One more Christmas story in January

        How the

girls saved

  Christmas

                                                Bern's Christmas gift

                                    from Jim

                                       2014

                              (with much love)

                HOW THE GIRLS SAVED CHRISTMAS

        It was a dark and stormy night...well, actually, it was Christmas Eve in Baltimore, Maryland, United States of America, Planet Earth and it was dark, but not stormy—and the girls were so excited about Christmas and their cruise the day after that they knew they'd never sleep. They tried to be quiet so their parents wouldn't come into the room and tell them to go to sleep...but staying quiet when they were so excited was hard.

        The girls lived on Toone Street in a townhouse across from a dog park and a soccer field in the part of Baltimore known as Canton, just off I-95, next to Fells Point and only minutes from downtown. The girls names were Emma, Morgan and Tegan. Emma and Morgan were twins, though not nearly 'identical' since Emma has her mother's black hair and Morgan has her father's brown hair and Emma is almost a head taller. They are eight years old, which is a great age because they can read and write and never have to be bored. The third girl is Tegan and she is five, also a good age, because she is learning to read and write and will, once she masters those two things, never have to be bored either. Reading and writing are like that—cures for boredom.

        Plus, they all three wear glasses.

        That's no surprise since their mother and father and all four of their grandparents have terrible eyes and need glasses or contact lenses to see. Being able to 'see' is genetic, though I'm not sure what that means.

        But what the girls lawyer parents did not know was this: the glasses they got were magic glasses that gave the girls secret wonder powers no one knew about except the three of them and their grandmother, mother of their father (more about how she knew later.) They dared not tell their lawyer parents lest they become 'concerned'--a word the girls knew involved, in some way, intervention, like getting them new glasses that had no powers.

        Here are the powers they had: Tegan could make things fly; Morgan could turn into any animal; and Emma could sing things into being and sing and make people unable to see what was in front of them to see.

        They practiced their powers in private, with each other. Tegan would make their stuffed animals fly around the room. Morgan would turn into a cat or a polar bear or a lizard and the other two would play with Morgan, the animal. And Emma would sing about “she'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes” and six white horses would be in their room. Emma would take her glasses off and the horses would disappear, but it was fun for a moment or two to have six white horses in their shared bed-room.

        Even the animals Morgan could turn into had glasses on, so if Tegan and Emma heard their mom or dad coming down the hall, they'd jerk the glasses off the polar bear and Morgan would be there instead.

        It was hard keeping their super-powers secret because they loved to play around with them. Morgan would become a lobster and hide in the closet while Tegan made the things Emma sang into being fly around the room. Once Emma was singing “Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer,” who could fly anyway, so Tegan made Emma fly as well. The reindeer and Emma were soaring around the room when Josh, their father, opened the door. Tegan and Emma took off their glasses and Rudolph disappeared but Emma fell four feet onto the floor.

        Josh seemed not to notice what had been going on (parents are really kind of dim sometimes) and all he said was, “where's Morgan?”

        Emma crawled across the floor, though falling had hurt her a bit, into the closet and tore the magic glasses from the lobster's face. Morgan suddenly was back and Josh seemed confused (which is what parents are much of the time that we are kids....)

        Once when Cathy, the girls' mother was with their dog, Laura, in the dog park across the street, the girls were watching from the living room window. Morgan turned herself into a Puli, like the dog her dad's parents have, and went to run with the dogs in the park. Tegan, for just a moment, because she wanted to see it happen, made all the dogs fly a little, then took off her glasses. Emma sang a little of “How much is that doggie in the window?” and all the dogs in the park were suddenly outside the living room window until she pulled her glasses off. None of the adults in the dog park noticed any of that—which is the way 'adults' are, sadly.

        There were lots of other adventures the girls had with their magic powers. Like the time Tegan made her teacher fly a bit and Morgan turned into a turtle and walked around her classroom and Emma sang “Hey, diddle, diddle” and made a cat with a fiddle and a cow show up for a moment near the altar of the Episcopal Cathedral in Baltimore where they went to church. She took her glasses off really fast and no one seemed to notice but one member of the choir who left for a while to recover from what she knew was a hallucination.

        But this story is about how the girls, with their oh-so-secret powers saved Christmas in 2014. So, let's go back to Christmas Eve on Toone Street, near midnight with three super-power girls who couldn't get to sleep.

        What you don't know, unless I tell you, is that Santa was getting sleepy and a little sloppy by the time he got to Baltimore plus someone was trying to stop Christmas, more about that later too. Christmas Eve had started a lot earlier out over Asia and Africa and Europe. Since Baltimore is in the Eastern Time Zone of the United States all that was left in his journey to bring gifts to children was North and South America and a few islands in the Pacific Ocean. But he'd been at it for a long time for an old elf and there was another problem you'll learn later and he flew a little too low into Baltimore and his sleigh hit the winking eye man who stands for some beer just off I-95 and careened, out of control and landed on the soccer field beyond the dog park in Canton, just across from where the girls lived.

        Emma, Morgan and Tegan heard the crash and ran downstairs to look out the the living room window.

        “Oh no,” Morgan said, there are still people walking around, even though it is late. What if they see Santa and his sleigh? They'll call 911 and Christmas will be over.”

        So Emma sang a lullaby that made anyone near the crash sight not see anything. Everything was normal for people walking by.

        “We have to do something,” Morgan said, putting on her glasses and changing into a red-tailed hawk and flying out the window Emma opened to see what was going on.

        Tegan made both Emma and her able to fly and they flew out the window after Morgan, the hawk, to check on the crash site.

        Well, it was a mess: the sleigh was broken up and several of the reindeer were hurt and presents were all over the soccer field. Santa was unconscious. What a mess.

        Emma sang, “wake up, wake up, you sleepy head” and Santa came out of his knock-out state. They checked the reindeer and it became clear than Rudolph was too injured to fly. Emma sang, “I'll be home for Christmas” while touching Rudolph and he went back to the North Pole where Mrs. Claus and the elves nursed him back to health after a few days.

