Never a Stranger

Do you believe in angels? I’ll understand if you answer no, I didn’t believe in them either; that is until this morning. I want to tell you a story, and if my story makes you believe in them, well then that’s good. And if you don’t, that’s okay too. It’s up to you what you choose to believe. I spent the last fifty years not believing while living with a woman who believed in angels with every ounce of her precious heart. That woman was my wife, Margaret Joyce Collins. I called her Maggie. The words to express how much I loved her can’t be formed from this meager keyboard. If you’ve loved someone like that then you know what I mean and I don’t need to worry about finding the right words. If you haven’t, well then you wouldn’t appreciate the words anyway.

I married Maggie in 1963 on Christmas day. It wasn’t planned that way, we were set to tie the knot on November 23, but after President Kennedy was assassinated by that idiot Oswald, Maggie was so overcome with sadness that we postponed the ceremony. Maggie loved Jack Kennedy, his wife and the idea of Camelot. My wife was that type of person; she loved romance and happy endings, and angels. I think that might be why she ended up setting Christmas as the day for our wedding. Boy did that upset her family and mine. Who the heck gets married on Christmas day? My older and often wiser sister warned her that the turnout would likely be very small, “People want to be with their families on Christmas, and they are not going to want to be at a wedding!”

I remember Maggie smiling politely at her future sister-in-law and saying, “Only three people have to be there, your brother, the preacher and me. Anyone else that shows up will be icing on the cake.”

It turned out that my sister was right, less than a couple dozen people showed up to the church that day. But it didn’t bother Maggie at all. In fifty years she never once mentioned the paltry turnout, in fact whenever she spoke about our wedding day she only talked about the angel.

One of the few guests that did come to the ceremony was Maggie’s best friend from high school, Virginia something or other. Virginia walked into that church holding in her hands a small gift, wrapped in silver paper with a silver bow. When it came time to open presents, Virginia’s small box was the first one Maggie grabbed for. Inside the box was a ceramic angel. It stood about three inches high and was a work of art. The details of the angel had been painstakingly hand painted by the artist. The tips of the small sculpted wings were brushed with gold while the tiny lips of the cherubim wore scarlet. In her hands she carried a basket filled with small flowers, each one with amazing detail and life-like color.  I’m not one much for nick-knacks and such, but even I could appreciate the beauty of that tiny angel. Every year after, on Christmas Eve, my wife would add another angel to her collection, but that small ceramic angel from Christmas of 1963 always stood front and center.

Yesterday was December 24. And just like the forty-nine previous Christmas Eves, Maggie woke up early, (also making sure that I rolled out of the bed) and prepared to go into the city. It was an all too familiar routine; we would drive to town, have a small breakfast at her favorite diner and then begin the annual quest for her angel.  We would walk through the old downtown, where a dozen little shops trimmed in Christmas décor placed their goods behind festively painted windows. I don’t recall Maggie having ever bought a single angel at any of these shops, but she enjoyed browsing every aisle of every single one of them. I had learned over the many years to follow just a few steps behind her, nodding affirmation when she saw something she admired and to never complain about the snail’s pace of a woman shopping. Besides, this time of year most of the shops offered free copy or hot apple cider to the husbands in tow.

After a few hours of walking around and too many cups of cider filling my old bladder we would drive out to the mega shopping mall where Maggie would be certain to discover the perfect angel to add to her collection. This year’s angel would be number fifty. With great anticipation and excitement Maggie had informed me, “This one will be special.” I didn’t point out to her that every year she proclaims, “This one will be special.” You learn some things after being married for almost half a century, like what to say and more importantly what not to say.

The December snow started falling as I pulled the car onto the interstate. The mega mall was about twenty miles north of downtown and under good driving conditions it would only take a brief car ride to get there. But with each mile the Lincoln traveled the heavier the snowfall became. Maggie seemed oblivious to the sudden winter storm, gabbing on and on about all the Christmas gifts she had already bought for the grandchildren. Checking them off her list one by one, making sure she had not left anyone out. This was her time of year; Maggie Joyce loved everything about the holidays. Her green eyes shined brighter than any Christmas ornament when she talked about her grandchildren. Tomorrow morning they would all show up on our doorstep bright and early. Our house would be transformed into Grandma’s house, and Maggie loved every bit of it.

The Lincoln MKT handled the slippery roads just fine. It wasn’t a heavy vehicle like the old Continentals I had driven in the past, so I had slowed down considerably. No reason to take any chances. It wasn’t my own driving ability that I was worried about, I’ve been driving for more than sixty years; it’s all the other idiots on the road. Of course, I didn’t say this out loud either.

 It has been a slow year for snowfall, so the roads had started out clear. The day had also begun unseasonably warm, so most of the snow melted as it landed on the asphalt highway. My worry, which helped tune out Maggie’s yakking about grand-kids and Christmas music on the car radio, was for the drive home that would come later. Later after the sun went down and would no longer be there to warm the roads. Snow covered roads are bad news, ice covered roads are worse. I came close to suggesting to Maggie that we turn around and head home, I knew it would disappoint her and I don’t think she would have argued. But I didn’t. Now I wish I had.

By the time we arrived at the mall only a few flakes danced down from the heavens. But the dark gray heavy clouds promised more snow. The mall’s parking lot was filled with cars belonging to last minute shoppers. I drove around for ten minutes before finding a space that wasn’t a quarter of a mile away from the mall. The warm temperatures were now a part of the past and the bitter cold wind greeted us as we climbed out of the car.

I spied the old lady before we had walked ten steps. She was heading right towards us. The woman carried all the markings of what we use to call a “bag lady”. I guess “homeless” is the more appropriate term now.  She wore an over-sized, worn out coat. It was so faded and dirty that it was hard to know what color it had once been.  Around her neck she wore a long green knitted scarf, filled with holes. Rubber boots, which also appeared to be too big but protected her feet from the winter snow. Her wiry gray hair stuck out in all directions from under a Green Bay Packers knit cap, era 1970’s. Her face was worn with age and much exposure to the harsh climate of Wisconsin. Beneath it all she had smile on her face, revealing teeth almost too perfect for a woman in her condition.

“Oh, good God,” I said. “Just ignore her and maybe she will go away.”

“Never a stranger,” my wife whispered.

I had heard Maggie speak those very words hundreds of times. She would usually follow them by quoting from the Bible, the book of Hebrews, something about entertaining angels. Maggie knew her Bible better than most and whole lot better than I do. She could quote scripture for just about anything that could happen to a person. But this time she didn’t, instead she said, “She’s a Packer fan, you ought to like that.”

“She probably stole the hat,” I replied.

Maggie elbowed me in the ribs, “Hush, its Christmas.”

I rubbed the spot where her elbow had landed, “Does the Bible say anything about elbowing your husband of fifty years in the ribs?”

“Not a thing about it or against it,” she said with a smile, “and it won’t be fifty years until tomorrow.”

The gap between us and the old lady had closed to just a few feet; all three of us stopped walking at the same time.

“Merry Christmas,” the old lady chimed.

Smiling, Maggie returned cordially, “And Merry Christmas to you.”

Here it comes; I knew it wouldn’t take long. The haggard stranger shifted her weight, extended a gloved hand and said, “Do you think you could…”

Maggie interrupted the homeless woman before she could finish her appeal, “Where did you get that?” Maggie was pointing at a golden brooch pinned to the old ragged scarf. The piece of jewelry seemed so out of place in the unkempt appearance that embodied this strange woman. The brooch was shaped like an angel on bended knee, hands folded and head bowed in prayer.  The jeweler had crafted a small halo out of diamonds. It was beautiful.

The old woman lifted her scarf which held the angel brooch, the thin material pinched between her finger and thumb. She stared at the angel for more than a moment before answering, “It is mine,” she said with exaggerated indignation. “A friend gave it to me.”

I wondered if the friend knew she “gave” it to her. I didn’t allow this thought to depart through my mouth; my ribs wouldn’t handle another jab from Maggie’s elbow.

