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Vitamins for the Soul -- December 2006
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Yali Shi
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Dec 06, 2006 15:22 PST
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Vitamins for the Soul -- December 2006
"If You Are Missing Baby Jesus, Call 7162"
Jean Gietzen
When I was a child my father worked for an oil company in North Dakota.
The company moved him around to different parts of the state, and at
some point between one move and another, we lost our family Nativity
set. Shortly before Christmas in 1943, my mother decided to replace it
and was happy to find another at our local five and dime for only $3.99.
When my brother Tom and I helped her unpack the set, we discovered two
figures of the Baby Jesus.
"Someone must have packed this wrong," my mother said, counting out the
figures. "We have one Joseph, one Mary, three wise men, three shepherds,
two lambs, a donkey, a cow, an angel, and two babies. Oh dear! I suppose
some set down at the store is missing Baby Jesus."
"Hey, that's great, Mom," my brother and I shouted. "We have twins!"
"You two run back down to the store and tell the manager that we have an
extra Jesus. Tell him to put a sign on the remaining boxes saying that
if a set is missing a Baby Jesus, call 7162," my mother instructed.
"I'll give each of you a penny for some candy. And don't forget your
mufflers. It's freezing cold out there."
The manager of the store copied down my mother's message and the next
time we were in the store we saw the cardboard sign that read, "If
you're missing Baby Jesus, call 7162."
All week long we waited for the call to come. Surely, we thought,
someone was missing the important figurine. Each time the phone rang, my
mother would say, "I'll bet that's about Jesus," but it never was. My
father tried to explain that the figurine could be missing from a set in
Walla Walla in Washington and that packing errors occur all the time. He
suggested we just put the extra Jesus back in the box and forget about
it.
"Back in the box!" I wailed. "What a terrible thing to do to the Baby
Jesus. And at Christmastime, too."
"Surely someone will call," my mother said. "We'll just keep them
together in the manger until someone calls."
When no call had come by five on Christmas Eve, my mother insisted that
my father "just run down to the store" to see if there were any sets
left. "You can see them right through the window, over on the counter,"
she said. "If they are all gone, I'll know someone is bound to call
tonight."
"Run down to the store?" my father thundered. "It's fifteen degrees
below zero out there!"
"Oh Daddy, we'll go with you," I said. "Tommy and I will bundle up good.
And we can look at the decorations on the way."
My father gave a long sigh and headed for the front closet. "I can't
believe I'm doing this," he muttered. "Each time the phone rings
everybody yells at me to see if it's about Jesus, and now I'm going off
on the coldest night of the year to peek in a window to see if He's
there or not there."
My father muttered all the way down the block, while my brother and I
raced each other up to the window where the tiny lights flickered on and
off around the frame. "They're all gone, Daddy!" I shouted. "Every set
must be sold."
"Hooray, hooray!" my brother joined in, catching up with me. "The
mystery will be solved tonight!"
My father, who had remained several steps behind us, turned on his heel
and headed back home.
Inside the house once more, we saw the extra figurine had vanished from
the set and my mother appeared to have vanished, too. "Someone must have
called and she went out to deliver the figurine," my father reasoned,
pulling off his boots. "You kids get busy stringing popcorn strands for
the tree and I'll wrap your mother's present."
We had almost completed one strand when the phone rang. My father yelled
for me to answer it. "Tell'm we found a home for Jesus," he called down
the steps. But the caller was not an inquirer. It was my mother with
instructions for us to come to 205 Chestnut Street immediately and bring
three blankets, a box of cookies, and some milk.
"Now what has she gotten us into?" my father groaned as we bundled up
again. "205 Chestnut Street. Why, that's about eight blocks away. Wrap
that milk up good in the blankets or it will turn into ice by the time
we get there. Why in the name of Heaven can't we all just get on with
Christmas? It's probably twenty degrees below out there now. And the
wind is picking up. Of all the crazy things to do on a night like this."
Tommy and I sang Christmas songs all the way to Chestnut Street. My
father carrying his bundle of blankets and milk looked for all the world
like St. Nicholas himself with his arms full of goodies. Every now and
then my brother would call back to him, "Let's pretend we're looking for
a place to stay, Dad, just like Joseph and Mary."
"Let's pretend we are in Bethlehem where it is probably sixty-five
degrees in the shade right now," my father answered.
