Another Christmas tale...

Mary's Christmas--2012

Here's what Mary knew: hunger, real hunger for the first time in her life; cold, more cold than she could remember; fear, again, a first time feeling, if you didn't count thunder storms; pain, in her feet, all four of them.

And it was dark. She was wandering in an unknown place, trying to remember home and the Man and the Woman and the Girl and the Boy. But her memory was not all it could be. Being in Mary's brain would be like being in a place like a desert, or an empty field, or snow-covered ground with just occasional object to break up the monotony. Mary's brain was like the brain of any Lab/Cocker Spaniel mix, or any Lab's, or any Cocker Spaniel, any dog at all....

Brendan, who was 'the Man' in Mary's mostly empty mind—which registered only basic things: hunger, cold, fear, pain, heat, safety, someone's touch, joy, love--often thought to himself that he would prefer to be in Mary's head than being in Joe's head, the Maine Coon Cat who lived with them. Being in Mary's head, Brendan thought, would be simple, easy, in the moment, verging on Zen. He was not anxious to know what a cat thought. Cats, he thought, always being a 'dog person', though he loved Joe greatly, would have a mind that was Byzantine in complexity, full of traffic circles and cul-de-sac's and dead ends. A dog's mind, Brendan believed, would be basic and uncomplicated and verging on sublime. That, Brendan imagined, would be a comforting place to be for a while, away from the complexities of his own mind, simple and safe. The mind of Joe, a cat's mind, on the other hand, would be risky business, something better avoided, something to stay clear of. Cats, thought Brendan, were inscrutable, foreign, removed. Extricating yourself from the mind of a cat might be something like trying to escape quicksand—the more you struggled the deeper in you would sink.

But on this day, this Christmas Eve, Brendan wasn't thinking such philosophical thoughts. His thoughts were clear and full of terror. Mary was missing and he was beside himself and in mourning. So were the other people in his house—Lydia his wife and Alan and Ellen, their children, 10 and 7 they were. For three days, none of them were functioning at a very high level, not since that night three nights ago (the first day of winter) when Brendan took Mary with him to go pick up some gifts at Macy's in the mall in Waterbury. It had been warm for December and Mary loved to ride in the car. The packages were waiting for him at the service desk—a few things for good friends that Lydia had ordered on line to pick up at the store, already wrapped.

Brendan had left the window down a bit, so Mary could stick her nose out if she wanted, but usually she was fine in a parked car, either curling up in the front passenger seat or stretching out in the back seat of Brendan's Kia to wait patiently. Mary was nothing if not patient. She always snoozed a bit when left in the car. And it only took Brendan 10 minutes to collect the packages and get back to his car in the crowded parking lot.

But the packages were left, still in their bags, on the pavement when Brendan saw the overhead light on in his car and the back door open and no Mary. He ran toward his car calling, “Mary, Mary, Mary come....” But Mary didn't come.

An elderly couple was standing near his car—a Black man and woman in their 70's—the woman was crying into her husband's chest. The man held her gently and looked up as Brendan came running up.

“My dog?” he asked, frantic.

The man shook his head. “We were getting out of our car and saw some boys taunting her through the window.” The man's hair was white and tight to his head, his skin was ebony. “Louise, my wife, yelled at them and then one of them opened the door. Your dog leaped out and ran from them. They were still yelling and chasing the dog, but he outran them.”

“She,” Brendan said, realizing as he said it that the gender of the dog didn't really matter. “Mary's a girl....”

“I'm sorry,” the man said, “we tried to stop them....I'm sorry about Mary.”

“Which way,” Brendan asked, “which way did she go?”

The man pointed toward the far end of the mall, toward Sears.

“That was awful,” the woman said, between sobs, “those awful boys...that poor frightened dog....”

“You go look for her, son,” the man told him. “I'll get your bags and put them in your car. Go on, now. Mary needs you.”

Brendan ran through the gathering darkness, calling for Mary as he ran. Several people moved away as he passed, thinking him deranged, which he was. He couldn't think, couldn't reason. All he could do was run through the huge parking lot, calling Mary's name as he ran.

A security guard going off duty saw him and said, “is Mary your daughter?”

“No,” Brendan said, “she's my dog.” He realized he was gasping and that his face was covered with tears. The back of his throat ached as it had when he was a child and was frightened or greatly saddened. He felt as lost as a child, terrified, torn apart, his heart breaking.

“Just a dog?” the security guard asked. “You're this upset about a dog?”

Brendan ran on, he was coming near the end of the mall now, his heart pounding, sobbing as he ran. “She not just a dog,” he was thinking as he called for her, “she's Mary. She's Lydia's dog.”

With that thought, he stopped running. Mostly because he was out of breath, but also because of that thought. Mary was Lydia's dog. Lydia picked her out at the animal shelter. Lydia loved Mary almost as much as she loved her children and, sometimes Brendan thought, a little more than she loved him. Lydia would go to sleep rubbing Mary as the dog slept between them on their bed. Lydia made Mary's food because the dog was allergic to processed dog food. Lydia cut Mary's nails and cleaned her ears and, much to Mary's displeasure, brushed the dog's teeth with a beef flavored toothpaste to get rid of tartar. Brendan walked the dog in the morning and the evening, but it was Lydia who took Mary to her Mazda and drove her to the old Farmington Canal at the bottom of the hill from their house in Cheshire and walked her all the way to Jennifer's bench. There were benches on the canal path, dedicated to people who had died. Jennifer's was the last bench. Jennifer had been a child who died and had loved the canal.

“We have to say hello to Jennifer,” Lydia told Brendan more than once, “then Mary and I come home.”

Suddenly, Brendan couldn't think. It was akin to being inside Joe's mind. Nothing was logical, nothing made sense, there was no way out of what had happened. Mary was gone and Brendan was lost in a confusion of thoughts and emotions. What would he tell Lydia? Then he realized he had to call Lydia and tell her why he wouldn't be home anytime soon—that he'd be searching for Mary in the dark as the air grew more chill, as hope slipped away.

The first call from his cell phone to home had been difficult. His daughter, Ellen, had answered the phone and wanted to chat about her school concert and the special doll—something Brendan had no clue about—that she wanted, really wanted, for Christmas. By the time he got Lydia on the phone he had a modicum of composure back, but she still knew from the tone of his voice and ragged breath, that something had gone off the tracks, something was radically wrong.

“What is it, Brendan?” some anxiety rising in her voice.

“It's Mary...,” he began.

“What about Mary?” she interrupted.

“She's gone....”

After a long silence, Lydia said, “you mean she's dead?”

“No, no,” Brendan told her, that ache back in his throat, “she's missing. Ran away. I can't find her.....”

The whole story took a while to tell, especially since Lydia kept interrupting to ask questions that didn't quite register in his head.

“I'm going to look for her for a while....quite a while. I won't be back for dinner,” he told his wife. “Don't tell the kids yet. Hopefully I'll find her. I don't want them to worry.”

But he didn't find her although he searched every foot of the enormous, very full parking lot. Although he asked dozens of people if they had seen a lab/cocker spaniel anywhere...”looks like a lab only smaller, very friendly, named Mary....” Although he walked several miles of Union Street and Hamilton Avenue in the dark, fearing every moment that he'd find her body on the road—nothing worked, nothing helped. Three calls from Lydia, when he could tell beneath her stoic facade that she was nearing panic, were fruitless. Finally she said, “Come home, we'll try tomorrow.”