        “But what will I do?” Santa said to the girls, “all the presents for North and South America are scattered all over this field and I'm one reindeer short for the rest of the trip? Plus, my sleigh is broken”

        “Never mind,” Emma told him, Tegan can gather the presents really quickly and Morgan can turn into a reindeer and help pull the sleigh.”

        So Tegan made all the presents scattered over the soccer field fly back to Santa's bag in a jiffy. And Morgan first turned into a beaver and repaired the sleigh with mud and then turned into a reindeer and joined the other reindeers.

        “Everything will be alright,” Emma told Santa.

        “Don't worry,” Tegan said, “we're here to help you.”

        “But there's one more thing you don't know about,” Santa told them, “their is an evil witch who is trying to ruin Christmas. I've avoided her most of the time so far, but without Rudolph and as fragile as my sleigh is now, she might have enough power to stop me right here and all the children in North and South America won't get their presents.”

        The girls were suddenly confused. They were so young and yet Christmas depended on them. Morgan said, “I wish we could talk to grandma, she'd know what to do.”

        Their father's mother was the only person who knew about their powers because she came into the dining room at some point over the Thanksgiving holiday and saw Bela and Laura, the two dogs, flying around. Tegan took off her glasses and both dogs hit the floor. But then, Bern, their grandma, made the girls tell about their powers. She promised never to tell anyone else, not even their grandpa, who she told everything. So Morgan turned into a rabbit and Emma sang Bobby Shaftoe into being before they both took off their glasses. Their grandma clapped and laughed at what powers her granddaughters had. And they all joined hands to swear to keep the secrete.

        Santa asked, “does your grandma have a phone?”

        The girls told him the number and he took out his smart phone and dialed it and Bern answered.

        “Are you the grandmother of Morgan, Emma and Tegan?” he asked.

        “Of course,” she said, “who are you?”

        “Well, this is Santa Claus,” he told her, knowing most adults didn't believe in him anymore.

        “Santa!,” Bern said, very excited, “so you are REAL!”

        “Of course I'm real,” he told her, “for those who believe.”

        “Oh, Santa,” Bern told him, “I believe....I believe....”

        “Then you need to talk to....”, Santa said.

        Emma grabbed the phone. “There's a witch whose trying to stop Christmas and Rudolph got hurt and Morgan had to fix the sleigh....”

        Morgan, as Rudolph pushed her big deer head in front of Emma and said (she could talk when she turned into an animal, though her voice took on a bit of the creature she was, so she sounded much like a deer) “Grandma, should we try to stop the witch? Emma could sing her here....”

        “That might work,” her grandma said, “but please, all of you be careful.”

        “We will,” Emma and Morgan said together, “and Merry Christmas...tell Granpa too.”

        “I will,” their grandma said, “but he's sound asleep, the phone didn't wake him up.”

        So Emma sang a song about the Witch who wanted to kill Christmas and, sure enough, there she was, on the soccer field, flaming and angry and vicious. But Morgan turned from Rudolph into a T-Rex and ate the witch up, real quick.

        Santa was a little nervous about the dinosaur (as were Tegan and Emma) so Morgan was back as herself.

        “She's gone,” Morgan said, “now what do we do?”

        “It's Christmas,” Santa said, “and we have lots of children to give presents to. Morgan, you need to be a reindeer again. Tegan, you need to help the sleigh fly. And Emma, you have to sing “Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer” whenever we encounter fog or clouds so I can see. Are you girls up to that?”

        They all made sure their magic glasses were firmly in place and did exactly as Santa asked. And off they went, Emma and Tegan in the sleigh, Morgan as a flying reindeer, to deliver the presents to all the girls and boys from Boston to Bogata, from Columbus to Columbia, from Chicago to Chile. From San Francisco to San Juan, from Anchorage to Argentina.

        What a long night for Santa and the girls, but when all the gifts are delivered, Emma hugged Tegan and the reindeer, Morgan and sang “Home again, Home again, jiggidy, jig,” as she took the glasses off the reindeer Morgan, and the girls are all in their room again and it was 7 in the morning in Baltimore. They should have been exhausted, but saving Christmas is something that gives you a lot of energy, so when they heard their parents, Josh and Cathy, outside their room, they ran out to meet them and all five of them went up to the top floor of the townhouse to open presents.

        Christmas was wonderful. They got so many great gifts and then they talked to their mother's parents, who lived in Baltimore, and their father's parents in Connecticut about how wondrous and perfect it all was. And the next day they would go on a cruise with their mom's parents. How great it was to be Morgan and Emma and Tegan!

        When they talked to their Grandma Bern, she whispered to them, “how did things turn out with Santa?”

        And they all told her what they had done to save Christmas and she was so proud of her three granddaughters. So proud and happy about how they had saved Christmas. And she told them each one and swore she'd never tell anyone (even their parents) about their glasses and how they gave them powers. Not ever. And she never did.

        And the girls had many more adventures with their powers: Tegan making things fly; Morgan, turning into any animal; Emma, singing things into being and keeping people from seeing what was in front of them.

        Many adventures they had, for years and years.

        But on Christmas, 2014, after the presents from Santa were opened, Cathy, their mother, asked them what they wanted to eat for breakfast.

        Tegan said, “pancakes!”

        Emma said, “sausage!”

        And Morgan said, “I'm not hungry at all.”

        Cathy and Josh were astonished by that, but they didn't know that Morgan had eaten the Witch who wanted to destroy Christmas. She wouldn't be hungry for a few days though she'd eat to make her parents happy.

        She'd do that because the three of them (besides having such wonderful powers) were the three best girls in the the world, ever....Really.

       

Another Christmas story only a few read

Bern makes me something for Christmas (a painting, a table shaped like West Virginia--hard to make!, a hat shaped like our Puli. I write her stuff. Here's one I wrote a few years ago.