“What a nice gift, it truly is lovely,” Maggie smiled again. Continuing she turned her attention to me, “Joe, give her the ten.”

“The ten” was a sawbuck Maggie periodically slips in my wallet behind the picture of our newest grandchild. She has been doing that for more years than I can remember. Her motive is for occasions just like the one taking place in the mall parking lot. Maggie has always believed that if you can help someone with the abundance the Lord provides then you should. There was a time when ten dollars was more money than we had in our bank. But over the last fifteen years or so, the Lord has provided abundance. Just in time too, it allowed me to retire at a reasonable age and for the two of us to enjoy or last years together. So, the ten was there for others. Not strangers mind you, remember Maggie’s motto, “Never a stranger.”

I looked at the woman who had suddenly entered into our quiet circle. She didn’t look too homeless to me, other than the worn out clothes she wore. My hesitation was noticed by Maggie and her elbow responded with another trip to my ribs, barely a tap this time but enough to make me pay attention. I reached for my wallet and removed the ten dollar bill. The woman took it from my hand and it disappeared inside her over-sized coat in the blink of an eye.

“Merry Christmas and God bless you,” she offers, “both of you.” She added the last after glancing my way for just a brief moment. “You should get inside before the storm comes. It is a Christmas storm, those can always be the worst.”

I wasn’t sure about her forecasting ability, but it was getting colder with each passing minute. It would be dark before long; Maggie doesn’t like me driving when it’s dark outside. I hoped the change in weather and the imminent nightfall would mean a shortened shopping venture.

Maggie replied, “And Merry Christmas to you, and God’s blessing also.” She reached out and lightly touched the angel brooch, “It is so beautiful.” The old lady smiled and turned away, walking back to her staging ground, waiting for the next Good Samaritan to cross her path. My wife stood still for just a moment, watching the old woman walk away. Maggie has always worn her heart on her sleeve; I could see her compassion for this unusual woman written all over her. That my friend is why I have loved her for more than a lifetime.

The shopping mall was still bustling with last minute shoppers hurrying from store to store seeking the perfect present. The mall has more than a hundred stores where one can spend too much money, but as tradition Maggie would only really shop for her annual angel in the Hallmark store or the Christmas Shoppe. The latter stayed open year round, I could never understand that myself but it was Maggie’s favorite place to go regardless what month was showing on the kitchen calendar. On the way to the Hallmark store Maggie steered us into a couple of shops where our stay would be brief, staying long enough to glance into the jewelry showcases; I don’t think she knew that I had noticed. The old woman’s angel brooch must have stirred an uncommon desire inside Maggie. She was never one to get giggly over jewelry, she owns some earrings and bracelets and of course her wedding rings, but I am quite certain she has never worn a brooch. I do believe if she had happened upon an angel brooch on her way to Hallmark or the Christmas Shoppe it would have been coming home with us.

As it turned out the only package she carried back to the car contained a gold and topaz colored angel made from cut glass. The shape of the angel was almost identical to the brooch the old woman had worn, except this one did not have a halo. Maggie had spotted it almost immediately after entering the Christmas Shoppe and for the second time that day she surprised me with her behavior. Most years she would mull over half a dozen or so angels before finally making her purchase, this time it was quick and decisive. I’m not complaining mind you, in fact I was rather pleased that the shopping trip would end sooner than later.

Now as I look back on it, I wish we had stayed at the mall longer. I wish we were still there. Then she would still be with me.

Maggie found a radio station that was playing non-stop Christmas music and she turned the volume up when Nat King Cole came on singing The Christmas Song. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and snow was falling at a steady pace. By time I took our exit I had turned the wipers on full speed to clear the windshield. Traffic was much lighter now, so I didn’t mind slowing my speed, not worrying about being hit from behind by some idiot honking and cussing at an old man driving too slowly. Nat finished his song and was replaced by Michael Bublé crooning Let it Snow, Let it Snow. Maggie had removed the new angel from the bag and was trying to admire it in the mostly dark car. Reaching up, she turned on the passenger side courtesy light and said something about there being a small crack in the base she hadn’t noticed it at the store.

“Well maybe it’s not a crack sweetie; it is awful dark in the car,” I offer.

“No, I think it’s cracked. Look at it.”

The next part of this story is hard for me to tell. Bear with me, if you will. When I think back on that moment in the car, I remember everything in slow motion, like an old movie. But it wasn’t in slow motion; in fact, it went so damned fast I still have a hard time believing it. If you and I were talking, if I had to tell you what happened instead of putting the words on this paper...well, I don’t think I would be able to without crying like a baby.

”No, I think it’s cracked. Look at it.”

I turned my eyes from the road in front of me just long enough to see the little angel resting on Maggie’s palm. I only saw the little angel for a second because the headlights of the eighteen-wheeler shining through the passenger side window were bright and blinding. Why is he so damn close, I thought? I sat frozen, unable to do anything.

 That’s the part that hurts now. Not the worst of it but knowing I didn’t do anything...hurts. The rig was traveling at about fifty miles per hour. ‘He’s going too fast.’ I think I might have said that out loud, I don’t know. I remember thinking if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch those lights, maybe push them away before they hit us. Then I felt the impact as the rig slammed into the side of the Lincoln. Maggie’s side. The sound it made was the loudest thing I have heard I all my years. Metal on metal, glass shattering. Bublé’s voice suddenly silenced, replaced by my wife screaming. The rig pushed the Lincoln across the road like it was nothing more than a card board box. The second impact came when the driver’s side, my side, slammed into a city bus that was parked along the curb. The pain in my shoulder was immediate and severe. I turned to look towards Maggie but the pain intensified as it shot through my shoulder and up into my neck. I managed to turn at the waist towards the passenger seat. Before I passed out, I saw the topaz and gold glass of her newest angel lying on the seat between us. It wasn’t even broken. “I don’t think there’s crack in it sweetie.” I look at Maggie. She was broken. 

When I open my eyes, the light is blinding. I couldn’t understand how the headlights of the rig could still be shining so brightly. I know I had heard the crash, it was so loud. As my head began to clear I realized the lights were coming from overhead and not from the truck. I wasn’t in my car; I was lying on a hospital bed. The pain in my left shoulder throbbed dully. Standing beside the bed with her back to me was a woman wearing nurse’s scrubs.

“Excuse me,” my voice producing little more than a whisper.

The nurse turns and smiles, “Well, you’re finally awake. How do you feel?”

“Where is my wife?”

The nurse’s smile falters just slightly as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.  “Your wife is in the I.C.U, she got out of surgery about an hour ago. The doctor will come down to speak with you soon. We were waiting for you to wake up.”

“I want to go see her please.”

“The doctor will come down and see you shortly. I think you should probably wait here. You took a pretty good knock yourself.”

“I want to go see her now.” I start to get out of the hospital bed but was overcome with dizziness. I hadn’t moved far enough to fall down but the nurse grabbed my arm none the less.

“Sir, I know you are concerned about your wife, but if you fall down you may not be in any condition to see her. I promise you the doctor will be down to speak with you soon.”

I look at this “We Care Person” knowing that I will surely lose this battle. I also know what her answer would be if I asked her about Maggie, but I did anyway.

“How is my wife doing?”

“You will have to wait for the doctor.”

I told you.

I lay back down and close my eyes. The image of the big rig barreling down the side road is clear as a summer sky. Everything after that is blurry. I remember there being two impacts just moments apart. I wouldn’t remember hitting the bus until later. I look at my left shoulder and discover that it had been wrapped in an ace bandage. I figure I must not have broken anything since it was just the soft wrap on it. I found out later that I only had a slight dislocation. God only knows how I walked away (well I didn’t really walk anywhere) from the accident barely bruised while my wife lay in the Intensive Care Unit. The thought brings up an image of Maggie’s little angel lying on the seat unbroken. For a moment I wonder where that angel is now, Maggie will want it. I open my eyes to flee from the memory of the accident but only for a second. My eye lids were heavy and I suddenly wanted to sleep more than anything. I don’t know how long I dozed off for before the voice of the doctor calling my name brought me back to awareness.