He'd called the Waterbury Police and the Humane Society, getting an sardonic reaction from the duty Sargent about “just a dog” and a recording from the Humane Society to call back during business hours. It was nearly midnight when he got back to his car and found, as promised, his Macy's bags in the back seat. He drove home in a stupor that reminded him of college beer nights. It was like he was watching himself drive. Like any active and practicing Episcopalian, he seldom prayed, but on that drive he did, with the kind of fervor worthy of Gethsemane. He prayed for Mary, her safety, her homecoming. He prayed for his family and what this would do to them. He prayed for himself, for his great guilt and regret and pain at senselessly leaving the car unlocked. And, not surprisingly he received little comfort from his prayers. Guilt and Regret are ultimately feelings that require one to forgive themselves. The Almighty has better things to do.

***

Mary had been on Union Street along with Brendan, but in the other direction. She was not used to cars—except the ones she rode in—and their lights and exhaust frightened her greatly. That's not completely true. Fear isn't an intellectual evaluation for a dog—it is a viseral and physical reaction. The hairs on Mary's neck bristled. She became wary and anxious. She wanted to bark but something in her throat, not un-akin to Brendan's own aching throat, held her back.

Lights flashed—from cars, from Christmas decorations, from small buildings—she stayed close to buildings and finally, totally unable to understand what had happened to her (what took her from dozing peacefully in the back seat of The Man's car to this inhospitable and completely unfamiliar 'place') didn't register at all. What did begin to surface were long unknown and forgotten instincts—DNA deep behaviors to keep her from ultimate harm.

Exhausted, hungry, chilled, she fell asleep in the partially sheltered entrance to a Tattoo Parlor for the night. Her dreams, sparse but active, were troubling, even to her mind that was so nearly vacant most of the time. She dreamed of The Man's car and of the boys who chased her away, of her fear and her misery. Just that.

***

Thirteen or so miles away, Brendan and Lydia clung to each other. Brendan couldn't eat, could barely think and, like Mary, fell into disturbing dreams. In the morning the children would miss Mary. Already, Joe prowled around as if confused and not-quite-whole. His friend—if cats can be said to have 'friends—was somehow, inexplicably, missing. Incomplete, he scoured the house while Brendan fitfully slept and Lydia held him, slipping in and out of sleep, softly moaning and weeping.

“She's just a dog,” Lydia told herself several times during that long, troubled night. But she knew that wasn't true. She was Mary, she was 'their dog', a part of their family. Mary. And life would not be the same without her.

***

Mary wandered. She passed many people and many buildings. Down Union Street she went until it became East Main. She stayed closed to the buildings to avoid the traffic. Some people stopped to pet her and she licked their hands. Others—mostly young boys—chased her and yelled at her and one even threw a bottle at her that broke on the sidewalk and she stepped on it with her back left paw and cut herself and began to limp.

Had she been able to know, she was going in the exactly wrong way. Rather than moving toward her home, she moved toward the center of Waterbury, toward the Green. And, by afternoon of that next day, after the night the boys chased her from the car and from The Man, she found the park in the middle of the city. There was dying grass to lay on, and she did, licking her cut paw, resting for a while. Many elderly people were there and many young people. Some stopped to talk to her though Mary only understood a few words. One Hispanic woman noticed the blood on Mary's paw and used a handkerchief she had brought from Guatemala of fine linen and a lace her grandmother had crocheted to clean Mary's foot and pull out a sliver of glass.

Mary licked her face as she worked. And the woman spoke to Mary in Spanish, soothing words, words from another place about the dogs in the stable that first Christmas night.

“I cannot take you home,” the woman told Mary in Spanish, “my apartment has no pets.” Mary did not understand anything the woman told her, but licked her none-the-less.

Several hours later, a bus driver who had stepped outside for a cigarette before he had to move on from the Green, saw the dog and took his bottle of water and poured it into his McDonald's coffee cup and offered it to Mary. She was parched from her journey and drank it down. The bus driver rubbed her head and said a prayer in his native language, Hungarian, for her. Mary understood none of the words, but licked his hand.

An old Italian man came by and shared his sandwich with Mary. She had never tasted the meats and cheeses before, but she ate with gratitude and licked his hand as well.

She had moved from the place beneath one of the trees on the Green and already someone had cared for her wound and someone had given her water and someone had fed her with Provolone and salami and bread. Though she longed for her home and her Man and Woman and Girl and Boy, she had been cared for.

She wandered around the safety of the Green until darkness was falling again and her fear came back. The day was turning cold and she was hungry after half the Italian sandwich and thirst was coming back.

Then a black boy appeared. He looked like one of the boys that had let her out of the Man's car and chased her away into this chaos, so Mary was hesitant when he approached. But the boy was gentle and talked to her in soft words. The boy took off his belt and put it around Mary's neck like the leash she was so familiar with and led her to his home.

It was an apartment on the second floor of a three-family house several blocks from the Green and the trees. There were loud voices from the bottom floor and the sounds of breaking things that frightened Mary. But in the boy's apartment, there was heat and water in a bowl and a hot dog wiener that the boy put on a plate for Mary to eat and eat it she did.

It was strange to Mary that there were no Big People—no Man and Woman—where she was, but water and food was enough. And she slept with the boy in his bed, the second night of her exile from her home.

Deep in the night, Mary was woken by noise in the room next door. A Big Person who was yelling and knocking things over.

“Don't worry,” the boy said to Mary, “that's just my mom coming home. She's a bit drunk, I think. But she won't look in on me. We can go back to sleep.”

And they did.

That day Mary spent on the Green and that night she spent on Thomas' bed, even after his mother came in and made so much noise, Brendan and Lydia were busy. Brendan had a picture of Mary on his I-phone with the two kids hugging her. He quickly sent it to his computer and printed out 100 copies with the following words: “Mary is lost, please help us find her. Ellen and Alan want her back to love.” He added his cell phone and Lydia's to the poster as he printed them out.

Then he and Lydia spend most of the next day putting the posters up on every telephone pole and building and walls around the Mall in in both directions. Ellen went with Brendan and Alan went with Lydia. Each had tape and a stapler and they worked for two hours before they met, as agreed, outside of Sears at noon. No one wanted to eat, so they didn't, separating again—Ellen and Brendan toward the center of town and Lydia and Alan moving away from the city—calling Mary's name, looking for her, longing to have her back.

That same morning Thomas took Mary back to the green, leading her on his belt. In front of the large Roman Catholic church, he let her go, telling her words she didn't understand—“I'll be back after school and if you're still here I take you home again, OK? Mama would be mad to find you in the apartment. So wait for me, OK?”

Mary licked his face and then he was gone. It was the day before Christmas Eve, though Mary could not have known that. All day she wandered around the Green, growing hungry until a kind woman gave her an apple and some bologna. The day was chill but not cold enough to harm her, so she dozed on the grass and waited—for what she did not know. Again boys ran at her and threw plastic water bottles at her, but they did not hurt and her foot was much better, though she limped a bit.

All that day, Brendan and Lydia drove around Waterbury, looking for Mary. Each of them passed the Green several times, but by then Mary was laying beside a homeless man, who smelled strange but not troubling to her. He had given her food he'd gotten from the Soup Kitchen and water in a Styrofoam bowl from the same kitchen at St. John's Church. The man had been sleeping on a bench when Mary found him, smelling of alcohol and human body odor—neither of which is troubling to a dog.

She licked his hand that was hanging off the bench and he woke up.

“Hi, Dog,” he said. “What's your name?”

Mary, of course said nothing. She licked his face.

“What a friendly dog,” he said to her, “and since it's almost Christmas, I think I'll call you Mary.”

At her name, Mary barked.

“So, I've named you well,” the man said. “Let me go to the soup kitchen and get us some food....”

Then he took the twine that held up his pants and made a leash for Mary and tied her to the bench while he went to get them food.

The man talked to her through the day, telling her the story of his life: how he had been much loved as a child in Tennessee and gone to a school called Vanderbilt but had something bad in his brain that caused him to become a wanderer on the earth and someone who never could hold a job or be relied on. But there was something else in his brain—a way of knowing that he neither asked for or understood. “The way I knew your name and the way I know I'll make sure you get home safe.”