Bo's Gift

Mattie knew that Paul was having heavy days. He had always been prone to brooding but it had gotten worse once Bo Freeman came home and even worse since the job interview at St. Martin's down in the capitol city. Initially, Paul had been so excited about the possibility of a new position. He had come home after the initial interview telling her what a good chance he thought he had, how he believed he had impressed the committee, how he could already imagine himself Rector of a thriving parish in a real city.

Mattie listened joyfully, so pleased at Paul's pleasure. But the moment fell apart when he said, “at last we can get out of this two-bit town.” Mattie made sure not to react, but it dawned on Paul what he had said and the thrill went out of him. He talked a bit more, with much less enthusiasm and Mattie knew he had been struck by guilt for what he said. After all, it was 'her' two-bit town, not his.

Mattie had grown up in Deep Valley, as had her parents before her. Paul was from the capitol, a big-city boy as things went in that small New England state. She imagined he didn't even know where Deep Valley was until he was hired to be the priest at St. Luke's straight out of seminary. Though, in all the years, he never said so, she knew he had seen it as a brief stop, a few years before moving on to bigger and bigger churches, perhaps even to be elected bishop some day, like his father had been. But, as Mattie's mother used to say whenever plans were thwarted, “considerations got in the way”.

In fact, Mattie was the consideration that came between Paul and his ambitions. She had always told him she would go wherever he needed to go, but either he hadn't believed her or knew it would grieve her to leave the little town while her aging parents still lived. So, in the first decade or so, he patiently waited, putting his longings for a more prestigious parish on hold. First he waited until Bo finally had to go to the state hospital 50 miles north. Then he waited for Mattie to get pregnant, discovering through that wait that it was his fault she didn't conceive. Finally, he waited for her parents to pass on—first her father and then, five years later, her mother. Before he knew it he had been at. St. Luke's , Deep Valley for nearly 25 years. And, Mattie knew he had already waited too long.

Then, like a unsuspected marvel, Bo Freeman came home and Paul had to wait until the new realities of that homecoming settled down. But now, finally accustomed to having Bo be the child they never had, he felt free to apply for positions in larger places. But by that time he was already over 50 and the sad truth was that churches were always looking for younger priests rather than mature ones. The final interview at St. Martin's had not gone well—had gone horrendously bad, in fact, and hope was lost. Paul told Mattie that in so many words when he got back late at night. She had waited up for him—praying as she prayed...more like thinking hopeful thoughts...that the news would be good. That, his waiting finally over, Paul could pursue his dreams.

But he was morose when he arrived. His eyes were red and swollen and she pictured him in her mind, weeping as he drove home. He said very little, sentence fragments really...”too long in a small parish”...”never showed ambition”...”younger, more exciting candidates”...”our family situation”...”I'm not my father”...”looking for someone who could stay longer....”

Mattie was holding his hands in hers on the kitchen table where they often sat and talked into the night. She was so deeply, profoundly sorry for him, distressed to see him so deflated, longing to be able to give comfort, when those three little words jumped out of the jumble of his self-accusations: “our family situation”. Mattie could imagine it all, the closed door conversations of the vestry at St. Martin's, those doctors and lawyers and university professors and business men and women who made decisions for the largest church in the diocese. Their city ways, their busy lives, their attention to the 'image' of St. Martin's--”Fr. Harden is a good man, a solid priest, and we know how successful his father was here. It might just work, but he is older than we'd hoped for and, well, the family situation....”

They would have never said it out loud, too conscious of political correctness, but they would have thought it and it would have weighed heavy on their minds. How could a priest be Rector of our St. Martin's whose only child was a retarded adult that didn't really belong to he or his wife. No they would have never said it out loud, but Mattie was sure Paul had read between the lines. And though Paul loved her too much to ever hurt her with the idea, Mattie knew it must be true. How hadn't either of them anticipated it? Had they simply become blind to how 'things must look' to strangers? Not that it was the only reason, Paul had been passed over, but it would have entered in. Somehow it was Bo Freeman's fault that Paul was not moving on to receive the much delayed reward for all his loving patience. Mattie's eyes clouded with tears. She thought her heart might break. In the end she was what had kept Paul waiting, her devotion to her parents, her love of Deep Valley, and now, finally her 30 year old promise to 'look after Bo....”

Bo Freeman had been the reason for the first conversation Paul and Mattie ever had, that and church music. Mattie had been the organist at St. Luke's for two years before Fr. Harden arrived. She made an appointment and went in to play for him two days after his furniture had arrived at the Rectory so he could decide if he wanted to keep her on the staff. He stood smiling as she played through a few hymns and a Bach prelude. He started smiling as soon as she hit the first notes and asked her how St. Luke's, such a small church, afforded her.

“Oh,” Mattie said, not so much flattered as intrigued at the 'light up the night' smile of the seemingly somber and serious young priest, “I teach at the elementary school and live with my parents, so I don't expect to get rich on St. Luke's ....”

“Well, you certainly won't,” Paul said, still smiling.

They talked for a while about music matters—Fr. Barnes before him had left hymn selection up to Mattie, using The Choirmaster's Guide to help her. Paul wanted more imput—but so he would, being young and energetic. Dear Fr. Barnes had been with them for 30 odd years—he'd baptized Mattie—and didn't need to 'put his stamp' on the music. That was the term Fr. Harden had used. Mattie found it amusing. So, in the end they agreed she would keep playing and Paul promised to try to give her a raise in the next year.

She was about to go, when he said, “If there's anything I can ever do for you, let me know.” And she realized there was. She got off the organ bench and they sat together in a pew while she tried to explain about Bo Freeman and the promise she had made.

“Sally Freeman and I grew up together. We were inseparable from first grade on,” she told him. “People referred as 'S & M', like the shoe store in the mall. We were planning to go to college together, room together and come back to teach school here in Deep Valley. But none of that happened....”