“Mr. Collins.” The doctor speaks softly. I knew right away that the news would not be good.

“Is my wife okay?” I hope.

“Sir your wife was injured very badly in the accident. Numerous bones were broken including four ribs. The ribs punctured her right lung and damaged other major organs as well. Ironically it was the impact of the airbag that likely caused the damage to her ribs. Her head injuries are critical, but because of her current condition we have not been able to determine the extent of injury. During surgery I was able to stop much of the internal bleeding, but not all of it. Her heart stopped twice during the surgery so I elected to close her before we could finish.”

“Is my wife dead?”

“No sir, not yet. It is highly unlikely that she will survive. We have her sedated and resting comfortably in the ICU.”

“Can I see her?”

“I think you should Mr. Collins. The nurse can get a wheel chair for you if you would like.”

I sat up in the bed to test the dizziness; it was still there but not as bad. I looked at the nurse and nodded that I would use the wheel chair. After she left to get the chair I thanked the doctor for taking the time to speak with me. It was his turn to nod and offer a slight smile, “I am sorry the news isn’t better.” With that the doctor turned and left the little area formed only by long white curtains.

The nurse returns with the chair after just a few minutes. She helps this old man into the chair with the type of care that only comes with years of experience, yet she looks like she is barely old enough to drive. We roll down the long hallway until we arrive at a bank of elevators. My guide presses the UP button and we wait silently. I begin to wonder if the doors would ever open when I hear the bell alerting the arrival of the elevator’s car. The car was empty except for the nurse and me. It was as if the privacy of the elevator gave leave to the nurse to end the reign of silence that had prevailed over the past few minutes.

“I am sorry the news about your wife isn’t better.” She begins.

“Thank you, so am I.” I really didn’t feel like talking, especially to someone I had only a brief acquaintance with. Yet I wanted to be polite. I needed to be polite…never a stranger!

“This is an awful time for something like this to happen with tomorrow being Christmas and all.” She sounds sincere in her assessment of there being a time worse than another to learn that your wife is likely dying. I resist replying with sarcasm, be polite…never a stranger!

I add to the conversation, “Tomorrow is also our anniversary, fifty years.”

“Wow, fifty years, that’s the silver anniversary. That’s awesome”

I don’t point out to this young nurse that it was gold not silver, it wouldn’t have made a difference. She is still very young, too young to even comprehend fifty years of anything.

“It is awesome, thank you again.”

The bell on the elevator rings again announcing our arrival to the floor which houses the Intensive Care Unit which keeps my wife…of almost fifty years. The hallway was dimly lit and without all the merriment that came with Christmas decorations on the previous floor. Across from the nurse’s station stood one lone artificial Christmas tree decorated with some garland and a few red and green glass balls. There isn’t even a tree topper. My guide wheels me down the hallway stopping in front of the nurse’s station. She exchanges a whispered conversation with the woman behind the counter, another nurse but quite a bit older. The older nurse points to a room just a few feet away and across the hallway. The sign to the left of the door reads ICU 3. Written below that, in the neat handwriting of some attendant, M Collins.

I stand up, getting out of the chair with no dizziness. The young nurse asks if I am okay to walk rest of the way. I don’t answer her; I just walk towards Maggie’s room. The door is open to the room and I can see my wife lying in the bed. There are monitors on both sides of the bed with red and green flashing numbers that mean nothing to me. A third monitor on the right side of the bed Is an electrocardiogram; I recognize the green EKG waves traveling across the front display. To me the pattern seems slow, too slow. On the wall above her bed is a digital clock, the lime green numbers tell me that the time is 11:49 pm.

I walk over and stand next to the bed, looking down at my wife. She looks frail; the bed seeming to swallow her up. Her right-hand rests on her chest as if she was saying the pledge. Her left is secured to her side with I.V. needles protruding from the back of her small hand. Her face, her beautiful face is without color.

“It is okay to hold her hand if you would like, and you should talk to her.” The young nurse, I learned later her name is Jennifer, had followed me into the room. I turn to look at her, silhouetted in the light of the hallway she looks like an angel. In that moment the reality of what was happening to my wife flows over me with incredible power. I felt like I was going to fall down. Jennifer was immediately at my side, her small frame somehow managing to support me. The feeling passed after a minute, I thanked her and turned again to my wife.

I hold her hand and say a quiet prayer, asking God to protect her and to comfort her. I open my eyes and look at the clock on the wall, 11:53 pm. I look down at Maggie’s face and her eyes are open, she was looking at me.

“Talk to her.” Jennifer urges.

Rarely in my life have I ever been at a loss for words but I didn’t know what to say.
11:54 pm.

I try to open my mouth, to make the words come out. Hell, it didn’t even have to be words, I just wanted to hear something other than the damn beeping of the hospital machinery. And I wanted my wife to hear me, to know I was with her. More than that I wanted to hear her. Her eyes were still open but I don’t think she saw me or understood what she was seeing. The brightness that had always shined in Maggie’s eyes is gone.

11:55 pm.

I start to tell her how much I loved her. My mouth forms the word “I” but again no sound comes out. I hear a clicking sound; I didn’t know what it was. I look at the heart monitor and see the wavy lines slowly straightening into perfectly flat lines. On the bottom left of the screen a small readout marked BPM is reading 47. I look again at my wife’s face; her eyes are still open. The BPM number reads 32.  The clock on the wall flashes 11:57 pm. When I look back at the monitor the red number have fallen to 24.

Dear God, no! Don’t take her now.

The number 24 flashes out. No numbers replace it. I hear an alarm somewhere far off. But it wasn’t far off, it was right there beside me. The alarm that sounds when a heart stops beating. In panic, I turn to find the nurse. I couldn’t understand why there were now three people standing there, Jennifer, the nurse from the desk and the doctor. When had they come in?

The doctor announces, “Time of death 11:58 pm.” He glances at me for just a moment then turns and leaves the room. Jennifer is standing by my side saying something to me, but I can’t understand what she was saying.

I look at Maggie, her eyes are closed. My wife died.

I was overcome with the need to leave the hospital. I wanted to be outside. I wanted to feel the cold winter night air on my face. I walked as fast these seventy three old legs would carry me. First to the elevator, then down the main hallway; I couldn’t find an exit. I turned to the left and then to the right, walking aimlessly, the image of that damn clock declaring 11:58 pm burned into my mind.

At last I found the main entrance to the hospital. Through the glass doors I could see snow falling from the dark night sky. I walked through the automatic doors, the cold air slamming into my face. It felt good, it was what I wanted. I wanted to go numb.

I stood just outside the awning looking up into the heavens, letting the snow fall on my face like a little child trying to catch a snowflake on his tongue. My tears feel warm rolling down my cold cheeks. Maggie was gone. After almost fifty years she is gone. Two more minutes, God. I couldn’t have just two more minutes.

I felt her before I saw her standing there. The sodium vapor lamp casts its light down on her over-sized coat and Green Bay knit cap. Her face was hidden by the scarf and the dark shadows created by the very same lamp. But there was no doubt that it was the homeless woman from the shopping mall.

She raises a gloved hand and waves at me as if we were old friends. Why was she here? As she starts towards me, I hear Maggie whisper in my ear, “Joe, give her the ten.”

She removes the scarf from in front of her old face, “Hello again.” The cold night air turns her breath into a gray fog that hangs for just a moment before disappearing. I looked at the woman, not saying anything in return.

“Joe, how is your wife?”

I continue in silence staring at her. Was her question a generic how’s your family question. Or did she ask because we happened to be standing in front of the hospital. There was no way she knew about the accident. No way could she have known that Maggie was in this hospital.

“Joe?”

“She died.”

“Oh Joe, I am so sorry. And on Christmas Day, that is so sad.”