Mary understood none of what he said but knew he was a kind and good man and spent the night with him at a place where he led her on the twine that once held up his pants. They slept beneath a bridge with several other people and there was food, generously shared, though not as good as she was used to, and a small fire in a drum that gave some warmth. People there called the man who brought her Joshua. And though the name meant nothing to her, she savored it in her mind and heart.

Back at Mary's home, things were not well. Presents were not wrapped, the tree was only half decorated, No one had been to Stop and Shop to buy food for Christmas dinner. Invitations had been refused. Brendan and Lydia were growing near despair. The children weren't interested in Santa or gifts. Everyone—even Joe—was aching for the want of Mary.

How many miles had they walked and driven? How many thousand of times had they called her name? How terrible was the pain in their hearts?

Christmas Eve for Mary began beneath the bridge. All the people, who smelled so odd to her, were very kind and petted her and rubbed her and called her sweet names.

She and Joshua went to the Soup Kitchen for lunch, just as the day before. And Mary ate well.

In the late afternoon, Thomas, her friend, who had given her a sleep in a bed, found Mary and Joshua on the Green.

He rushed up to her and knelt down and she licked his face.

Thomas looked at Joshua. “This is my dog, I found her,” he said.

Joshua looked at him for a long time.

“No,” he said quietly and kindly, “this dog has a family and tonight we will find them. You were kind and wondrous to Mary and she will never forget that, but she needs to go home.”

The boy stared at Joshua for a long time, first in anger, then in confusion, then in wonder.

“Who are you?” he finally said.

“One who knows things without knowing how,” Joshua told him, “one who will tonight lead Mary home.”

“Why?” the boy asked him.

“Because,” Joshua said. “Stay with us tonight,” he said to Thomas, “stay with your friend and me.”

“Why?” Thomas asked.

“Do you really want to know?” Joshua asked him.

“Yes,” Thomas said.

“All will be well, if you stay with us. Mary will go home and you will be safe.” That is all Joshua would tell him.

Brendan and Lydia had decided they must go to church on Christmas Eve. They needed to recapture their hearts and have Christmas...but most of all, each of them knew, they needed Mary. The decided on the late service at St. John's, the Episcopal Parish on Waterbury's, Green. Mostly they went to the Episcopal Church in Cheshire, but tonight they wanted to be anonymous, they didn't want to have to see their friends and either pretend to be cheerful or have to tell them the story of Mary's loss. They just wanted to be together and sing the familiar carols and listen to the organ and the strings and lose themselves in the ancient liturgy and familiar stories.

Most of the day they had taken turns driving around Waterbury some more, but somehow they knew it would be in vain. They didn't believe they would ever see Mary again when they were honest with themselves. Mostly they sat around until it was time for church. They forgot to turn on the Tree's lights and the kids mostly watched TV with blank eyes, not using their I-pad or going on line at all.

They left for church around 9 p.m. As they traveled, Alan said, “aren't we going to St. Peter's?”

“No,” Lydia told him, “we're going to the big church in Waterbury.”

Ellen clapped her hands, the most energy she'd shown in days, “that's where Mary is,” she said, “maybe we'll find her!”

Brendan sighed. “Don't get your hopes up,” Lydia told her. “You don't want to be disappointed again.”

There was silence from the back seat for several miles. After they turned onto I-84, Ellen said softly, “It could be the 'Christmas Miracle'....”

Brendan and Lydia looked at each other in the dim dashboard light and smiled sadly. Truth was, they didn't believe in the 'Christmas Miracle', but they were somehow heartened that Ellen did.

Most of the rest of the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Joshua and Thomas and Mary walked around Waterbury, far and wide. The boy and the man talked a lot. Joshua asked Thomas many things: about school (Thomas loved school and did well); about his parents (Thomas' father was absent and his mother, he told Joshua, “was sad and drank too much”.)

“I know all about that,” Joshua told Thomas.

About six o'clock, Thomas said, “I should go home. My mom will be worried.”

Joshua was silent for a long while. “No, son,” he said, resting his hand on Thomas' shoulder, “she has other things to worry about. You stay with me. I'll take you home when our friend, Mary is safe and going home.”

Thomas started to insist that he should go home. But instead he asked, “how are you so sure Mary's going home?”

Joshua didn't answer for a while. Thomas was used to his silences by now and simply waited.

“I don't know, Thomas, how I know,” he finally said, “just know things. Something's funny about my brain.”

As they got to the Mall parking lot, Mary seemed anxious and skittish, she began to whine.

“Let's turn around now,” Joshua said, petting Mary's head. “Something bad here for Mary.”

The walked back down Union Street.

“My friend Armando got shot in his brain,” Thomas said, reverently, “some gangs were shooting at each other and he was in the way....He died.”

Joshua said nothing. After a while, Thomas continued, “it was a block from my house. I'm afraid a lot.”

A block or so later, Joshua stopped and looked at Thomas. “Something tells me, that's going to change soon. You won't need to be so afraid.”

“What makes you say that?” Thomas asked, further confused by Joshua. Then he realized he'd never told anyone, not even his grandparents or his mother about his fear. He'd never talked to a white person, who wasn't one of his teachers, as much as he'd talked to Joshua that long afternoon.

Joshua shook his head and laughed for the first time since Thomas had known him. “That thing in my head....I can't explain it.”

They were near a McDonald's and Thomas said, “I'm hungry. I bet you and Mary are too. My Grandmother gave me $20 last week. She and Grandpa live in Cheshire. They both used to be school teachers. I could buy us some food.”

Nodding, Joshua said, “get yourself and Mary something and me a small coffee with milk and three sugars. That'll keep me going.”

So Thomas had a Big Mac and Mary had a cheese burger and avoided the pickles and Joshua drank his coffee.

“Your grandparents,” he said Thomas, “they seem like upstanding folks.”

Thomas' face lit up with a smile. “I love them so. They're so smart and so good. My uncle and aunt too—they both live in West Hartford and are teachers too. Something, I don't know, something between my mom and dad made things go wrong for her. She was the youngest in the family, in college, studying to be a teacher like the rest of them and met my dad and then there was me. I just don't know....” The smile had gone. Thomas was sad suddenly.

Joshua sipped his coffee. “I think you're going to be fine, Thomas,” he said. “I think you'll be a teacher...a college professor maybe....”

“That's all I want!” Thomas said. Then he was suddenly embarrassed because he had never, not ever, said that to anyone before, much less a homeless, white man. But it was hard to be embarrassed for long with Joshua. Thomas had never imagined meeting someone like him—white, wise and homeless all at once. He suddenly wondered why he was still here. Surely his mom would be worried. Surely he should go home. But he knew he wouldn't. He wanted to be with Joshua. He wanted to know that Mary was going home for sure.

Joshua finished his coffee and rubbed his face hard with both hands, something Thomas had seen him do before. He was a good looking man, Thomas thought, for a white man. His eyes were very light, gray. He was tall, over 6 feet. And thin, which, Thomas imagined, wasn't odd for someone who ate at soup kitchens. His face was what some people would call handsome, though his hair and beard could use a trim. But what was most amazing about him to Thomas was that he moved slowly but with great grace. And whatever was wrong with his brain was fascinating to Thomas, who, in the secret part of his heart, wanted to be a Psychology Professor.

“Now it begins,” Joshua said, rubbing Thomas' head with his right hand and Mary's with his left. “Let Christmas Eve get serious....” Then he laughed again and they set off, this odd trio, toward the Green.

“We're going to visit the churches of Waterbury,” Joshua told them as they walked.

“Why?” Thomas asked him.