She went on to explain that during the summer of their Senior year at the regional high school, Sally met a 'big city boy' and he got her pregnant and disappeared. She stopped and apologized, remembering suddenly that Paul Harden was a 'big city boy'. He waved away her apology and she continued.

“It all fell apart, Sally's hopes and dreams,” Mattie told him, “plus, her parents—very strict people—threw her out. She lives in the little apartment above my parents' grocery store with Bo.”

Paul was already familiar with “Holmes' Market”, the only grocery store in town. It was small but well stocked and saved a drive out to the Big Y on the Interstate.

“Then Bo was born,” Mattie went on. “It was clear from the beginning that something was very wrong with him. He's not Downs Syndrome, but it is in that genus of conditions....”

Paul missed the next sentence or two since he was so shocked to find a young women, a product of the small town of Deep Valley, who used the word 'genus' so casually. He knew she was a remarkable musician from hearing her play, but now she was getting interesting.

What came out in the next five minutes was that Sally (the S in the 'S & M' girls—although Paul repented thinking momentarily of the other SM, it obvious hadn't occurred to Mattie) had moved heaven and earth to keep Bo with her. She worked in Mattie's parents store, offered art classes at the local library (“I was the musician and Sally was the artist,” Mattie said.) Paul noticed that she was neither bragging or embarrassed about saying musician and artist. He was not used to such straight forward, confident talking. He had spent his life among those who thrived on irony and sarcasm and figures of speech. People who didn't offer themselves unprotected to the world. Even his father, the popular and thriving Rector of St. Martin's in Capitol City--'sure to be a bishop someday', was the conversation about Paul Harden, Sr.--even his father had never, in all of Paul's life, been so unconcealed as this somewhat lovely young woman was being on their first meeting.

“When I came back from State College,” she continued, “Bo was turning four and the real problems were showing up. He still wore diapers, he didn't speak much and what he said was hard to understand.” She paused, took a breath. “And he was big. A big boy. The last three years, since I've been home, I've helped all I could. And my parents have helped. But then....” Mattie paused, tears rising in her eyes, pain showing in her face, her body slumping in the pew. She was a slight woman who became even smaller for a moment. “Then...,” she continued, voice slightly breaking, “Sally was diagnosed.”

Sally it turned out, had a form of cancer as insidious and irreversible as Bo's condition. She had six months at diagnosis, two months now when Mattie was talking with Paul Harden, her priest, for the first time.

“I promised her,” Mattie said, near sobbing but controlling it enough to talk, “I promised her I would 'look after Bo'. He's a dear child—as innocent and pure as a spring day here in the mountains. And Sally is ready to sign guardianship over to me, but I need some references....I know you don't know me, but a priest's reference would....”

Mattie never finished that sentence because she burst into tears and fell into Paul's arms. He held her, wondering why Seminary hadn't taught him about such things, feeling a vibrant, honest, almost lovely young body against his, hers convulsing in pain, grief, loss. Paul realized he had no idea whatsoever about what to 'do', so he simply held her until the rapids of weeping subsided and she sat up, clearing embarrassed at her out burst, and asked, simply, clearly: “will you write me a letter, Fr. Harden?”

How could he not? Of course he asked her if there were other options for Bo Freeman--”Sally's parents?” “Dead in a car accident when I was a Senior at State College”.

“Siblings?” “She was an only child, like me....” And Paul added in a whisper, “Like me too....”

So he wrote the letter and Matilda Holmes, 25, his age almost to the day, became the legal guardian of Bo Freeman when Sally Freeman died. Paul did the funeral, since Sally's parents had rejected her and their pastor did as well. She was buried in the small graveyard behind the church, a Baptist among generations of Deep Valley Episcopalians. Mattie handled the expenses and the details and then moved into the small apartment above her parents' grocery, so Bo wouldn't have to adjust to a new environment. Every thing Mattie did, from that funeral on, Paul came to understand, was in response to her promise to a dear and deep friendship. A promise not easily made, a promise that had a cost, a promise made in true trust and commitment, a promise that would shape and form, over many years, both Mattie and Paul, and their lives. A promise rooted in the profound depths of love and friendship, a promise that could never be broken—no matter what the fall-out. That was what Matilda ('Mattie') promised to Sally and to Bo. And it was a promise, so unlike the vast multitude of promises of human beings, that would be kept. Cost what it may, mean what it might.

Everything went well—oh, not 'well', but acceptable, for several years. Mattie managed Bo well enough, with her parents' help and the help of others in the little town. Mattie continued to teach, play the organ for St. Luke's and care for Bo. Paul had to admit that Bo was benign enough. Since Mattie was so dedicated to him, Bo came with her to choir practice and church. He was frightening because he was so large and 'different', but the people of St. Luke's accepted him in time. He even grew on Fr. Harden, though Miss Holmes grew on him more. Paul was impressed how Bo would sit by the organ console, leaning against it at choir practice and on Sunday for the two Eucharists. It was awkward and the source of endless gossip, but over the next few years Paul wooed and finally won Mattie. They would be married when Bo was eleven and Mattie and her child born of a promise were going to move into the rectory after the wedding and leave behind the apartment over Holmes' Grocery. Most people agreed, up until then that Mattie's love and devotion could manage the incredible force of nature that was Bo.

Then it happened, a week before the wedding. Just as all the wags and lunch counter philosophers of Deep Valley could have and in fact did predict over the years: Bo, as much as Mattie had sophisticated and tamed and acclimated him to the culture of life in Deep Valley—a culture much more forgiving and accepting than the 'big city' culture that depended on social workers and institutions—did what could have been predicted. Bo set fire to their apartment between the time when Mattie's mother went downstairs to help with the store and the time, only 20 minutes later, but a lifetime in Bo's life, Mattie got home from school, having stayed a few minutes longer to speak with a parent. Bo came home from school—he was in fifth grade though, God knows, he hadn't passed the previous four. “Social Promotion”, they called it back then, in the day, and he turned on the stove after Mattie's mom went downstairs, and it would have been disastrous had Mattie not arrived and put it out with salt, bath towels and great courage born of commitment.