She truly sounded sincere, like an old friend, not like a stranger that I barely know.

Never a stranger Joe, never a stranger.

I look around as if I might see the owner of the voice that was in my head. No signs of Maggie. Of course not, she was dead.

“It wasn’t on Christmas Day, she died before midnight.” I respond as if arguing a point in a friendly conversation. Why was I even speaking with this woman?

Never a stranger, Joe.

“Is Maggie speaking to you Joe?” The old woman smiles.

How did she know my wife’s name? “No” I reply, looking down at the freshly fallen snow.

This old woman wearing an old faded coat too big for her frame and a Green Bay Packer knit cap that had seen better days reaches out and takes my hand in hers.

“Joseph, God loves you and He loves Maggie too, and it is Christmas day. Those things all combined together can lead to wonderful happenings. You should go be with your wife.”

“My wife is dead.”

“I know, you told me. Go to your wife Joe, it is too cold to stand out here. Go to your wife.”

With that the old woman turned around and walked away. I stood there watching her, wondering where she would go on this cold night. I looked down at my hand, the one she had been holding. Resting in the palm of my hand was the gold angel brooch.
I went inside.

I followed the carefully placed signs back to the ICU, without them I may still be wandering the halls, they all look the same. The old woman’s words of hope echoed in my mind over and over, “those things combined can lead to wonderful happenings”. What did she mean? Is it wrong for me to think a Christmas miracle could possibly happen? Maggie was my life; I can’t find the words to tell you how much I love her. She had been gone for less than an hour and the hole in my life already seemed too much, too large.

I stop a few feet away from the door to room ICU-3. Her name, M Collins, is still written on the placard. I can see inside the room from where I stand but I can only see the foot of the bed. I wasn’t able to tell if they had removed my wife’s body yet. The hallway is still. Somewhere down the dimly lit corridor, coming from another room I can hear the steady beeping of a monitor. The beeping means that patient is still alive; when it stops beeping large dark caverns open in your life.

There was no one at the nurse’s station. I peek over the counter to see if someone may be sitting down but both chairs are empty. I turn back towards room ICU- 3. I take a deep breath like I am getting ready to jump into the ocean instead of walking into the room where I had last seen my wife alive and cross the hallway.

She was there. I could see her lying in the bed. She was covered with a thin sheet all the way up to her chin. I try to see if there were any signs of life. No I hoped to see any sign of life.

I walked over and stood next to the bed, looking down at my wife. She looked frail; the bed seemed to swallow her up. Her right hand rested on her chest as if she was saying the pledge. Her left was secured to her side with I.V. needles protruding from the back of her small hand. Her face, her beautiful face was without color.

“It is okay to hold her hand if you would like, and you should talk to her.”

The young nurse, (Jennifer?) had come into the room; I hadn’t heard her. The light from the hallway causes a silhouette around her. There was no reality in the moment. I didn’t understand what was happening. I turn to the bed and look down at the lifeless body of my wife. I feel dizzy, I thought I might fall so I close my eyes tight and wait for the impact of the hard floor. The dizzy spell subsides as quickly as it had come on. I open my eyes and look at the clock on the wall.

11:57 PM.
That can’t be right. Midnight has come and gone. The colon flashed between the 11 and the 57, ticking away another second. Passed forward, not backwards! I don’t understand.

“Talk to her Joe.” The nurse urges me on
.
I looked down at Maggie and her eyes are open.

11:58 PM

“Joe.” Barely a whisper. I feel again as if I will fall at any moment. Maggie is alive. My wife just said my name like she has so many times over the last fifty years. 

“Joe, talk to her!” The urgency in the nurse’s voice has increased.

I wanted to take her hand but I couldn’t. “Maggie, I love you.”

She smiles, just a small one, but it was a smile. “I love you too.” 

The tears started rolling down my face. I reach up to wipe them away, my hand was shaking like an old oak tree in a wind storm. 

“What’s wrong Joe?” Maggie asks, “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Joe, what time is it?”

I looked up at the clock, 12:01 AM. “It’s a minute past midnight.” 

Maggie’s smile brightens, “Happy Anniversary Joe Collins and Merry Christmas too!” 

I start to tell her how much I love her when the alarm on the EKG blares to life. The BPM number reads 32. I turn around and the doctor is standing between the two nurses. I turn back and the BPM reads 24.

Dear God no! Don’t take her again.

The line on the heart monitor goes flat.

I hear the doctor say, “Time of death 12:02 AM.” He looks at me for a moment, then turning he leaves the room. Jennifer comes over and places her and on my shoulder.

“You made it to fifty years Mr. Collins. She loved you so much, she hung on for you.”

For just a moment I thought God had given me my wife back. But he didn’t, instead he called her home. What God gave me was four minutes. Four minutes more with the woman I have loved all my life. Four minutes that turned one day into the next. God gave me a Christmas miracle.

I never saw the old woman again but I believe one day I will. You see I believe she was Maggie’s angel. I believe she held Maggie’s hand when she crossed over to God’s house. And I believe when the good Lord calls me home I will see that old woman again. I need to give her the little gold angel back.

Do you believe in angels?

“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:2 NIV

The Old Christmas Story

Would you like to hear a good Christmas story? Settle into a cozy chair with a warm cup of cider, embrace the words and we will go there together.

Can you see that house over there, the one with red brick walls, white shutters, and a large oak tree towering in the front yard? Inside that house there is a young girl who has lost hope this Christmas season. Her grandmother also lives there; this is her story, the Christmas story you hold in your hands. Can you see that window just to the right of the oak tree? That is the kitchen window. The girl and her grandmother are in there now. If you go stand by the tree, you will hear her story. I will go with you, if that’s okay. The grandmother has propped the window open just enough to cool the Christmas pies. You can enjoy their sweet, enticing aroma as you listen; you will believe you entered Heaven’s bakery! But you mustn’t touch. Just listen.

                                                                            ∞
“What do you wish for most this Christmas?” her grandmother asks.

Carmen thinks for a moment. She doesn't want to hurt her grandmother’s feelings, but Carmen already knows this Christmas will not be like the ones of the past. Grandpa died in the spring of the year, and her grandmother had moved in with her family. Grandma living with them really wasn’t so bad—Carmen had to share a room with her little sister so that Grandma could have her own room—that was okay. Her little sister looks up to her; Carmen kind of likes that. And Grandma is a good cook, making something out of nothing is her specialty.

In August, her father had lost his job. That was the big problem. He was working now, but not making as much money. Mom said they had fallen behind on so many bills it would be well into the new year before they caught up. Carmen knows having a nice Christmas is more important for her little sister, Beth. Beth is only seven years old and not old enough yet to understand words whispered by her parents—past due bills, making ends meet, robbing Peter to pay Paul...pawn tickets.

Her parents never discuss things like finances with her. They were always very careful to speak about such things only if the children were not in the room, even when things had still been good. Her dad was always saying, “Let kids be kids. No reason to make them grow up too fast.” Mom thought he was being over-protective. Dad said that was his job. If they knew how many nights she had stood in the hallway listening they would have been upset.

Carmen turned thirteen this year. At last, she was a teenager! When her mother had sat down to talk about this year’s Christmas, telling her how difficult it would be to surround the tree with gifts (but carefully avoiding the reasons why), she had felt very mature. Very grown up. And just a little sad.

Carmen thought about her grandmother’s question. The truth—she wasn’t looking forward to Christmas at all. If she could have anything she wanted for Christmas, she would want things back the way they were. Life as it was before grandpa died; before her dad lost his job. Carmen wanted her parents to answer the phone without fear that it was another bill collector calling. She wanted pizza that didn’t come frozen in a cardboard box. She wanted the whispering to stop, the secret listening to end. She wanted her own room back. “I don’t know Grandma; I haven’t thought a lot about it.” Sounding nonchalant., Carmen offers her best smile.

