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Weekly Vitamins for the Soul -- December 12, 2004
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Yali Shi
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Dec 11, 2004 16:17 PST
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Weekly Vitamins for the Soul -- December 12, 2004
The Ultimate Christmas Tip
Paul J. Batura (adapted)
In a world consumed by the commercialism of Christmas, we are reminded
that the spirit of the season is very often found by just talking with
the neighbor next-door.
As a young boy growing up in the shadow of New York City, Christmas
unfolded with the predictability of a movie you've seen a dozen times.
Soon after the final leaf had fallen, our lovable and overly
enthusiastic neighbor, Frank Verni, would eagerly assemble his plastic
lighted manger scene - plus Santa Claus for good measure - in the middle
of his front lawn. It was quite the display. With every gust of wind,
the Angel Gabriel, wired from the gutter on the roof to the oak tree on
the curb, would regularly flip in rotation like a gymnast at the
Olympics. Bars of "Silent Night" blared from the speaker lodged in the
bush beside the front porch. A giant blinking star hovered over the
property - no doubt visible to commercial jets landing at nearby Kennedy
Airport. As kids, we would laugh at the spectacle until our parents
reminded us that the effort - and the depiction of Christ's birth - were
not matters to joke about. (Still, we'd kick each other in a silent
gesture of comic solidarity each evening when we drove by the house!)
Soon after Thanksgiving, other folks would follow, until the streets of
the village twinkled festively as far as the eye could see.
The Friendly Farmer
Just up the street lived another aging neighbor, Fred Reichard. "Farmer
Fred," as we called him, had long ago retired from the railroad and had
turned his backyard into a fertile field, growing every vegetable under
the sun. In my younger days, I'd watch from our side porch as he pushed
a huge wooden cart up and down the street, raking up the piles of leaves
people had stacked at the end of their driveway. Year after year, he'd
grind them into mulch for compost and ground cover, suggesting that it
was this effort that explained his annual bumper crop, of which he gave
nearly half away! Mr. Reichard's cart became legendary - and a welcome
sight since it meant never having to bag up the leaves on our lawns.
That same year that I helped my eccentric neighbor Mr. Verni, I noticed
that the piles of leaves were stacking up despite the fact that
Thanksgiving had already come and gone. We had heard that Fred was
struggling with a bad hip - but could it be so bad as to sideline him
for the season?
You should go over and offer to help him out," my dad said one Friday
night, "he could use some young legs."
Silently, my wheels began to spin.
"Maybe this was my chance to earn some elusive Christmas cash," I
thought.
Leaning into a cold, damp wind the next Saturday morning, I lumbered
over to his clapboard house, but a knock on the door met with silence.
Looking around the corner, I spied the empty green cart. The time had
come to be proactive.
So, up and down the street I traveled, sweeping and raking and carting
away every leaf I could find. As I made my way back home in the
darkness, the lights from Farmer Fred's car turned onto the block. I
waved. He motioned me over to the driveway to talk.
"What in the world have you done?" he asked, a smile creeping out of the
corner of his mouth. "How kind of you. Why don't you stop by after
dinner and we can settle up."
Assured that my work was finally going to pay off, I ran back across the
road with visions of holiday cash dancing in my head.
When I arrived back to the house after supper, Mr. Reichard was watching
a rerun of "Andy Griffith," sitting amid the glow of the black-and-white
television and the colored Christmas lights that adorned the small table
tree in the window. His wife, Julie, greeted me at the door, taking my
coat and scarf.
"Have a seat, sweetheart," she said in motherly fashion. "Mr. R. is just
so grateful for what you did today."
Clicking off the shenanigans of Barney and Andy, Farmer Fred welcomed me
to the living room, to the chair beside the crackling fireplace.
"I was at the doctor today getting tests done," he said, "and when we
were finished, he told me that I'd probably be laid up till spring. Just
about broke my heart. So much work still to be done - so few people to
do it. Ma and I aren't getting any younger! But then, I saw what you did
and realized that the good Lord has blessed us with neighbors willing to
help ? if only we would ask!"
I nodded, understanding his point, but I still hoped that some
compensation was coming at the conclusion of the conversation.
"You're a young guy," he continued, "but the day is going to come when
your mind might be willing, but the joints just won't give back." He
chuckled, but then grew more somber. "I hope you're lucky enough to live
in a neighborhood like this one - where people look out for one another
when the tough times come."
I could see a tear running down his cheek.
"Why don't you grab a bushel basket from the garage," he said, "and go
down to the basement and take whatever vegetables and canned jams and
jellies you think your mom could use. It's our way of saying thank you!"
Disappointed, I did as he suggested.
As I turned to leave, he placed his hand on my shoulder, looked me
square in the eye and ended our visit with one final comment:
"You know, the man whose birthday we celebrate in a few weeks said it
best: 'In as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto me.'"
I smiled. How else could a 14-year-old respond to such a statement? A
firm handshake followed and out the door I went. Once again, I
appreciated these words, but words alone wouldn't give me the funds I
needed for the gifts I had hoped to buy for my family. I presented the
basket of goods to my folks, while doing my best to hide my discontent.
"You see," my dad said with unabashed exuberance, "good deeds never go
unnoticed!"