Yet there was no way to keep it from the state social workers. And added to that, Bo had recently hurt a much smaller classmate. Bobby was on the swing and Bo merely meant to give him a push, but Bobby saw him, panicked and fell off the swing. Bo, being 100 pounds heavier tried to pick Bobby up and broke 3 ribs. Fr. Harding had helped soothe over the reaction to that event, but when Bo started the fire, well, the state simply stepped in and Bo went to the hospital in Garden, where he stayed for years and years.

It was in that context that Fr. Harden, having waited patiently for years, married Matilda Holmes.

Time passed, as it always does, like it or not, and it was not until nearly 20 years after Mattie and Paul were married (much to the delight of the people of St. Luke's and the whole village of Deep Valley, loving them both, but loving Mattie more and wondering, some of them, why she would waste herself on such a man—a man without ambition, a man willing to be patient and wait for Matilda Holmes to 'be available'....) At that point in their thoughts, their wonderings would stop. What man wouldn't wait for Matilda? What man with any sense about him wouldn't be patient if patience was what was needed to win such a prize as Mattie? Maybe this 'big city boy' priest knew what he was doing. Maybe he was right to be patient and wait. That's what the people of Deep Valley finally decided—as odd and brooding as Fr. Harden was, if he had the good sense to wait for Mattie, well, how much better could he be?

So their married life began. They were both 30. People talked behind their hands and wondered out loud in the diner and on the street and at the coffee hour at St. Luke's when they would have a child. The widows and mothers of the village looked endlessly at Mattie's waist, but she remained slim almost to a fault, slender in a way most women first admired and then envied.

Matilda's parents wondered too. They waited, as did Paul and Mattie herself. They were patient and waited and when they finally knew—having submitted themselves to intrusive and awful tests—that Paul's sperm count was too low, much too low to induce pregnancy, well, they had waited patiently and then they knew. And they wouldn't be moving soon, Paul wouldn't take a new call because Mattie's parents were growing old and the corner grocery, well stocked and with such variety as it had—was becoming a dinosaur that people fed, from time to time, because it was 'their' dinosaur. But, all in all, the Holmes' Grocery was being laid waste by the 7-ll and the Big Y and a convenience store over on South Street that stayed open later and had a license to sell both beer and wine.

Paul and Mattie shared the aging and death of her parents, shared it equally since they had been truer parents to Paul than his own parents had been. But when both Davis and Alma Holmes were dead and buried, near Sally Freeman, in St. Luke's grave yard, Paul had called his father, now a bishop on the west coast, to ask, tentatively, if there might be some churches in his father's diocese that would be interested in him, Paul Junior.

After an uncomfortable pause and silence, Paul's father said, sadly, Paul thought, “You've waited too long. I'll retire in a few years. I really don't think it would be wise to put your name forward, knowing, as I do, I won't be here to guard you.”

They spoke for a bit longer, but Paul knew, knew fair well, he had disappointed and let down his father by staying so long in Deep Valley, by not being more aggressive or having more initiative, more ambition. Paul's father never understood that his 'staying put' at St. Luke's had to do with waiting for Mattie—someone worth waiting for. Such a thought would have never entered Bishop Paul Harden's ambitious, ironic mind.

That all took place just before Bo Freeman came home. In his years of 'incarceration', as Mattie saw them, at the State Hospital, Bo had learned even more than Mattie had taught him. And a new law decreed that people like Bo, who were able, so far as the state could determine, to live in the community, must do just that.

Mattie had visited Bo faithfully every two weeks for over twenty years. Mattie was, in Paul's mind, one of the few people he'd known who steadfastly kept her word, her promise to Sally to 'watch out' for Bo. She always returned and told Paul all about Bo's progress. She even convinced Paul to go with her two or three times a year and give Bo communion and anoint him for healing.

It was a struggle for Paul at first. He had been glad to share Mattie with Bo in her twice monthly visits, but sharing her and their house with him proved difficult. Bo was well mannered enough, but, at 34 (several years past what the doctors had predicted would be his lifespan) he was large and clumsy and often dropped things and knocked things over. Bo was polite and pleasant and very goodhearted, but he tied them down more than Paul had expected and took so much of Mattie's time and energy. Paul was jealous, he admitted to himself, jealous of the gentle giant who had 'come home' after so many years. The feelings Paul had depressed and disappointed him. It was dangerous, he well knew, to assume he could be as committed as Mattie was to Bo, but he felt guilty nonetheless. The first year was the hardest but the three of them eventually settled into their new life together. Bo called him “Poppy Paul”, having failed to be able to say either 'Father' or 'Harden'. He called Mattie “Matta” and in time Paul would come to use the nickname. Things certainly settled down, but it was another delay, another waiting for Paul. Until they were used to Bo's presence there was no way to look for a new job.

But then, when St. Martin's came open—the place where Paul had grown up and his father had been Rector for so many years. Well, he thought it was FATE calling to him. He no longer dreamed of being a bishop, like his father, but at least, he imagined, he could make his father proud by following in Paul Senior's foot steps. That was why he was so morose and depressed by the rejection. St. Martin's was the domino that knocked down all the others. That was why he became withdrawn and sullen. Mattie didn't seem able to lift his spirits. Bo was merely confused at the way Poppy Paul was behaving. “Poppy Paul sad?” he asked Mattie. She had to admit Paul was very, very sad. “Bo help?” he asked. She embraced the big man, her eyes welling up, “if only Bo could...,” is all she said.

Even Advent couldn't take the weight of loss and disappointment from Paul's shoulders. It had always been his favorite season, but this year, he barely sang the wondrous Advent hymns, celebrated communion with little passion and his sermons were less structured, less poetic than they always were in the Season of Waiting. Perhaps he was through with waiting. Perhaps he thought there was nothing to wait for anymore.