Her grandmother smiles back, taking in her oldest grandchild's demeanor. She admires Carmen’s long dark hair that flows past her shoulders. Her own hair had been like that so many years ago. Now it was short and silver, very grandmotherly like.

“Well how about a real nice brush? Your hair is so beautiful and you should care for it with the finest of brushes.”

“That would be nice Grandma. But I have a good brush. Besides you shouldn’t be spending money on such things. Dad said we should all be saving in case the unexpected comes again.”

“Your father is just like his father. Penny-wise to the last breath,” she told her. “but it is Christmas! A time to embrace the expected. A time for joy. A time for putting smiles on the face of children.”

“That’s right Grandma…children. I’m not a child anymore, you know? I am thirteen, remember? Besides, I can’t get excited about Christmas this year.”

“No!” her grandmother cries. "Don’t say that Carmen! Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. Not just for the gifts and Christmas music. Not because of the decorated trees or family reunions or the wonder it brings. Every year, Christmas marks a new beginning. It brings us hope for the future.” Her grandmother walked over to the kitchen table and sits down across from her granddaughter.

“Christmas is for children. But children come in all shapes and sizes…and ages.” The old woman's smile fades a tiny bit.

“Mom said there won’t be a lot of hope in the New Year. She said it will be sometime before we get caught up on things. It hasn’t been a very good year Grandma.” Carmen sighs, playing with the waffles on her plate. She felt little like eating.

“Your mom may be right, only time will tell. But that is not the kind of hope that I am speaking of.” A puzzled look comes over Carmen’s face.

“The hope, the sincere hope I speak of, is the hope which came with the very first Christmas.” Her grandmother picks up a fork, stabbing a piece of waffle from Carmen’s plate, “Someone has to eat it,” she says, plopping the morsel into her mouth.

Carmen knows what was coming next. Grandma could find a reason to talk about the Bible in just about any situation. Every Sunday, since she had moved into their house, Grandma invites the girls to come to church with her. Carmen’s parents don't attend church very often, maybe Easter and Christmas. But they didn’t mind Grandma extending her invitation. Carmen’s mother did tell her it was the children's decision to go or not. Beth went with her grandmother every Sunday and sometimes on Wednesdays too; if she didn’t have homework. Carmen had only been a handful of times, but she had attended Vacation Bible School over the summer…that had been loads of fun. But getting up early on Sundays to go and listen to someone talk about things she didn’t understand, just wasn’t for her.

Just as she knew she would, her grandmother begins speaking about — “Carmen, do you remember the story of the first Christmas?” She asks.

“Yes. I have heard it many times. You tell it every Christmas Grandma,” Carmen replies matter-of-factually. From the stove. a tea kettle whistles a tune.

“Ah, the water is ready. Would you like some hot chocolate? It is a perfect morning for a nice warm treat.”

She doesn't wait for her granddaughter to answer; walking to the cupboard she removes two Santa mugs from the shelf and makes the chocolate drink. Carmen can see the steam rising above the ceramic Santa cap.

“Marshmallows?” She asks.

“No thank you.”

The little round lady with the silver hair returns to the table sitting one hot mug in front of Carmen.

“Now tell me, what do you remember about the Christmas story?”

Carmen feels irritation trying to surface. She doesn't want to be rude or short towards her grandmother. All she wants to do is to finish her breakfast and go find her friends outside. It had snowed enough to have an epic snowball fight—boys verse girls!

“Grandma I have heard that old story so many times. It’s about a baby, his parents, no room at the inn, and about three old men bringing gifts. Blah, blah blah…”

As soon as the third “blah” left her lips Carmen regretted it.

“I’m sorry Grandma,” she tells her, “it’s just that the stories from the Bible are hard to understand, with all the “thee’s” and “thou’s”. I guess maybe when I am grown up I will understand them better.”

“That may be true Carmen. But did you know, that old story is about children?”

Carmen’s brow crinkles with wrinkles, looking amazingly like her father deep in thought. “I know there is a baby…”

“Well, there were two babies. Mary, the mother of Jesus had cousin named Elizabeth…”

“Just like my sister!” Carmen exclaims.

“Yes, just like your sister. Well anyway, an angel named Gabriel appeared before Elizabeth’s husband, his name was Zacharias. Gabriel told Zacharias Elizabeth would have a baby, a boy. Their son would be called John.”

“I don’t remember there being a baby called John.”

“Well there was. But the Bible tells us his story after he is all grown up; that would come much later. Gabriel, the angel, told Zacharias, “And many of the children of Israel shall he turn to the Lord their God.” And he did! He was called John the Baptist.”

“I remember reading about him.” Carmen chimes. “Were there any other children in the Christmas story?”

“Oh yes!” Grandma answers snatching another bite of waffle from the plate. “There was Mary.”

“Mary? Jesus’ mother, Mary?”

“The very one.”

“She wasn’t a child, Grandma.”

“But she was! Historians believe she was just fourteen or fifteen years old. Mary was just a little older than you Carmen.”

“That is very young to be a mother, isn’t it Grandma?” Fine lines of concern cross the young girl’s brow.

“Well things were much different then, Carmen. I do know this; God chose Mary to be the mother of Jesus, and that is all I need to know.”

“Two babies and Mary. Were there more children, Grandma?”

“There was. But let’s not get there too fast.” She stands to top off her cup of hot chocolate. From the counter, she continues—

“Remember Carmen; Joseph and Mary had traveled to a city called Bethlehem to pay taxes to Caesar. Many families had also come to the city to be counted in the census. The town was very crowded, Joseph and Mary could not find a room in which they could spend the night.”

“I remember, they had to stay in a barn!” Carmen calls out.

“Yes, a barn or a stable.” Grandma replies, returning to the table with a fresh mug of hot chocolate.

“That must have been awful for them Grandma.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But it was that night, in a dirty old stable, God brought into the world a very special baby. A baby who would change our world forever. There in that old stable, with the animals as witnesses, Mary gave birth to a baby boy. Then gently, she laid him in the manger to keep him warm. She would name him Jesus.”

“We have a nativity under the Christmas tree Grandma."

“I know, I saw it. It is quite exquisite. It reminds us of the reason we celebrate Christmas.”

“You said there were more children in the story.” Carmen’s earlier reluctance to talking about Bible stories seems to have faded away.

“And there were. In a field, not too far away from Bethlehem, there were shepherds watching over their sheep. They would keep watch the whole night through to make sure no uninvited beasts would harm the flock.”

“Oh, what kind of beasts? If there were children in the field, they must have been so afraid. Were there children there, Grandma?” Carmen had scooted to the edge of her chair, clasping her hands together.

“Yes, there were children and they were afraid. But not how you might think. Many of the shepherds were very young, like you Carmen. From an early age, the boys were taught by their fathers to protect the family’s flock. And on that night, over two thousand years ago. the Angel of the Lord appeared before them. Oh, those young boys were so afraid. They had never seen such a sight.” Carmen’s grandmother pauses, sipping her chocolate, looking out the kitchen window at the snow falling from the gray skies, the flakes dancing for just a moment on the chilly air before descending to the snow-covered ground. Her eyes sparkling at what she sees.

“What did they do Grandma?”

Returning her attention to Carmen, “They listened. The angel spoke to them saying, “Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” Reaching across the table, she closes her wrinkled fingers around Carmen's hand. “Oh, my dearest granddaughter, can you imagine what a sight this must have been for those young lads. In the dark of night, an angel appears and tells them that the Christ has been born!”

“What happened next Grandma?” Carmen asks.

“Suddenly, the sky filled with angels, heavenly hosts, singing praise to God—peace on earth and goodwill toward men.”

“Do you hear the bells they’re ringing?” Carmen sings, “I know that song Grandma, we sang it in choir this year.”

“And it was wonderful.” She replies. “After the angels were gone, the shepherd boys knew they must go to Bethlehem and see the baby who would be a King. Leaving their sheep, wasting not a moment, they ran to Bethlehem.”