A block later, Joshua answered. “You know what journalists ask?” he said, “the four big questions?”

“'When?' 'Where?' 'Why?' And 'How?' is that right?” Thomas said, remembering how in 6^th grade he'd wanted to teach journalism in college.

“Exactly right,” Joshua said some twenty steps on. “You are a smart boy. Here's the thing, I can tell you 'when'--when they are having Christmas Eve services; 'where'--at the four big churches down town; “how”--by walking from one to another. What I can't tell you is 'why?' The 'why?' question is always the hardest.”

“Why?” Thomas asked.

“Exactly,” Joshua replied.

The visited the Lutheran Church first. Joshua knew the times of the services, though he didn't tell how. They stood at the door and listened to hymns. It was 7 pm. Then they walked slowly through the parking lot and on-street parking near the church. Nothing happened. Thomas didn't ask any questions and Joshua was obviously giving no answers since he knew none.

At 8 pm it was the Congregational Church. Same routine. Nothing happened.

At 9 they went to Immaculate Conception, the really big Roman Catholic church on the Green. There was only a small parking lot so they wandered the down-town streets. Again, nothing happened, though Thomas was growing impatient.

“What are we doing?” he asked, with a testy sound to his voice.

“I don't know,” Joshua answered immediately, “and please be patient.”

It was a little after 10 pm and they were headed toward St. John's.

“I eat here every day,” Joshua told Thomas. “I like this place.”

Thomas was about to be fed up and leave, going home to what he imagined, on Christmas Eve, would be a very drunk mother who might need his help. But when they walked into the church's parking lot, something happened.

Mary, who Thomas was leading with the twine from Joshua's pants, suddenly bolted. Thomas almost lost hold of the twine.

“Let her go!” Joshua called out. “Let her go!”

So Thomas did.

They found her at a Black KIA in the middle of the lot. She was scratching at the door. Other scratches were there. Those scratches looked a lot like the new ones Mary was leaving in her excitement.

Joshua took the twine from her neck and tried the door. It opened.

“Always lock your door in an parking lot,” he told Thomas, who already knew that.

Mary jumped in. Both Joshua and Thomas rubbed her and got licks beyond counting on their faces. The they stepped back and Joshua shut the door. They waited until the light went out and Mary was stretched out on the back seat before they left.

“So show me where you used to live,” Joshua said.

Thomas shook his head. “I still live there. You are one weird dude.”

Joshua smiled. “That I am,” he said.

“I'm going to miss Mary,” Thomas said, and it was true.

“Where do your grandparents live?” Joshua asked him.

“Cheshire, why?” Thomas replied.

“No reason,” said Joshua, “just wondering....”

It was a 10 minute walk, but Joshua kept his hand on Thomas' shoulder all the way and talked softly to him about things Thomas didn't really understand.

Turning the corner onto Thomas' street was jarring by the three police cars with lights pulsing and a number of well dressed Black people standing on the sidewalk in front of Thomas' building. He recognized them immediately. His Grandparents and Uncle and Aunt.

“What's happened?” he asked Joshua, full of fear.

“We will see,” Joshua answered, “in time we will see.”

As soon as the people saw Thomas they all rushed to him.

His aunt and uncle held him until his grandmother and grandfather replaced them.

Great emotion, hasty explanations, tears of joy and sadness.

It seemed that Thomas' mother had come home greatly drunk and torn up the apartment. Her neighbors had called Louise and Mark, Thomas' grandparents and then they had called his aunt and uncle. All had been at the apartment since then, wondering and worried about Thomas.

What would happen was that his mother was already on the way to an alcohol and drug treatment center. He would go to live with his grandparents in Cheshire until his mom was better and then both of them would live there as long as needed.

It was confusing and horrifying and painful and disconcerting to Thomas, but he knew life would be better for his mom and for him. So he started babbling about Joshua and Mary and the KIA in the church parking lot.

All the four adults who loved him listened with great interest but there was no man named Joshua there. They were confused.

“He kept me safe,” Thomas told them, “and Mary went home.”

His grandmother, Louise, was suddenly interested. “A dog in a KIA? A yellow dog?”

Thomas nodded his head vigorously.

Louise looked at her husband. Their looks matched. “Could it be?” was what the looks said.

Joshua was heading toward the bridge. His friends would be waiting. He would have liked to meet Thomas' family, but in the way his brain let him know what he couldn't explain...well, it was just as well. And it was Christmas Eve, there might be some fruit cake someone had stolen or gotten from the soup kitchen or some do-gooder. Who knew? Actually, Joshua did know, but it annoyed him and he tried to push it out of his mind.

********

The music had been magical. The ancient liturgy and the Christmas story wondrous. The sermon had been inspiring. And they tasted the Body and Blood of Christ on the very night of his birth.

Yet Brendan, Lydia, Ellen and Alan were still in pain, not feeling the joy and gaiety of Christmas.

Until, they opened their car's doors.....

Canaan's Dream

Each Christmas, Bern makes something for me. I could have a show--most are paintings but last year she made a table in the shape of West Virginia!

And Each Christmas I write something for her. I wrote "Canaan's Dream" in 2010. I thought I'd share it as my Christmas gift to each of you.

Canaan's Dream

for Bern

Christmas 2010

Canann grew up in southern Vermont, for as long as he grew, which wasn't long enough. When he looked around at his family, he knew something wasn't quite right. He wasn't as tall as the others his age and not nearly so straight. He drooped to one side and his limbs on one side were longer than on the other. The owner of the tree farm had noticed a couple of years into Canaan's life that he wasn't measuring up. Everytime Dan the farmer came by, Canaan tried to straighten up and look taller, but it didn't work. And this year, almost two feet shorter than the trees around him, Dan had come with his daughter Sara ("without an 'h'" Canaan had heard her tell the men who worked on the farm several times). Dan and Sara stopped in front of Canaan and, try as he might he couldn't be straight or lift his droopy limbs on his bad side.

"This is a bad spot," Dan told Sara. "Every time a tree is planted here it doesn't measure up."

Canaan could have told Dan what was wrong, had he been able to speak. He was planted above an ancient well that had dried up and been covered by rocks. Just two feet below ground, Canaan's roots had met the rocks and the old roots of previous trees. No nourishment had came to him to let him grow tall and straight. He listed to the side and was always hungry.

"We won't plant in that spot again," Dan was telling Sara, "and we have to get rid of this tree."

Sara looked destressed. She was only six years old but loved trees already. She dreamed of the time when she could do more work on the farm. She often caressed the needles of the firs and even talked to the trees as if they heard her. Which they did, only she couldn't know that.

Canaan's dream was to be to be a Christmas Tree for some family. He knew from the other trees that was their fate in life—to be adorned and lighted and sighed over when their lights were the only lights in the room. And presents would be put around them and photographs taken of them with their family in front. He dreamed of hearing the laughter of children, the appreciation of adults, the joy of a family surrounding him as Christmas came.

But now his dreams were being crushed. Dan was going to cut him down now, only three feet tall and his spot would never be taken again. Fear and terror overcame Canaan. What would happen to him if he wasn't someone's Christmas Tree? What horrible fate awaited him?

Sara leaned against her father's leg. "I like him," she said softly. "So many of the trees are so perfect and beautiful. This one has, what do you call it, Daddy, 'carrot er'?"

Dan smiled and rubbed her head. Canaan knew he was a good father and loved Sara fiercely. Not having real parents, there was a part of Canaan that envied the little human girl. But he was a different sort of Life. He understood tree-thought.

"Do you mean 'character'?" Dan asked.

"That's it, Daddy," she squeeled, "that's what I mean."

Dan knelt down and hugged her. "I think you might be right," he said kindly, "but no one will buy him from us. No one wants a Christmas tree with 'character', they want one that is straight and tall and full."

