her feet were icy. A welcome blast of heat greeted her, along with the mooing of heifers in their stalls. It was a working dairy, clean and well organized, with a shiny window fan
circulating the air. Even better, Chris heard young male voices behind a stall. Maneuvering around fresh manure, she followed the sound and came upon two farmhands in overalls and flannel shirts, kidding and teasing each other. They stopped and smiled when they saw her, and quickly she explained the situation.
"Stay here!" one said, tramping past the cows and out the door. A few moments later, Chris heard a horn honking in front of the barn. There he was, driving a blue pickup truck. "Get in!" he shouted. Chris hesitated. She didn't know these men. And yet there was something so merry about them that she couldn't feel afraid. She and the other farmhand scrambled into the pickup, and bounced down the road. There was the car, her toddlers bundled up and Mom waving. The driver roared across the field, spun i
n a wide circle and screeched into position in front of it. "'Way to go!" his buddy yelled.
Chris gripped the seat. "Do you always drive like this?" she asked, only half joking.
The driver shrugged. "Well, it ain't our truck."
Within minutes, the men had freed Chris's car, and she opened her purse to reward them. But both backed away. "It was our pleasure, Ma'am. Just drive safely."
Not like you, Chris grinned as she pulled away. But they had been wonderful guys.
Chris didn't realize just how wonderful until two weeks later when she and her mother decided to make a return visit to her grandmother. Since the snow was almost melted now, the short cut was safer. Soon the silo and barn roof came into view. "Let's stop and let the guys know we made it to Grandma's that day," Chris suggested. But when they pulled up in front, where Chris had climbed into the blue truck, she could hardly believe her eyes.
For the barn was vacant, shabby, with paint peeling and door hinges hanging loose. Bewildered, Chris wiped away a heavy film of dirt and cobwebs on the milk house window and peered inside. Where were the heifers, the floors littered with fresh manure? Even the fan was rusty. "You couldn't have seen any farmhands or cattle there," the woman at the next house told Chris. "No one's worked that property for years."
Chris got in the car. "Am I crazy, Mom?" she asked.
"No." Her mother was firm. "This is definitely the place."
Then suddenly Chris understood, and like the shepherds at that first Christmas, she was filled with awe. Her angels had worn blue jeans instead of white robes. But they had delivered the same timeless message, to her and to anyone willing to listen:
Fear not. The Savior is here, and He cares about you. Alleluia!
One song can spark a moment,
One flower can wake the dream.
One tree can start a forest,
One bird can herald spring.
One smile begins a friendship,
One handclasp lifts a soul.
One star can guide a ship at sea,
One word can frame the goal.
One vote can change a nation,
One sunbeam lights a room.
One candle wipes out darkness,
One laugh will conquer gloom.
One step must start each journey,
One word must start each prayer.
One hope will raise our spirits,
One touch can show you care.
One voice can speak with wisdom.
One heart can know what's true.
One life can make the difference,
you see, it's up to You!
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our
Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has
peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the
true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of
it-overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to
get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---
the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything
else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual
shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special
just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior
level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas,
there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an
inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in
sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing
holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in
their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling
shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other
team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet
designed to protect a wrestler's ears.
It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well,
we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class.
And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered
around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride
that couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of
them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential,
but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little
league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his
present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store
and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent
them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve,
I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what
I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the
brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending
a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game,
another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had
burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always
the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children,
ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation
as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents,
but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When
Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I
barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an
envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an
envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown
and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren
standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching
as their fathers take down the envelope.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.
May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season,
and the true Christmas spirit this year and always.
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