“Did they get to see him? Did they see the baby Jesus?” Carmen was sitting on the edge of her seat again.

“Well yes they did. So now Carmen, tell me—what have you heard so far in this old Christmas story?”

“What do you mean Grandma?” Carmen asks.

“Did you hear the hope?”

Carmen sighs, “Hope? No, I don’t think so.”

“Well let’s look closely. Joseph and Mary had to leave their home…just like I did. Only for a very different reason. Regardless, leaving home is terribly difficult. You see Carmen, when you leave home, you leave behind those things memories are made of. Joseph and Mary didn’t even know where they would stay when they arrived in Bethlehem But God made them a way. And certainly, new memories. Incredible memories. Just like he did for me.”

“Here, in our home!” Carmen sings.

“Yes! And now I will make new memories! Joseph and Mary would never forget that night, I am quite certain of that.”

“Did Joseph lose his job like my Dad?” The young girl asks.

“I don’t know about that. Joseph and Mary had to travel all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem by foot. That’s almost eighty miles. Now during their journey, which probably took about seven or eight days, Joseph wouldn’t have been working. So that young couple would have depended on God to provide for them. Just as He does for you and your family!”

“Wow!” Carmen exclaims.

“You see even when we go through challenging times, God still provides us hope. If we believe in Him. If we trust.”

Carmen sits silently, thinking. Tilting her head, she asks, “What about the barn animals? Did they have hope too?”

Her grandmother smiles, patting Carmen on the head. “Not like us.” She thinks for a moment, choosing her words, “I do believe they knew something special was happening. A new King was to be born. They gave up their room just like you did for me. They moved away from the young couple and watched silently as a miracle was born right in their midst.”

“Wow! Pretty cool.” Carmen smiles again.

“The animals welcomed the infant King into their home just as we must welcome Him into our hearts.” She blinks away a tear.

Carmen was looking across the room, thinking, “What about the shepherd boys, Grandma? What about their hope?”

“Well I didn’t finish the story now did I?” Smiling, she wipes her cheek, "The shepherd boys traveled all the way to the City of David, Bethlehem. When at last they saw the baby Jesus they were so amazed.” Her Grandma pauses—looking at her grandchild. “And when they had seen, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.”

 “What does that mean Grandma?”

“It means, my dear child, they traveled everywhere telling everyone the good news—a child had been born in Bethlehem, a child who is Christ the Lord.” Her grandmother pauses again. “It is only with hope…Christmas hope…that one could carry such a message. And it is only with belief that one can have such hope!”

The old woman stands up from the table and stretches her arms high above her head. With a little yawn and a quiet smile, she looks out the kitchen window, over the pies, past the blanket of freshly fallen snow, and to the old oak tree —

Smiling, she asks “Do you believe?”
 

R.I.P. Roseanne

Earlier this year when ABC fired Roseanne Barr for tweeting a comment many found offensive I was confused by my own thoughts. For many years I have been a fan of this comedienne whose humor was steeped in discourse. She could make me laugh and pray at the same time. I also believed she had made a grave misjudgment in the words she chose to battle with, offensive by any definition. And last but certainly not least, I believe freedom of speech is not about the speech but about a freedom we should hold onto with a firm grip, never fearing unjust reprisals.

I concluded my anthology of thought by believing ABC had made the wrong decision and may soon regret their hasty decision.

Tonight, the American Broadcasting Network aired “The Conner's”, the continuing saga of television’s most relatable and sometime hate-able family. Without their star...Roseanne. An episode that would have never been written if Roseanne hadn’t tweeted her infamous tweet. The script for this ‘pilot’ should be placed high on the list of television’s greatest moments.  The writers could have taken numerous directions to explain the sudden disappearance of the Conner family matriarch. They could have weaved closet-racism into the script to support their unpopular decision to fire Roseanne.

But they didn’t.

Instead the writers tackled one of the biggest problems facing families today, opiate addiction. They did so without shining an undeserving spotlight on some poor broken addict. They didn’t write about Rock Bottom, Day One, or Rehab. They didn’t tag addiction as a disease. They didn’t end the program with a PSA asking for donations to a hopeless cause.  They didn’t try to solve a problem destroying families in a thirty-minute sitcom; destruction by a horrific beast called Addiction.  

These heroic writers focused on the survivors. Those living in the pungent wake of an addict. A wake whose depth and width aren’t recognized by the drug abuser. Innocent family members pulled under by a riptide of destruction the addict blindly releases with every pill swallowed, every vein popped,  every flake snorted...every last breath...every coffin lowered.

Opiates were the focus tonight, maybe because everyone knows someone...

I was moved by the writing and the acting in tonight’s episode. Thank you, ABC.

Rest in peace Roseanne. Love you.

Still a fan.

My Bucket List

September 17, 2018-

I have shared this story every year for about eight years now. Each year I re-read it and maybe make an adjustment or two. This year I made but a few changes having decided to let it remain as it was last year-I need those memories to remain fresh.

My Bucket List

I turned 61 years old today. I had a thought early this morning, what if this is my last birthday? What if 61 is all I have?

Throughout the day I pondered over my Bucket List. There wasn’t much pondering, you see I have never had a Bucket List. So, the task eight years past on my 53rd birthday, was to create my Bucket List.
I scratched my head and put teeth marks in the proverbial pencil as I mused over what would be number 1 on my list. Minutes then hours passed with nothing rising to the surface. So, I changed strategies, I thought about the things that I have already accomplished or have been blessed with, things that may have been on a Bucket List if I hadn’t already experienced them. 

Family always comes first to mind. I was born into the most incredible family 61 years ago. I still see them every week, we still talk and hug, and we laugh and cry together. We grow old together.

I have lived in the Great Northwest, the South Pacific, the east coast and the great state of Texas. I have fished for rainbows in the Russian River and went snorkeling along the Coral Reef.

I have left my footprints in the sand of Hawaii’s North Shore and boot prints in the frozen snow of Alaska’s North Pole.

I had hair past my shoulders and was called a Hippie.

I have served my country and been called a U.S. Marine.

I went to school with Mark Twain and Thomas Edison and tasted college for a short while. I have read Tolstoy, Dickens, Stephen King and the Bible.

I have eaten at the Ritz Carlton and Taco Bell, both on the same day.

I have had money in the bank and I have sold Coke bottles to scrape up enough to buy a pack of smokes.

I have had cancer, chemo and misery.

I have had remission, recurrence and rejoiced that I was still alive.

I have been high and I have been low, so low that all I could see was the bottom.

I have run marathons and I have crawled across the cold floor on hands and knees, unable to stand because of pain.

I have gone from a 34 waist to a 38 waist and back to a 34 waist. (it is okay to applaud here)

My favorite teams have won the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup and the World Series. I have watched a perfect game and caught a foul ball.

I have listened to Vivaldi, Miles Davis and ZZ Top, all in the same afternoon.

I have tasted Opus One in Napa Valley and drank a Lone Star beer with Willie Nelson and Mickey Gilley while sitting in the Recovery Room.

I have seen every episode of Seinfeld at least three times.

I’ve published a novel, a short story and have tucked away in the back of my imagination the Great American Novel.

I have fallen in love and out of love.

I have made love on a beach and on a mountain top.

I have had two wives, two ex-wives and six children. (Maximized the limit on both!)

I was with four of my children when they took their first breath.

I was with my father when he took his last.

I have done everything I want to do... almost. At the end of the day my Bucket List only had one thing written on it… you.

I figure if you are reading these words then you and I have at least met somewhere along the way. And I don’t know if I have ever told you the story about Jesus. You see, He is the reason I made it to 61, I know without Him I wouldn’t be here today.

So, on my Bucket List I wrote just one thing,

Today, tell someone about Jesus.

I think that someone is you, so here goes-

God loves you and me so much; He has since the very beginning of time. God knows everything from the beginning to the end; everything, every day and everybody and everything in between.
God knew that we would never love Him as He loved us. He knew until we loved Him as he loves us we would be separated forever and ever. But we can't love like that because...because we are hooked on sin.