"Don't cut him down today, Daddy, please...," she said, "let him live until the harvest. Okay?"

Dan smiled. "Sure, honey, it's only two weeks. You can keep him until then. And I'll let you take him to the chipper all by yourself, as long as you make sure Andy is there to put him in."

Sara seemed pleased and she and Dan walked on, hand-in-hand.

"A reprive," Canaan thought. "But what is a 'chipper'? What is going to happen to me?"

For the next two weeks, Canaan both feared his fate and dreamed of a different world, a world where he didn't have 'character' but where his limbs were stong and his trunk was straight and tall, a world where he would be a Christmas tree, full of decorations, surrounded by presents, 'ah-ed' over by visitors, giving wonder and joy.

During the 14 days of Canaan's stunted growth, Sara came to visit him several times. She would sit on the cold ground and watch him, smiling. Canaan wanted to tell her he thanked her for a few more days of life, but he couldn't figure out how. A couple of times she came and leaned into his crooked branches and touched his needles. He tried to move his limbs to hold her the way her father did, but he couldn't manage such a feat. But when she was near him, he was almost as happy as he was in his Christmas dream. Her tiny body against him—though she was taller than him—was such a comfort when he pondered 'the chipper' and whatever that might mean.

The last day she came, the day before the harvest (all the other trees were straining to be even taller and straighter than they were because the trucks would come at dawn to take them to Boston or Springfield or New Haven—wherever those places were—none of the trees were sure but they'd heard the names from the workers) Sara leaned against Canaan and whispered into his trunk, "don't worry little tree, I've got a plan...."

Canaan wasn't sure what a 'plan' was, what it meant. But just feeling Sara's sturdy little body against him and listening to her voice took away his fear of 'the chipper' and his longing to be a Christmas Tree for a short time.

The next day was as full of excitement for the other trees as it was packed with anxiety for Canaan. Early in the morning, just after first light, the workers came and began harvesting the trees all around him. They were so proud as they were cut and fell into the strong arms of the men. They were on their ways to being Christmas Trees! It was why a Fir was planted, why they grew, what they were made for.... Most of his family was gone when Dan and Sara came for him. Dan took a saw and cut through Canaan's trunk near the ground. It was a strange feeling to be separated from his roots, stunted as they were by the rocks covering the old well, but it wasn't painful or unpleasant as he had imagined.

"There he is, Princess," Dan said. (Canaan had thought her name was 'Sara' without an 'h', but what did a tree know about human names?)

"Thank you Daddy," she replied and picked Canaan up. The workers had dragged the other trees away by the bottom of their trunks, but since he was so small, Sara carried him in her arms, holding him off the ground. It felt delicious to be held by the little girl. "Almost as good as being a Christmas tree," Canaan thought wistfully.

"Make sure you let Andy put the tree in the chipper," Dan called after them.

"I will, Daddy," Sara without an 'h' answered. Canaan felt her tremble and though he couldn't know or even imagine, her shivver was because she had just, perhaps for the first time ever, lied to her father.

She didn't take him to Andy and the much feared chipper. Instead she waited until none of the workers were watching and hoisted him up among his much larger relatives into the back of a huge truck. Canaan was astonished that all the other trees were wrapped in some sort of netting so that their strong, proud limbs were pressed firmly against their trunks. With them so encased, he felt larger, fuller, bigger than he'd ever felt before.

Sara pushed him in so no one could notice his presence. "Bye-bye little tree," she said. "I hope you can be a Christmas tree for someone."

"So that was her plan!" Canaan thought. She's sending me to the place where people find their trees! She's giving me a chance for living my dream!"

He wanted to shout out, "Sara, thank you! My name is Canaan!"

But, of course, being a Canaan Fir, he couldn't call out, he couldn't tell her.

Sara waited by the truck until it was full and ready to leave. She called out to him as the driver pulled away, "I put you on the New Haven truck, little tree. Have a great Christmas!!!"

New Haven, wherever that was, seemed a long way to Canaan. But he was nestled in with his bound up family and didn't mind the ride. Being so close to his relatives was comforting since they had never touched before. Canaan began to imagine he might live out his dream...he might, after all and in spite of his size, be a Christmas Tree.

He fell asleep after a while. Being disconnected from his roots made him a bit listless. All the other trees were sleeping too. But as Canaan slept, he dreamed a tree dream—people around him, presents beneath him while he drank the water of his stand, lights and ornaments (whatever they were...he'd only learned the words, not the reality) all over his branches....It was almost true, the dream was so real.

When the trees were unloaded, Manny, the driver said strange words when he saw Canaan. They were words the tree had never heard before. Something like, "What the **** is this? Oh,****, it's the tree Sara put on when she didn't think I was looking. It's not even good kindling....Gus will never pay for this....****!"

Gus, Canaan soon understood, was the man in New Haven who would sell the trees for Christmas. He was a short, extremely thin man—though the little Fir really didn't understand what those words meant. "He's like me," Canaan thought, "he must have grown over a rock covered well."

Gus, just like Manny, said strange words when he saw Canaan. He said to Manny, "What the **** is this? I'm not paying for this. Put it back on the truck."

Canaan was suddenly afraid. He had come so far to live his dream and now a stunted man, just like he was a stunted tree, was rejecting him.

"The boss's kid put it on the truck," Manny told Gus, "I saw her talking to it. It was meant for the chipper. Just take it, it's free."

Gus shook his head. "Okay," he said. "I'll use it for firewood if nothing else."

A young man Gus called 'Tommy' was helping unload the trees into what was a parking lot of a deserted grocery store. There were lights everywhere, strung along the fences, and a big sign on Yorke Street that said, "CHRISTMAS TREES—ALL SIZES, LOW PRICES".

"Tommy," Gus yelled, "put this pitiful thing back in the back. No body's going to buy this mess."

Tommy, just like Sara, didn't drag Canaan by his trunk across the asphalt. Since Canaan was so small, Tommy, who was young but as big as Dan, hugged him in his arms and put him back against the far fence, where it was dark and where there were no other trees. Canaan sighed with joy at the feel of Tommy's arms around him and the warmth of Tommy's breath on his needles. But back where Tommy stood him against the fence it was lonely. Loosed from his roots and far away from his family members, who took their places with strange trees in the light, Canaan slumbered but did not dream.

Weeks passed, but Canaan didn't notice. He was inert, unconscious most of the time. Occassionally he would notice the footsteps of people, the delighted cries of children, the snow on his branches that fell from time to time, but mostly he slumbered and slept in a dreamless sleep. If a Canaan Fir can be said to be 'depressed', Canaan was so. And there was no water or any roots to seek water. He was exhausted, broken, detached, without hope. A tree planted and raised to be a Christmas Tree could not accept the reality of not being wanted. One by one his family and the strange trees disappeared, carried off and tied on the tops of cars, going 'home' with someone, fulfilling their destiny, looking forward to water and lights and ornaments and presents and the joy they would bring.

But not Canaan. He was the last tree on the lot on the last day of the sale—Christmas Eve, about noon—but, of course, Canaan didn't know that—trees are not privy to time or to calendars.

Gus and Tommy were sweeping up the needles all over the lot—like the clipped fingernails of the trees—when Tommy said to Gus: "That last tree, can I have it?"

"Why would you want that?" Gus said, "it's stunted. No use."

"My next door neighbor, Mrs. Merry, doesn't have a tree," Tommy said. "It's a long story."

"Mrs. Merry," Gus said, almost laughing, "you must be kidding...."

"No," Tommy said, still sweeping. "That's her name. She lives next door and her husband died last March and her only son is in Chicago and, well you know about the storm in the midwest, and O'Hare is closed down and backed up for days and he and his family can't come be with her. She told me this morning." Tommy stopped sweeping. "And....", he said.