The house at 205 Chestnut Street turned out to be the darkest one in the
block. One tiny light burned in the living room, and the moment we set
foot on the porch step, my mother opened the door and shouted, "They're
here, they're here. Oh, thank God you got here, Ray! You kids take those
blankets into the living room and wrap up the little ones on the couch.
I'll take the milk and the cookies."
"Would you mind telling me what is going on, Ethel?" my father asked."
We have just walked through below zero weather with the wind in our
faces all the way. …"
"Never mind all that now," my mother interrupted. "There is no heat in
this house and this young mother is so upset she doesn't know what to
do. Her husband walked out on her and those poor children will have to
spend a very bleak Christmas, so don't you complain. I told her you
could fix that oil furnace in a jiffy."
My mother strode off to the kitchen to warm the milk while my brother
and I wrapped up the five little children who were huddled together on
the couch. The children's mother explained to my father that her husband
had run off, taking bedding, clothing, and almost every piece of
furniture, but she had been doing all right until the furnace broke
down.
"I been doin' washin' and ironin' for people and cleaning the five and
dime," she said. "I saw your number every day there, on those boxes on
the counter. When the furnace went out, that number kept goin' through
my mind: 7162. 7162.
"Said on the box that if a person was missin' Jesus, they should call
you. That's how I knew you were good Christian people, willin' to help
folks. I figured that maybe you could help me, too. So I stopped at the
grocery store tonight and I called your missus. I'm not missin' Jesus,
mister, because I sure love the Lord. But I'm missin' heat.
"Me and the kids ain't got no beddin', no warm clothes. I got a few
Christmas toys for them, but I got no money to fix that furnace."
"Okay, okay," my father said kindly. "You've come to the right place.
Now let's see. You've got a little oil burner over there in the dining
room. Shouldn't be too hard to fix. Probably just a clogged flue. I'll
look it over, see what it needs."
My mother came into the living room carrying a plate of cookies and a
tray with warm milk. As she set the cups down on the coffee table, I
noticed the figure of Baby Jesus lying in the center of the table. It
was the only sign of the Christmas season in the house. The children
stared wide-eyed with wonder at the plate of cookies my mother set
before them. One of the littlest ones woke up and crawled out from under
the blanket. Seeing all the strangers in his house, he began to cry. My
mother swooped him up in her arms and began to sing to him.
This, this, is Christ the King, Whom shepherds guard and angels sing,
she crooned while the child wailed. Haste, haste to bring Him laud, the
Babe, the son of Mary, she sang, oblivious to the child's cries. She
sang and danced the baby around the room until he settled down again.
"You hear that, Chester?" the young mother said to another child. "That
woman is singin' ‘bout the Lord Jesus. He ain't ever gonna walk out on
us. Why, He sent these people to us just to fix our furnace. And
blankets we got now, too. Oh, we'll be warm tonight."
My father, finishing his work on the oil burner, wiped his hands on his
muffler and said, "I've got it going, but you need more oil. I'll make a
few calls tonight when I get home and we'll get you some oil. Yessir,
you came to the right place," he grinned.
When my father calculated that the furnace was going strong once more,
our family bundled up and made our way home. My father didn't say a
thing about the cold weather and had barely set foot inside the front
door when he was on the phone.
"Ed? Hey, how are ya, Ed?" I heard him say. "Yes, Merry Christmas to you
too. Say, Ed, we have kind of an unusual situation here and I know
you've got that pickup truck. I wonder if we could round up some of the
boys and find a Christmas tree, you know, and a couple of things for …"
The rest of his conversation was lost in the blur of words as my brother
and I ran to our rooms and began pulling clothes out of our closets and
toys off of our shelves. My mother checked through our belongings for
sizes and games she said "might do" and added some of her sweaters and
slacks to our stack. We were up way past our bedtime that night wrapping
our gifts. The men my father had called found oil for the furnace,
bedding, two chairs, three lamps, and had made two trips to 205 Chestnut
before the night was done. Our gifts were piled into the truck on the
second trip, and even though it must have been thirty degrees below by
then, my father let us ride along the back of the truck.
No one ever did call about the missing figurine in the Nativity set, but
as I grow older I realize that it wasn't a packing mistake at all.
* * *
Merry Christmas,
Shi Yali
http://www.sunshin.org
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