Sibling Rivalry On the last Friday before Christmas, my brother John
excitedly bounded in the door after completing his paper route, his coat
and hat covered in snow.
"Look at this!" he exclaimed, pulling from his pockets all kinds of
envelopes in varying sizes and colors. "I can't believe it!" he
stammered, knowing that inside each envelope was a tip for a job well
done.
Seated at the dining room table, he methodically opened each card,
reading the message and recording the gift on a tablet by his side. By
the time the exercise was over, he had amassed a virtual fortune of
$127.50.
"What are you going to do with all of that?" I asked, as a jealous
spirit built up inside me.
"Oh, it's my Christmas shopping money!" he answered decisively. "Wait
until Mom and Dad and Jim, Tommy, Marie - and you - see what you're
getting."
Frustrated and feeling sorry for myself, I put on my coat and slipped
out the door, wondering if there was any way possible that I, too, could
find a way to earn such "tips" for Christmas.
Like many small towns in America, a temporary Christmas tree lot
occupied the corner near the train station. With the rest of the
neighborhood quiet, and for want of anything else to do, I decided to
walk by and see if there was anything going on. I fantasized that just
maybe someone had dropped a wallet - without identification - full of
cash! As I approached, I could see that the clear bulbs, strung from
post to post, were swinging wildly in the evening storm. A fire was
blazing inside a large oil barrel, valiantly trying to keep the
attendant warm. Holiday music from a little battery-powered radio on the
bench near the fence could still be heard above the howling wind.
"What brings you out here, young man?" the grizzled proprietor asked,
"Surely you're not looking for a tree by yourself?"
"No," I said, "I was just looking."
"Looking for what - to catch a cold?" he shot back.
"No, I just like looking at Christmas trees, " I replied somewhat
insincerely.
"Well, if that's the case," he said, "take a look at this one!"
With all his might, he lifted from the line a magnificent 15-foot tree,
its branches nearly as wide as it was high. I could only imagine living
in a house with a room large enough to fit such luxury.
"Some day," he said, "some day, you might have such a tree."
Since I couldn't even raise two nickels for a gift for my parents, I
couldn't fathom the possibility. But as I turned on my heels to leave, I
spotted a grouping of trees that looked more like scrawny bushes.
"Ha!" I joked with him, "those are more my style."
Barely three feet tall, they were reminiscent of the infamous Charlie
Brown tree from the TV special, a bit spotty - but still green and
standing upright, though snow was weighing heavily on their branches.
"Do you want those?" he asked incredulously. "They won't sell. I'll
probably grind them in two days come Christmas Eve."
Never one to pass up anything free, I accepted. Lugging the four trees
home in the snow, my route took me past some of the houses of the oldest
folks on our block. So consumed by my own worries the last few weeks, I
hadn't noticed something blatantly obvious this time around. Four of the
homes, all owned by widows, were void of visible Christmas decorations,
with the exception of a wreath or two and a ribbon on a front porch
post.
"How sad," I said under my breath. "I hope that never happens to my
parents." At that moment, I passed Farmer Fred's house and spied the
small tree in the window. I remembered our visit - and his parting
comment, quoting Jesus' admonition to His apostles:
"In as much as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto me."
"Of course!" I realized, filling up with a surge of holiday spirit like
George Bailey on Christmas Eve, "these trees should go to Mrs. Fox, Mrs.
McCabe, Mrs. McGrath and Mrs. Gorman! They probably don't have trees -
now they will."
At full tilt, I ran home and blurted out my plans to my parents. They
loved it.
"Let's build some stands in the basement," my dad said, "and see if we
can't dig up some extra lights from our decoration stash."
In an hour or two, the preparations were completed. The next evening, I
made the rounds, bringing a lighted tree and some cookies my mom had
made to the widows of our street.
Each visit was met with overflowing appreciation, hugs, stories and
tears. Mrs. Fox said the fresh scent of pine carried her back to her
first Christmas as a newlywed, when they cut a tree from the land of a
childhood home. Mrs. Gorman sat silent for a moment, later remarking
that twinkling lights hadn't lit their living room since her husband,
Bob, had passed away 10 years ago. And Mrs. McCabe told me the tree was
the first 'gift' she had received for Christmas in over five years.
As I left for home and looked back over my shoulder, this one small
corner of our street had been transformed. The darkened homes glowed
with festive lighting. The spirit of Christmas was alive and well.
So busy was I in the pursuit of earning monetary "Christmas tips" that I
had missed the fact that all along the "tips" were actually right before
my eyes in the form of godly wisdom from my neighbors who knew the
Christ as King. I was looking for cash - when instead, I should have
been listening to the words of Frank and Farmer Fred.
"Rings and jewels are not gifts," wrote Emerson, "but apologies for
gifts. The only true gift is a portion of thyself."
How often at Christmas do we look forward to giving and receiving the
gifts that only money can buy - when instead, it is the invaluable gift
of ourselves that will hold fast and firm when the ways of the world try
to pull us apart. Over a century ago, the poet Christina Rossetti summed
up the spirit of giving come Christmas. May we remember it all year
long:
What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb.
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part;
Yet what can I give Him?
Give my heart
* * *
Have a grateful season,
Shi Yali
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