"There's more?" Gus asked. "This gets better?"

"Well," Tommy said, "she was going to give me money today for a tree—you know, since she knew I was working here. But this morning she told me she wasn't going to have one since her family wouldn't be there."

Gus laughed. "So you want to take her that pitiful tree?"

"Well," Tommy answered, "it's a lot better than no tree...."

Gus shook his head. "Of course you can have it," he said, "but tell me Mrs. Merry's first name...."

Tommy took a deep breath. "You won't believe this," he said, "it's Mary...."

Gus bent over he was laughing so hard. "And don't tell me her husband's name was Joseph....", he choked out.

Tommy shook his head in wonderment. "We called him 'Joe'," he said. "Here's another thing, Gus," Tommy said, about to join the laughter, "they always said, 'come over to our house, Tommy, we always have a Merry Christmas."

Gus was coughing now, almost choking with merriment. "Lord God," he said betwen coughs, "this couldn't be better—Mary Merry and Joseph Merry on Christmas...."

It was at least a dozen blocks to Tommy's neighborhood, but though it was cold, the sun poked through the gray sky and Christmas Eve was bright and brisk. The distance could have been twice as far and Canaan would not have minded. Tommy carried the little tree on his shoulder and Canaan wished he could always ride that way, for as long as Tommy walked with him, the tree felt safe and happy.

Tommy laid Canaan on some old snow while he went inside his house to tell his parents about the tree for Mrs. Merry. His mother laughed when she came to the door to see Canaan.

"It's so small and deformed," she said.

"I know," Tommy answered, hoisting Canaan onto his shoulder again, "but I think he has character...."

Canaan remembered that's what Sara-without-an-'h' had said about him, so it must be true, whatever it meant. He had 'character' and a chance to live his dream. He also wondered why Sara and Tommy refered to him as 'he' when all the older people said 'it'. People, Canaan thought, were beyond his tree powers of wisdom.

As Canaan and Tommy crossed the yard to the house next door, his mother called after him. "Invite Mary to Christmas dinner," she said, "four o'clock...."

When Mrs. Merry came to the door Canaan was shocked by her age. He had heard Gus and Tommy talking and knew Mrs. Merry had something called grandchildren in something called college. But in his brief time on earth, Cannan had never seen a person as old as Mrs. Merry. She was very thin and her face, when she smiled at Tommy, was creased with wrinkles. Her eyes, Canaan could tell, were full up with liquid, but only Tommy understood that meant she had been weeping. The room behind her was quite dark so it was difficult to see it was a large room with a huge window.

"I brought you a tree, Mrs. Merry," Tommy said, knowing full well the woman could see for herself. She looked surprised but opened the door wider to let Tommy and Canaan in.

"But I thought I told you...," Mrs. Merry began.

"You did," Tommy answered, leaning Canaan against a wall, "but he was left over and has some character even though he's scraggly. He needed a home. I hoped you give him one."

Mrs. Merry stood with her hand on her chin for a moment and then she smiled. "You're right, Tommy, every tree needs a home. Thank you for him."

Canaan was surprised and comforted. Mrs. Merry had called him "him".

Mrs. Merry moved a small table from in front of the window while Tommy went to her garage to get the tree stand and a box of Christmas decorations. He knew the Merry's, in years past waited for their family to arrive to decorate, so he decided to help her get started at least.

Tommy put Canaan in the stand and filled it with water. The little tree almost passed out with pleasure. He hadn't had water, except for the snow, for over two weeks. It was heavenly.

Tommy and Mrs. Merry talked about her family. She and Joe had only one child, Samuel, who was a police detective in Chicago. He was married to Lenora who was a Professor of Economics at the University of Chicago. Sam and Lenora—who Mrs. Merry called 'Nora'--had two children of their own. Mark was a Senior at Ohio State University and his younger sister, Kimberly, was a Sophmore at Kent State.

Canaan had no idea about geography but could tell from the humans' conversation that all that was a good thing. What was bad was the brutal storm in the Midwest that had shut down every airport (whatever that was) on the Great Lakes (again, Canaan wondered what that meant). Noone could get to Mrs. Merry's house for Christmas—they had been due two days ago.

Tommy put lights on Canaan—the Fir now understood what they were—like the stars over Vermont in the night but different colors and some of them blinked. He felt beautiful and festive when Tommy plugged the lights in. He was, he knew, slowly becoming his dream. He was going to be a Christmas Tree.

However, he knew the dream of a family around him wasn't going to happen. Mrs. Merry would be all alone with him. There probably wouldn't even be presents beneath his branches. And when Tommy went home for what he called 'dinner', Mrs. Merry sat in a chair near Canaan and began to weep. He didn't know that's what she was doing, since trees never cry, but he sensed something heavy and dark from her, something lonely and sad.

He tried ever so hard, though he knew it was futile, to be taller and fuller and bring joy to Mrs. Merry. The only light in the room, since Tommy had left when it was still daylight, were the lights from Canaan. Before he left, Tommy invited Mrs. Merry to Christmas dinner at his house, four o'clock, just like his mother told him. She had smiled sadly and said she'd be fine. "I'll be fine, Tommy, but thank your mother for me," is what she'd said.

Now it was dark outside and the tears on Mrs. Merry's face were illuminated in red and green and white, sometimes blinking. Canaan, his dream partially fulfilled, was somber and pensive. He knew Mrs. Merry was not admiring him or happy with him. Finally a Christmas Tree, he was failing at his entire Purpose of Life. He wished he were back in Vermont, still trying in vain to draw nourishment from soil that was rock over an old well. He wished he were with Sara-with-no-'h' again, or 'Princess', if that were her real name. Perhaps it would have been better to go to the dreaded, though unimaginable Chipper than to have come so far to fail.

After a long while—time is different for trees, who can live to great ages, centuries old—so it was only a moment or so for Canaan, Mrs. Merry looked up at him and studied him for a while, gradually beginning to smile.

"You remind me of Christmas' past," she said, "why don't I decorate you?"

She opened the box Tommy had brought from the garage and began to carefully unwrap ornaments from thick swaths of Christmas paper.

"Joe wrapped these last year," she said aloud, Canaan imagined she was talking to him. "He'll never wrap another ornament, God love him, but he wrapped these."

The first thing she unwrapped was a glass angel, blowing on a horn, laying out as if she were flying, wings above her strong and unfurled.

"Oh," Mrs. Merry said, "Joe bought me this just last Christmas. He found it in a card shop. He said it reminded him of Kimberly...."

She turned the ornament in her hand. "It does look like her," she said wistfully, "such long, lovely hair and that sweet face,"

Gently she touched one of Canaan's branches and hung the angel on it. He felt the pull of the weight. Somehow it felt good, right, holy.

Again she unwrapped an ornament. "Joe was so precise with this," she said aloud. "He wanted to keep them safe over the year."

This one was made of cloth, shaped like a berry, red and white. "Lordy," Mrs. Merry said, "it's Sam's strawberry." She laughed out loud. "He was in kindergarten and all the kids got gifts from Santa. Most of them got toys or something to eat. Sam got a strawberry ornament. He was so upset....And we've kept it all these years. Every time I see it I weep for him and laugh at what a joke it was."

She hung the berry on Canaan and the little tree could almost see Sam's face and know his disappointment and cry his tears (if only Firs could weep).

The next one was made of stiff paper, brightly painted and somehow preserved. It was a little woman in a bright green dress, holding a stiff string that had balloons on it. All of the balloons were in primary colors—red and blue and yellow.