So, God sent His son down from the heavens, down to earth. We called Him Jesus, teacher, King and Messiah...

and then we killed Him.

And when He died, He took all your sins and all my sins, and from that cross on Calvary He paid the price in full. He paid the price of our admission to an eternity with God. He did it for you and me. He unhooked us!

And then, incredibly, He told us, all you must do is believe, He has done the rest. It is finished.

If you were the only one in the entire world, He would have done it all for you.

Do you believe?

Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me finish my Bucket List.

Hold My Hand

If you were to ask any of my children what colloquial truisms they recall their father uttering as they passed from toddler to young adult, they may each provide a different oft-repeated phrase. Differences caused by the forming of memories over a lengthy passage of time, 32 years to be exact, living in three different states—Texas, Alaska, Georgia and back to Texas—and the wordiness of their patriarchal leader; me.

As I sit at my desk calling up 32 years of fatherhood...

32 years...it started in 1986 with Jennifer and Elizabeth, the following year James came on board. For eight years it was just the three, then in 1995 Sara Rose came into my life. God wasn’t quite finished yet, five more years and with the turn of the century Joseph Tyler was born in 2000, eighteen years ago. Added all up, that is 32 years of playing the role of Dad.

Now back to the truisms, the one I recall having said more times that I could ever count... “Hold my hand.”

Hold my hand as you learn to walk. Hold my hand as we cross the street. Hold my hand as walk through the doors on the way to your first day of school. Hold my hand as we carefully walk onto to the frozen surface of Arc lake or climb the snowy hills of Kenai. Hold my hand as navigate through the crowds at the county fair or in the busy shopping mall decorated with holiday cheers. Hold my hand.

The last three decades have been like a mighty roller coaster. We have trudged slowly upward, climbing ever so higher not being able to see where the journey may take us. Upon reaching the top we held hands and our collective breath and looking out we were finally able to see where the journey would go. At breakneck speeds we traveled together over the hills and through the loops of life sometimes laughing, sometimes screaming, sometimes crying, sometimes closing our eyes and hoping.

Always holding hands.

An hour ago, my 32-year journey came to the end of the ride. My youngest, my last, Joseph Tyler, entered the halls of higher education at Texas State University. His new journey begins as my old one ends. For the first time in a very long time I am alone. My house is quiet.

Someone asked me yesterday what I would do now. I have spent the better part of my life, more than half, being the dad, the gatekeeper, the provider. The hand holder. I didn’t have an answer to their question. If I could do it all again, if I could get off the roller coaster and run back into the line waiting anxiously for the climbing and falling, for the crawling and the speeding, for the crying and the laughing...

I’m too old for that...but if I could, knowing it would be with my children I would do all it all again.

Today as I drove away from the campus of Texas State without my last born I realized for the first time in my life that you, my children were not holding my hand, I was holding yours. You were leading me on an incredible journey, one I shall never forget.

Hold my hand.

Love, Dad

It was never about getting high, if that’s what you are thinking. Better ways to get high are on every street corner in the good old U.S. of A. It was about getting lost. About forgetting. It was about going numb. Going numb to the whole friggin world. Opiates will do that...make you numb. They take you away and you don’t even know your gone. It’s not about getting high. It’s about dying. Beautiful dying.

It has been a busy year! My pitiful efforts to write in this blog with regularity was hampered by life and time spent on the back porch letting the imagination soar.

A new book is scheduled for August 31, "Whosoever Believes". I enjoyed writing it and have included an excerpt below. But I began this post with an excerpt from what has become my favorite book, "Beautiful Dying." I spent the weekend updating the book that was originally released last year. There were, of course, the typographical errors I overlooked on the first go around. They were easier to correct than to notice. As I read Beautiful for the first time in some while it dawned on me that this is a love story. I don't think when I first penned this short I had intended it to fall into a genre I have never written in. Crafting a love story requires emotions I long ago buried. But somehow in Beautiful Dying a love story was born. Jacko, the main character meets an unnamed woman in a pub one Saturday night. The meeting takes place on the eve of his planned suicide day.

Originally I intended the story to be about addictions and the struggles, including suicide, the addict will face if they choose to stay high. I see that now as a subplot. The breath of Beautiful Dying is about love. I hope you will consider getting your copy this month.

Now, from my newest novel, "Whosoever Believes"

If a poet were to scribble a sonnet to this Saturday night in Patriot, Texas, he or she would likely chronicle the midnight skies littered with millions of stars, spewing poetic words of twinkling diamonds juxtaposed with the lonesome melancholy of the deserted streets. An artist, witnessing the same scene would crosshatch the background with water colors of dark blues and blacks swirled together adding an endless depth to the speckling of the bright white stars. Keen on detail, the talented artisan would depict the late-night desolation of Patriot township by adding to the landscape a solitary pickup truck parked aside the curb a hundred yards southeast of Patriot Baptist Church.
A writer would caution you that inside the lonely pickup truck sits a young man named Frank Lynn Dawson, nineteen years old and confused. The radio-CD player delivers the sounds of Rascal Flats singing What Hurts the Most, while the truck’s heater delivers only chilly air. Our lone occupant had meant to fix the heater before winter came but had never gotten around to it. It didn’t matter, he wouldn’t need it after tomorrow. The late-night loner knows no matter how things turn out tomorrow he would be someplace warmer.

Whosoever Believes

On My Knees

“Seems like to me the real mental health issue here is the idea that we can simply petition a god to make these problems go away, while taking literally no actions otherwise”

They dust off their virtual soapboxes each time a tragedy like the one we witnessed this week in Parkland, Florida reveals the existence of bona- fide evil. The platform for their soapbox will be social media where anyone with a keyboard can express themselves with wayward thoughts and spurious studies. Countless comments and memes will pepper our walls like contagious germs whether we want them there or not. The perpetual targets of these soapbox gauchos are people of faith.

Upon reading the opening quoted text, I commented with the word ‘ignorance’. I was off-target in my comment. I apologize for my inaccuracy. Clearly, this statement is ‘narrow-minded-ignorance’.

Ignorance, by definition, implies a lack of experience or education. Synonymous to unknowing. Acts of ignorance innocently occur every day with no fault ascribed to the ignorant. Turning left when you should have turned right in uncharted territories is an act of ignorance. But narrow-minded-ignorance is choosing to ignore any alternative thought outside the comfortable, protective sphere you have set your soapbox in.

The statement is the epitome of narrow-minded ignorance. Furthermore, and to my ultimate point, it is greatly offensive.

Your words are an insult to every person of faith across this world who pray to their God before beginning a day that will include building schools, community centers, and health facilities in countries deeply entrapped in poverty. It is offensive to people who pray before carrying water over rough and dangerous terrains to people who would otherwise die. It is offensive to lawmakers who will pray before beginning a day preserving legislation meant to protect your right to stand on your soapbox. It is offensive to thousands and thousands of teachers that pray each morning before teaching our children reading writing and yes, even the history of our freedoms. It is offensive to every Soldier, Sailor, Airmen or Marine who prays before shouldering a weapon to protect those very same freedoms. Your words are offensive to every police officer who prays before beginning a shift that may be their last. To every firefighter who prays before entering an inferno to rescue a stranger. Offensive to every surgeon who prays for steady hands before saving a life without regard to the political or religious beliefs of the patient. Your words are offensive to every first-responder who prays for strength and protection to do their job. You have offended every mother who has prayed for her sick child before staying up all night holding a damp cloth against a fevered brow.

“...while taking literally no actions otherwise.” is literally narrow-minded ignorance. It is offensive.