Finally, a week before Christmas, Mattie could take it no more. She found him sitting in the Rectory office in the dark.

“Paul,” she said, “I think it's time you talked to someone. Won't you call Dr. Lewis?” David Lewis was the psychologist in a nearby town who Paul had recommended to dozens of people over the years.

He looked at her. Bo was behind her, in the doorway. Paul got up and moved toward her. “Do you think I'm crazy!” he shouted. “Is that what you think?”

Mattie was startled. She didn't remember a time in all their marriage that Paul had raised his voice to her like that. The shout sent Bo running. In a moment, they heard the front door open and close. Mattie went after him, but when she stood on the porch it was too dark to see where he had gone. Suddenly, Paul was beside her.

“He didn't take a coat,” she said, shivering in the chill night.

“I'm sure he'll come back soon,” Paul said, his voice full of guilt. “He won't go far.”

But a half-hour later, Bo had not returned though Mattie and then Paul had put on warm jackets and went out to call for him.

They were about to give up when Mattie said, “there's a light in the church.”

St. Luke's was never locked. People often let themselves in late at night, turned on the chapel light and sat for a while.

“That's not the chapel light...,” Paul said as they moved toward the door, “it's candles.”

Sure enough, Bo had lit the altar candles. He had also moved the creche figures from the table by the pulpit to the center of the chancel, arranging them just outside the altar rail. Since it wasn't yet Christmas, the figure of the Christ Child wasn't out yet, but as they moved down the aisle, they saw that Bo laying on the floor in front of the little foot-tall statues of Mary and Joseph, holding something against his chest.

“What on earth....” Paul's voice trailed off, beginning to comprehend the tableau before them.

“You see it too,” Mattie said in a whisper.

By that time, Bo had gotten to his feet and came hurrying down the aisle toward them. He gripped, Paul by the arm with one huge hand, in the other he gently held the creche's Angel.

“Come, Poppy Paul,” Bo said, excited. Paul let himself be led up the steps where Bo said, “lay down, Poppy Paul, lay down with Mary and Joseph.” Paul was already on his knees, tears were rolling down his face. He let Bo help him down until he was laying on his side. Then Bo pressed the angel into Paul's hands. “Poppy Paul's Mary's Baby too....”

Paul was weeping quietly. Bo looked anxiously at Mattie.

“It's okay, Bo,” she said, holding back a sob herself. She stood rooted to the spot and watched as Bo sat beside of Paul and cradled his head gently in his huge arms.

When the tears were over, Bo helped Paul to his feet. He looked at the priest with a compassion few would have thought him capable of and asked, “Poppy Paul is Mary's Baby too?”

“Yes, son,” Paul said softly, embracing the larger man, “Yes, my son, I am....”

Mattie held her hand to her mouth. Paul had never called Bo that before. And she could tell as Paul looked at her and held out a hand to her to join their embrace that light had come into Paul's darkness and his life-long waiting was over.

Bo hugged Paul back.

“Easy, son,” Paul said, wincing, “careful with my ribs....”

sleeping late

I always heard that as you got older you slept less and less.

Not me!

I can, seriously, sleep more than 8 hours every night. I usually go to bed at 11, read for a while, and sleep until 9.

And I could do that every night.

Bern, when she wakes up, really 'wakes up'. She'll go in the tv room and doze on the couch but her night's sleep is over.

I can wake up--and sometimes do--several times a night, but I just lay still and go back to sleep.

And since I don't function well without sleep, this is a great gift.

I even asked Bern this morning if she resented me sleeping late. She said she didn't and I believed her so I went back to bed for 45 minutes! And I slept.

(I secretly think she is just as glad I'm not around as she drinks her morning pot--I mean 'pot', not 'cup'--of coffee and can do what she wants. I'm a morning person--probably because I sleep well--and she definitely isn't. So she's glad to not see me until 9 or later.)

Pleasant dreams....

I hope you all sleep like I do.

baseball and time

The Major League's commissioner's office is making lots of noise about ways to 'speed up the game'.

I for one don't want it to speed up. I love baseball because there is no clock, no ticking down--it takes as long as it takes for a game to be played.

I know I'm a pre-tech Baby Boomer who doesn't mind it internet is slow. My attitude could kill the sport, I know, for people who want things done wham-bam-thank you, M'am.

I don't mind spending 3 hours watching 18 people scuff the dirt and tighten their hitting gloves and shaking off pitches. No better 3 hour past-time for me. I don't like the 24 second or 30 second clock in the NBA and college basketball. It used to be possible for a vastly inferior team to get a 4 point lead and spread the floor and play keep away. I remember Nobody teams beating top 10 teams 32-30. I found that very interesting.

But then I like to just sit and think or sometimes "just sit".

Younger generations want something to happen 'now'. I'm willing to wait for something to happen.

I open my Christmas gifts slower than most people, I think. I like 'not knowing' as much as I like 'knowing'.

I hate to google stuff. I'd rather wonder and ponder than to 'know' immediately.

So, don't speed up baseball.

Besides, it would cut down the number of beer runs you could have.

Fr. Dodge and Hot Stuff reprise

I shared this in 2011 so I think it's time to again. A story that underscores how what a priest should feel most of all is humility.

Fr. Dodge and Hot Stuff

For some reason, I've been thinking about Fr. Jim Ford (I call him Dodge in this piece) so I thought I'd share this with you.

Father Dodge and Hot Stuff

When I arrived at St. James, the congregation was being served by Fr. Bill Dodge, a retired school teacher who was a Title Nine priest. Title Nine is a strange little piece of Canon Law also known as “the old man’s canon”—though to be politically correct it should now be known as “the old wo/man’s canon”. (If it’s not “ageism” to call people “old” these days….) Episcopal Church law is more strict about ordination than most any denomination; however, Title Nine is an “out”, a way around the rules for those late in life who feel called to priesthood. If the Church determines the call is legitimate, the candidate is allowed to study privately, usually with a near-by priest or group of priests and be tested after the term of study is met.