Mrs. Merry gasped when she unfolded the paper around it. Her eyes were brim-full. She sighed and smiled brightly. "Oh, my," she said softly, "this was Joe's favorite of all. He always recited a poem by e.e.cummings before he hung it on the tree." She was silent for a long time, holding the balloon woman in her hand, "I don't remember when we got it," she said to noone in particular, but Canaan was sure she was talking to him. "Just to remember how he loved this and how he was the one who wrapped her up and put her away last year...."

Canaan thought she might begin to do that thing she had been doing before she opened the box. But instead, much to his delight, she laughed and gently put the little balloon woman on one of his higher branches.

"That's yours, Joe," she said, gazing at the ornament for a long time—though less than a moment in tree time.

On through the night, with only Canaan's light to show her the ornaments she lovingly unwrapped and hung on the Fir's drooping branches, Mrs. Merry continued to hang ornament after ornament on him, talking all the while.

Canaan began to feel that what they were sharing was so intimate, so real, so important that he came to think of her as 'Mary', not Mrs. Merry. Mary was making him a true Christmas Tree and he was as close to her as he had ever imagined being close to another creature. When her hand glazed his needles he began to feel beautiful and noble and worthy of his dream.

Mary told him about each ornament she hung on his branches. The ancient, cracked ball Joe had bought her, with a baby on it, after Sam was born. The lovely little tree a friend had given them nearly twenty years ago. The home-made Santa and Rudolph that Mark and Kimberly had created in some craft class in Chicago. The expensive Metropolitan Museum Polar Bear she had bought for Joe—too expensive, but something he loved, The little plastic ice-cycle that fit perfectly around one of his branches: "That was Joe's mother's," Mary told him, "he'd seen it on a tree his whole life." Some silly ornaments of Elephants that Joe had bought through the years. A Zebra ornament Nora had brought to their family from her childhood. Lots of birds everyone had loved year after year.

Canaan was feeling heavy but joyous when Mary unwrapped an angel made of felt and cloth. She wiped away a tear. "We've had this since our first Christmas together. She's a little shabby but Joe put her on top of the tree the first year and then lifted Sam and then Mark and Kimberly up to put her on the top. Year after year, all our life together. And I've never been the one to put the angel on the top of the tree. But now I can...."

Mary held the angel high above her head, like a precious thing.

"You're so short, my little tree, I can do it by myself," she said, lowering the cardboard insides of the ancient angel over the top of Canaans trunk.

"That was wonderful," she said softly, and now Canaan knew she was talking to him and him alone. "Thank you, little tree, for that honor."

Canaan fairly swooned. No happy family, no presents beneath him, but an Angel on his head. And the first time Mary ever placed it there on any tree for many more years that Canaan had lived. (Trees do understand the passage of time and Canaan knew he had not grown, stunted in Vermont for nearly so long and the angel on his head had been on the head of trees before him.)

Mary, as he now thought of her, sat for a while simply looking at him. He stood proud to be looked at and perhaps admired.

Then Mary picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello, Avis," she said, "I told Tommy I wouldn't come for dinner tomorrow, but I've changed my mind if that's alright with you."

Mary listened for a moment then said, "thank you so much. And the only caveat is that you'll all come over after dinner to see my tree that Tommy brought me. It is terribly small, but I've decorated it and it has character...."

After a moment, Mary said, "it's a deal. Thank you so much."

"Character", Canaan thought to himself. Three times now, it must be true. "I'm a Christmas Tree for real," he told himself, wanting to shout it to the world and especially to Mary, who had decorated him so well. And to Tommy who had brought him here. And to Gus who had given him to Tommy. And to Manny who had talked Gus into taking him. And most of all to Sara without an 'h', who had put him on a truck instead of in the Chipper, whatever that was.

"I'm a Christmas Tree and I have 'character'," he said to himself, "whatever 'character' means."

Mary had fallen asleep in the chair where she had sat for so long and watched him. Canaan watched her sleep until he started to drift away as well, inspite of his lights and the water he was drinking through his trunk.

Then the phone rang, bringing both Mary and Canaan back to reality.

Mary answered the phone and said, "Oh, Kimberly, where are you?"

Kimberly was still in Kent, Ohio, in the midst of snow, but she had heard from her parents, who in violation of all common sense, had started driving to New Haven when they couldn't fly. Sam and Nora were in Columbus with Mark. But they would, whatever it took, get to Kent on Christmas day and then head to New Haven.

"We'll be there the day after Christmas," Kimberly told Mary. "I'm so sorry, but it is the best we can do. Is it snowing there."

"Just a little," Mary told her grand-daughter. "But it will all be so wonderful when you arrive."

Kimberly said something else and then Mary said, "I have a tree and your gifts will be under it when you get here."

Kim would have, most of the time, said, "Oh, Me-maw, I don't want a gift, I just want you." But some Christmas Angel told her what to say instead.

"I can't wait," Kimberly said. "You pick the best gifts...."

Perfect, Mary thought, just what she wanted to hear. So she went to her room and brought the presents for her family and put them under Canaan's boughs.

Canaan was taller and fuller than he'd ever imagined he could be. Gifts beneath him, an Angel on his top, ornaments and lights all over him. Small and stunted and silly as he was, he knew, when Kimberly saw him, she'd say, "Me-Maw, that's the greatest tree I've ever seen. He has such character...."

And Canaan's dream, his hope, his prayer (though trees don't 'pray', being part of God as they are) would all be real.

Mary slept in her chair beside Canaan until late that night. She was so joyful he couldn't help but be.

He did not slumber nor sleep.

He watched her face for hours—a moment in Tree Time—and saw his lights blink and color her face.

And he was so conscious of the Angel on his top. It was an honor, a joy. It was, to Canaan, holy.

Oh, the things you learn on-line....

In only a quarter of an hour online, I learned:

*Bill Cosby (break my heart some more...) is probably a 'somnophiliac' (who ever heard that word before?) because he liked to have sex with women who were drugged or asleep. Oh, Bill, I'm not sure what makes me angrier, that you betrayed all of us who looked up to you so much or that you did all these things. Obviously, the latter, Dr. Huxtable was a character on a sit-com who gave many hope. You were Bill Cosby and, apparently, assaulted many women in a way that suggests 'date rape'. Oh Lord, I have to re-imagine my adolescence with the Cosby Show.

*The lyricist and music writers of "Oh, Holy Night", my favorite Christmas Carol, were, in that order, an atheist and a Jew. Placide Cappeaude Roquemaure, who wrote the words, was at best agnostic and Charles Adams, who wrote that wondrous music, was Jewish. Not that this bothers me at all. It could have been a Buddhist and Muslim who wrote it and it would still be my favorite carol. Once my daughter, Mimi, sang it from the balcony of St. John's in Waterbury, carrying a candle and dressed in white. O Lord, what a night that was!

*Scott Walker, the governor (how?) of Wisconsin, once wrote a letter to a constituent who wanted a Menorah on the town square of Madison during the holiday season, that he was glad to have the Menorah and ended the letter by writing, "thank you and Molotov." Surely he meant 'Mazel Tov' rather than the explosive device named after a Russian general named 'Molotov'. But it just goes to show you, Republicans have problems dealing with minorities....

If I spent hours and hours online, I could bring you many wondrous stories. But I won't.

torture

The Senate report on torture came out today. It tells us things we don't want to know about ourselves.

After 9/ll, Fear drove our country to such an extent that we did things not consistent with who we like to think we are. Granted, it was done to seek to prevent 9/ll like events from ever happening again. But there is little in the report to lead us to believe that actually happened--that we were made safer by the extreme measures taken by the CIA and others in the interrogation of possible terrorists.

What happened was agencies of our government resorted to the kind of atrocities we stand against to try to prevent further atrocities.

Fear still dives our nation in so many ways: fear of young black men, fear of illegal immigrants, fear of 'the other' in our midst, fear of letting people be free to love who they love, fear of 'the government' itself. So much fear.