That’s what Fr. Dodge had done. He’d become a priest through the back door. When I was newly ordained, after four years of theological study and two (count ‘em—two) Master level degrees, I had little patience with Title Nine priests and even less with Fr. Dodge. He was in his 70’s and, to my exalted standards, not up to snuff. But I was going to be a deacon for a year and needed somebody to help me liturgically. Deacon’s Masses, which are weird both theologically and as liturgy, would serve from time to time, but the congregation deserved a “real “ Mass monthly or so and Fr. Dodge was the best I could find. Plus, for reasons beyond my comprehension, the parishioners seemed to have a deep affection for him and were always happy to see him. It wouldn’t have been astute of me to get rid of the old codger since I needed him and the parish wouldn’t like it.

(It’s embarrassing and humbling to listen to myself talk like that! I thought of myself as such “hot stuff” in those days! I was God’s gift to St. James Church and worldwide Anglicanism as well. At least that’s what I thought. The truth is, looking back, I was brash, arrogant and unkind almost all the time. Hot Stuff, indeed!)

In addition, I considered myself a liturgical genius---the be all and end all when it came to ritual and celebration. In fact, I’d spent four years at Harvard and Virginia Seminary, neither of which has any claim to teaching liturgical practice. Liturgy at Harvard had been mostly of the “feel-good”, lots of balloons and readings from Kahil Gibran. Worship at HDS began with Unitarian politeness and didn’t go much further or deeper. In fact, any resemblance to Christian, much less Anglican worship was totally accidental. A typical chapel service would include—in no particular order—readings from the Koran or Hindu scripture, a little jazz played by my friend Dan Kiger or other musical students, some silent meditation and the singing of some of the hymns of Hildegard of Bingham. The Archbishop of Canterbury would have been horrified! The closest thing to a Eucharist I remember was when Rabbi Katinstein brought some Passover bread and Harvey Cox talked about the religious symbolism of sharing food and we all went up and took a piece for ourselves. I loved it, felt I was in the forefront of liturgical renewal.

Virginia Seminary was, when I was there, a “Low Church” seminary. That meant that worship was restrained, proper and in good order. That (“restrained, proper and in good order”) meant that no Popish nonsense would be allowed to infect the purity of Protestant worship. One of the lame jokes we often told was this: “You know what streaking means at VTS? Running through the chapel in full Eucharistic vestments!” There was a lot of controversy at the seminary when I was there because altar candles had been added to the “communion table”. Candles made some of the faculty nervous. You shouldn’t open the door to “catholic” practice---first come candles and then (gasp!) incense and the adoration of the blessed sacrament!

Once, during my senior year, some of the students from more High Church dioceses organized a “high mass” with chanting, bowing, genuflecting, incense and much crossing of oneself. I was fascinated. I’d never seen such a thing. My old nemesis, Reginald Fuller, was the celebrant. He was “streaking” around the chancel in his vestments, censing the altar, chanting in his Oxbridge accent, genuflecting like one of those little yellow birds that keep dipping into a bowl of water. Several of the faculty walked out in a huff at such going’s-on. There was serious discussion over sherry about suspending the student planned Wednesday services.

That one service was all I knew about Anglo-Catholic worship when I arrived at St. James. Fr. Dodge, I have to admit, seemed to know when to cross himself and genuflect (which I couldn’t do without nearly falling on my face). St. James, like most African American parishes, had been founded in a rich High Church tradition that disappeared when the first white priest came to be their Vicar. So, one good reason for keeping Fr. Dodge around was so I could figure out how to celebrate in a way that was Anglo-Catholic in a mirror dimly. So, those times I’d let him come and celebrate I’d watch him out of the corner of my eye to try to find a pattern to his movements.

However, Fr. Dodge didn’t seem to follow any discernable pattern. I came to believe that if he ever knew what he was doing, he’d forgotten how and was crossing himself at random places in the service. Even though I didn’t know how to celebrate a real mass, I resented him for not knowing! And that wasn’t the end of my complaints about him. His hands shook when he elevated the host and chalice, sometimes spilling wine on the fair linen. He’d lose his place and I’d have to prompt him with a stage whisper several times during the service. He mispronounced words all the time. Several times, rather than “in your infinite love” he said “in your INFANT love”! I mean really, how much could the good folks at St. James and I stand of this sloppiness?

And the one time I let him preach—horrors! He read his sermon haltingly at best, mixing words up and shaking to beat the band. Besides that, if he’d had any kind of decent delivery at all, his theology was more Pilgrim Holiness than Anglican. He talked about Jesus as if he were a good guy from down the street, someone who would teach you a lot and lead you to heaven when you die. Obviously, he’d never studied homiletics—or much of anything else so far as I could tell. I was embarrassed for him, but more than that, I was embarrassed that I needed him.

So the day of my ordination finally came. I invited Fr. Dodge to be in the service out of guilt over what I planned to do. He was so excited about being near the altar with the Bishop and the two dozen other priests. He told me afterwards that it was one of the greatest days of his life and that he was so proud to work with me.

The next week I fired him.

Well, it wasn’t really a “firing”. I drove up to his house high up on a hill about 20 miles from Charleston and talked to him on his front porch. I explained how now that I was a priest I really didn’t need for him to drive all that way twice a month. I told him he needed to take it easier at his age. I reminded him that there were two churches much closer to his home that would probably be overjoyed to have his help. I thanked him for all he’d done and told him that I really didn’t need any coffee and that I’d had lunch already. “No,” I said, “I really don’t have time for a piece of pecan pie.”

He said he understood. He told me how much he’d enjoyed working with me and how much he’d learned from me. “You’re going to be a wonderful priest,” he said.

I thanked him and slinked away to my car. By the time I got back to Charleston, what few qualms I’d had about what I’d done were melted away. I was a priest—a wonderful one at that—and I was finally free of Fr. Dodge. Things would really get rolling now at St. James. It would be like releasing the emergency brake that had held me back while I was a deacon.

A month or so later, Remitha came to see me. Made an appointment and everything instead of just dropping in like usual. We even sat in my office and did small talk—something Remitha never did and wasn’t good at. Finally, she cleared her voice and began….

“I wanted to come and find out if anything was wrong with Fr. Dodge,” she said. “I notice he hasn’t been here since your ordination.”

I started explaining how since I was a priest now I didn’t need him as much. “And,” I lied, “at his age, he and his wife felt it was a long way for him to drive….”

She held up her hand and got up. “That’s fine,” she said, “just as long as he isn’t sick again….”

She was half way to the door when I caught my breath and said, “Again?”

She spoke with her back to me. “Well, his first stoke wasn’t too bad….”

“First stroke….” Is all I could get out.

“But the second one laid him up for months,” she said. Then facing me she continued in a soft voice, “but you know, since we didn’t have a priest, he got his wife to drive him down and he did the service sitting on a stool. He couldn’t give us communion, of course, but Morris and Ben did that for him….And when the service was over two of the younger men would carry him down to his wheelchair and…..”

I didn’t hear much more. I wished she’d stop talking or I’d be struck deaf and dumb or the floor would open up and I could crawl inside.

“You know what I admire most about Fr. Dodge?” she was asking when I tuned back in.

I shook my head and tried to speak. I think I was struck dumb.

“How he was willing to continue his ministry even though that wonderful reading voice he had and the regal way he held himself at the altar was taken away from him.”

“He had a good voice…?” I croaked.

“Sometimes he’d sing a solo for us,” she said, killing me with her matter-or-fact tone. “And I wish you could have heard him read the service,” she continued, consigning me with her smile to one of the lowest circles of hell. “Before the strokes he was one of the best speakers I ever heard. He gave up a career in radio to be a schoolteacher. Did he ever tell you that?”

I found that I was sitting back down though I didn’t remember doing it. “No,” I said, softly, “he never did.”

“Well,” she said, backing toward the door, “just shows what a humble man he was. Humility makes a man a wonderful priest….”

Then she was gone and I was left alone to consider humility.

(One of the things that happened at VTS on a regular basis was “Bridge before Lunch”. There were half-a-dozen or so card tables and while whoever was assigned to help set up lunch was doing their job, bridge would break out. My partner most of the time was Rodge Wood. I was a novice at bridge but Rodge was a master. He’d played in tournaments before coming to seminary. As inept as I was, Rodge carried me. We were a good team, so good that none of our classmates would play with us but the underclassmen could be duped into a game.

They’d see us at a table and come over and ask if we’d like a game. Usually, since no one wants to be in over their heads, they’d say, “are you any good?” Rodge would answer for us both. “Jim’s bad and I’m OK.” Then we’d embarrass them for a few hands.

Once, over lunch, I asked Rodge why he didn’t tell other people the truth about his playing.

Rodge quoted scripture: “He who humbles himself will be exalted,” he said.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s what the passage means.)

“Humility” has the same root as “humus”, dirt, earth. True humility isn’t about demeaning yourself or pretending to be less than you are. True humility is realizing, beyond any doubt, who you are and where you come from. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Being humble means being close to the earth from which we all come. A friend of mine often says she “doesn’t trust anyone who hasn’t had their face of the pavement.” What she means, I believe, is that once you’ve hit bottom you realize that whatever you accomplish or however far you rise the earth is patiently waiting for you. The bigger part of humility is perspective and point of view.

Things look rather distorted when you’re a Hot Shot. It’s like flying in a plane and thinking about how everything down on earth looks small and toy-like. Things may look that way from up high, but you best not forget that they aren’t really small—it’s just your perspective and point of view.

While Remitha talked to me about Fr. Dodge, knowing all the while what infamy I had committed, what a rat I had been, my face had descended from “on high” to the grit and grime of the pavement. The ground, the earth, the humus had swallowed me up. It was a blessed gift, one I’d need to receive countless times again.

I called Fr. Dodge and drove out to his house. I told him that I had been wrong. I told him that I wanted him to come back, twice a month, to celebrate and preach once each month. I told him I realized that I didn’t want to do it all by myself. I told him I was sorry and asked him to please consider coming back.

He was as gracious as before, only this time I hadn’t had lunch and we ate tuna-fish sandwiches on homemade bread, washed it down with sweet ice tea and each had two pieces of Mrs. Dodge’s pecan pie.

For a year or so after that, I sat at his figurative liturgical knee. I came to delight in his mispronunciations—“infant love” might work better than “infinite love” when all is said and done. It became a pleasure to prompt him or merely point to the altar book in the right place. I finally started “lining” out the service when he celebrated by pointing to each line as he read. (In fact, I train the seminarians who work with me these day to do that for me!) And, for the first time, I noticed how he was with the parishioners of St. James. He never pretended to remember names when he didn’t. He listened to them intently and didn’t say much in return. He smiled almost constantly and the slight crookedness of his smile from the strokes came to be dear to me. I never bought his simplistic theology, but I did learn that if we can’t talk about heaven we most likely will never be able to imagine it…or go there….

Then he died, suddenly and in his sleep. It was my honor to commit his ashes to the ground. I drove up to his house on the hill and scattered them in the garden he loved to work in, among his flowers and bushes. Mrs. Dodge told me how much “Billy” had enjoyed working with me and being at St. James.

“He told me many times that you were a wonderful priest,” she said, brushing away a tear.

“Takes one to know one,” I told her and she beamed.

“That makes him happy,” she said, “I just know it does.”

We left Fr. Dodge in the garden (and in the heaven he so clearly imagined) while we went inside to tell stories, laugh and cry and eat some pecan pie.