Fear needs to be replaced by 'concern' and 'action'. Concern about the poverty in our nation and action to redistribute the abundance that we have in a fairer way. Concern about being open to 'the other' and action to include them into our society. Concern about how many people we incarcerate and action to reduce the population of prisons. Concern about those who seek to find a better life for themselves, as almost all our ancestors did, by coming to America and action to incorporate them into our economy...and live up to the words on the statue of Liberty.

Fear twists and deforms us. Fear makes us into people we don't want to be. Fear drives us apart instead of bringing us together.

Fear keeps us from being our better selves.

Fear is the problem.

:Hope is the solution.

Rainy days

If all the rain we had overnight and all day today had been snow, Connecticut would be Buffalo east.

Seriously, it has been raining for 24 hours solid here--sometimes hard and harsh, sometimes light--but always raining.

I talked to an Indian woman today in a store who lived near Birmingham, England for 16 years. She was talking about the rain and how it could continue for two weeks in Birmingham. Head's up, Seattle, you have nothing to brag about when it comes to rain.

The truth is, I'm trying to write about the weather, but the weather is only a symbol for what's on my heart. I can't stop thinking about how police can kill black men without fear or retribution.

And it's like that thing from the Second World War:


First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

That's a version of what Martin Niemöller said.

I feel like that when I think about how the number of incidents against unarmed black men has escalated recently.

I need to speak out, not only here, on this blog, but some other way. I need to stand in the street and hold my hands up and say, "I can't breathe" before they come for me.

I know it is a horrible metaphor, comparing American police to the Nazis, and I apologize for that. But the war on Black men has become so undeniable that white people must speak out, somehow.

I mourn for my love of this country and its values. That love is fading. It feels like the 1950's to me right now...and I lived through that to what I thought was a better place. We can elect a Black President but can't keep black folks safe.

And it rains outside. On and on and on....

Remembrance and Support

Tonight was the Cluster's annual service of "Remembrance and Support". It is designed to be an outlet for people who, in this season and rush and forced gaiety, have suffered loss that makes it difficult for them to live into the 'holiday season'. In fact, the hurried time of buying and selling and giving and receiving of this time of year--the carols in the mall, the lights everywhere--make them feel even more alone and full of grief.

It's a lovely service. There are readings from scripture (Comfort, Comfort my people from Isaiah among them. And prayers about loneliness and loss and sadness and then, after a chant from the folks at Tazai, people write down names of those they have lost to death or conflict and other things they've lost and bring them up to light a candle while someone reads the names and concerns.

Quite lovely. This year, the planners asked me to do a homily. I did it without notes but I'll try to capture it's essence here.

Memory is one of God's greatest gifts to us. Memory anchors us to the world and to who we are and whose we are. Memory ties us to the past and to the present and to reality itself. I know, for myself, and I suspect for many of you, that I would rather lose my life than lose my memory.

Tonight I want to tell you about my father's death. He died almost half my life ago. My mother died even earlier--I was only 25 when she died. My parents were in their 40's when I was born. They had given up on having and child and then...there I was! In southern West Virginia in those days, my parents were the age of my friends' grandparents. They were older.

My father was a 'farm boy' until he became a 'coal miner' and then fought in WW II. He was in a unit that built bridges across rivers so Patten could drive his tanks apart and then my father helped blow up the bridges. A strange kind of 'engineering' job for sure.

One night in February of 1983, I think it was, my father called me at 2 in the morning. He told me, "your friends are here and they're going through my things. If they don't stop, I'm going to get my gun!"

I asked him to find one of my 'friends' and let me talk to them. He was gone for a long time and came back to say, "I can't find them now...."

Something had snapped in my father's mind. Something frightening. I told him I'd be there the next day. So I flew from Hartford to Pittsburgh to Charleston, West Virginia in a snow storm. The WV State Policeman at the entry to the West Virginia Turnpike from Charleston to Princeton, listened to my story and let me drive on. "But the turnpike is officially closed," he said, "so if something goes wrong don't expect to be rescued anytime soon."

When I got to Princeton, I found a pay phone. Remember pay phones? And called my father. I told him to take his pistol and put all the bullets on the table with the pistol open so I could see it through the kitchen window. I went to his house and he'd done just what I asked.

He was a mess, psychologically and physically, so after a few days of doing business: getting me on his check signing list, putting his house on the market, stuff like that, the two of us went back to Connecticut.

Bern and I hoped he could live with us in the Rectory at St. Paul's, New Haven. He loved to walk so I took him around the block and told him he could walk that as much as he wanted but he could never, ever cross a street. And that worked for a while. But one day Bern called me at the church and said, "you're dad's been gone for over an hour".

So I circled and circled the block, looking in all the stores and didn't find him. Then, several hours after he'd left for his 'walk' I got a call from a bus driver who had completed his route all the way across the city at the Yale Bowl. My dad had given him my phone number. He's been riding that bus for hours, without paying, but the bus driver had decided he was harmless and let him ride.

So, within the week, he was in a nursing home in Hamden, a town next to New Haven. He was there for several years. His dementia progressed rapidly to the point that he seldom recognized me. He thought I was his cousin, Ralph, or one of his brothers. Which was fascinating since he'd talk to his cousin or brother about me! That was the most positive thing about his dementia...I finally got to know what he thought of me....

He was an 'escape artist'. They finally had to tie him in a wheelchair at the nursing home so he just wouldn't walk out. But he'd stay by the door and when someone came in he'd ask them to hold the door and off he'd go, pumping his wheel chair as hard as he could.

Once he somehow got himself stuck in the elevator. The nursing home called me and told me they didn't know how he'd be when the elevator guy got him out and asked me to come. I was standing in front of the elevator doors when they opened. My father looked at me and said, "why did you put me in there?" I had to laugh.

Then he had a medical problem and had to go to St. Raphael's  in New Haven. I went to see him and we had the most cogent conversation we'd had in years. It was wonderful. He seemed so much 'the way he used to be'. After a long while I said, "Dad, I'm going home", and he responded, "Oh, I'm going home soon too." If he had been a parishioner I would have sat right down in the chair again and waited because I would have known it wasn't a 'dementia statement' but a hint of what was going to happen next. But he was my father. You can't be a doctor to your family and you can't be a priest either.

I drove home in about 10 minutes and when I walked in the phone was ringing. My father had died while I was driving. He'd gone home.

My daughter Mimi, who was 8 or so, hugged me and said, "Daddy, you're an orphan". And I was.

There are lots of stupid things people say when someone dies. "He/she is in a better place" is one of them--"what better place? They aren't with me!"

But one thing I've heard people say when someone dies is this: "they'll live on within you". That's where memory comes in and why it is such a precious gift from God.

I want to tell you about an image I stole, from, of all people, Garrison Kellier. Garrison once talked about All Saints' Day by referring to the altar rail in an Episcopal Church. Just imagine that when you knell at this rail and look to the left, you see, out to infinity, all those who came before you and when you look to the right you see all those, yet unborn, who will be One with you in the future.

That is truly, the 'communion of saints': we are all one at that railing. The Eucharistic Prayer I'm using at Emmanuel this Advent has a phrase that goes something like this: "and those we love who are separated from us now are present to us in this mystery...."

Memory allows that to happen. Loss and pain and suffering are all part of memory. But I've been dreaming of my father lately--and it's been good to be with him. He lives on within me. 

The pain never quite leaves, when people die. But the memory of the good times is healing. 

God wants to comfort us and soothe us and heal us.

We and those we love but see no longer live together in the heart of God.

We do. Remember. And be comforted and soothed and healed this night by the God who loves us best of all and hold us in the very heart of who God is.....Amen.