The offended don’t only pray before acting. These great people of faith pray afterwards. After a maniac enters a school, killing and killing and killing. We pray for comfort not because we have no other action to take but because our faith in God is steeped in love for mankind. We pray for an end to senseless violence not because we believe God will wave a magic wand and make it all go away. We do so because we know where all good stems from. We do so because we know God witnessed the greatest act of violence ever recorded when His Son was nailed to a tree...and He was triumphant! This is the God I will take my problems to until the day I die. From my knees I will cry out to Him when evil enters the world stage.

You see my friend, I am stronger on my knees than you are from your soapbox.

Seventeen Beds

Since 1987, it has been a blessing to have children begin a new day from the place I call home. In the many places we have called home, my children didn't always have a room to call their own, sometimes they had to share a bed with a sibling. But it has always been home.

For more than thirty years, late at night, after the lights are out and dreams revealed, I quietly open their doors, peeking in to ascertain my children are safely in their beds. My nightly ritual began when they were small enough to doze in a crib and continued until they were old enough to drive their own car. Whether they were a newborn baby, an adolescent, a grandchild or even the occasional wayward teenage-best- friend I had opened our home to (I have had them all), my nightly ceremony was constant.

I must pause for just a moment to address my children directly—Yes, I knew of the times a bedroom window was quietly opened becoming a way to sneak-out, or the times the back door opened slowly but not as silently as you thought. I suppose I didn’t know of every moon lit adventure, but I promise you this, I always knew you would come back home.

Now, back to my late-night ritual. I practice this for two reasons—my love of my children and because I am the parent. This week, in the quiet community of Parkland, Florida, seventeen beds are forever empty. I think about the fathers and mothers and other loved ones who tonight may look into a darkened room already knowing the bed belonging to their child will be empty; witnessing this emptiness as they pray that it has all been a bad dream.

In 1993, I enhanced my sentinel duties by including a nightly prayer for my children. In April of that year I surrendered my life to our Lord Jesus Christ. Prior to that, I had prayed infrequently, only if an occasion dictated it; family holidays, my twice a year visit to church and of course when the Cowboys were down by seven with two minutes remaining in the game. Being born again not only opened my eyes to what prayer should be, but my reformation also revealed what being a parent truly requires of us.

Every night I pray, I ask the Lord to blanket my children with His promise, I will never leave you or forsake you. Deu. 31. I ask Him to be with them when I cannot, to let them experience His love daily. I pray He guide my awkward parenting skills to the Scriptures that teach me to be a family leader. I pray to understand His words clearly, so to share them with my children, inspiring them to desire their own relationship with Him. To be able, with love, teach them the differences between right and wrong, to recognize the realities of good and evil. But mostly I pray they will always know how much I love them.

Seventeen empty beds.

Today and for the next few days, on our televisions and radios we will hear the experts whom inevitably surface when these horrific events occur, to offer repeated answers to rehashed and well-rehearsed questions— “Can this horror be prevented?”, “When will this stop?” “How many more must die?” Debates will follow of stricter gun control, mental health awareness, security in our schools and empowering law officers to act before the criminal kills. I don’t know if any of these or all of them together are the answer. I do know we float these political balloons after each mass shooting, but the helium always runs out before answers are discovered,  and as the next less painful headline moves us along. They might consider beginning with more helium.

In the shadows of the next headline, the unanswered questions still lurk. Will fewer guns mean fewer bad guys? Or will fewer guns mean more opportunities for the bad guys? Is mental health research only beneficial after the diagnosed has delivered the deadly damage? Too late to know he's crazy now. Who will pay for increased school security? What about the schools or districts that wallow in poverty? Who will pay for theirs? Do we hire former soldiers to police our schools as we ignore the epidemic levels of PTSD? What if this newly hired employee, our guardian-elect, has concealed his own demons?

The questions are difficult. The answers elusive. We can’t undo the carnage of this week or any of the past school shootings whose images still haunt us. The pathway is gloomy. But I do believe we can begin to lessen the risk, or maybe even put an end to future schoolhouse violence. The answer is in how we begin our trek down this pathway. Before we debate new laws, before we spend billions of dollars on redundant research, before we turn on our televisions to again see the images of our children fleeing in fear a place purported to be safe; before we do all these things we must remember and embrace the commanding responsibility of parenthood. Through parenting and praying, a fresh beginning is possible.

The solutions mentioned above all require more—more laws, more money, more training...more waiting. We need less—less evil, less bad boys who grow up to be bad men, less families fractured by divorce, less fatherless households.

Yesterday’s shooter came from a broken family, passed through a broken system, and he did a terrible, terrible thing. I wonder if a parent ever once prayed for him. I wonder who will pray for him now?

Dads and Moms, grandpas, and grandmas, you have a God-given opportunity to change the lives of your children every day through parenting and prayer. Pray about them. Pray for them. Just pray. Then tell them you prayed for them. When they ask why, tell them it’s because you love them. Because you are the parent.

And then pray with them.

Tonight, when the moon appears in the winter sky, and the lights are turned low, put on your slippers, open their doors and thank God, they are yours.

My Dad

Eight years ago, we stood around my father’s hospital bed. We were there to say good-bye. My dad fought many battles in his life, but he would lose this last fight. His body slowly began to shut down as his family, huddled together, remembered what life with our father meant.

Dad had six children with my Mom. For fifty years he was the center of our life. I couldn’t say that until now, because I couldn’t see this undeniable truth until now.

Many of you that read this never knew my father, so please allow me to tell you a story about him.

In 1977 I was preparing to enter the United States Marine Corps. On the morning of October 10, the Marine recruiter was scheduled to come to my home, pick me up and whisk me away to boot camp in San Diego. As customary with the Marine Corps the day would start very early, the recruiter was scheduled to arrive at my home at 5 AM.

The night before I had spent with my school buddies, sitting in the Recovery Room Bar drinking and telling lies. As night turned into early morning I went to breakfast with the gal I was dating. We went to Jim’s Coffee Shop and just talked. At 4 AM I decided it was time to say goodnight and steal one last kiss. I got home at about 4:40 AM, twenty minutes before the Marine recruiter was scheduled to pick me up.

Dad was sitting at the table drinking coffee when I walked in. Dad was career military and spent most of his life waking before dawn, even after it was no longer necessary for him to do so. I remember the conversation I had with my Dad as if it was yesterday. He told me that he didn’t think I was going to make it home.

“I was saying good-bye.” I replied.

My father surprised me with his response, “I was hoping you wouldn’t make it.”

I looked at my father, stunned by his comment. He went on to tell me, “Go to your room. When the recruiter gets here I will tell him that you changed your mind, that I haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

At a loss for words (and thoughts) I didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Finally, I told Dad that I had to go, I had made a commitment.

“I don’t want you to go. I’ll miss you too damn much.” He said, sipping his coffee.

Once again, I didn’t know what to think or what to say. I glanced at the clock on the wall, it was 4:55. Dad broke the silence, saying something that I only heard him say a few times in my life,

“I am proud of you son, and I love you.”

Before I could say anything there was a knock on the front door. The Marine, squared away in dress blues walked into our home and shook my father’s hand. They exchanged a few words before I was escorted out the door.

That was a long time ago. I didn’t realize how much I was like my father until after he was gone. It took me more than 27 years for me to tell my father, “I love you too.” I hope he heard me.

Since my father’s passing his family has continued to grow. I didn’t count but I believe on Christmas morning there were more than thirty people gathered in the small home of my mother. This by the way would have driven my father to madness! Many of them are too young to remember Dad, some weren’t even born yet. But Dad would have loved every one of them with a love that is immeasurable, even in its silence.

I try to remember to tell my own children that I love them. I don’t do it enough.

It is important to me that I tell them and all the others that make up this Hirtle Clan about my Dad. The good, the bad, the funny, and about the love he had for his family. I want them to know him, because one day we will be reunited, of this I am certain. I want them to run to him and say “Hi grandpa!” I want to hear him say, “Welcome home. I love you.”

It’s my turn to miss you Dad.

I love you too. Go Patriots!

January 7, 2018

The story above was written five years ago. It is hard to believe that now thirteen years have come and gone since Dad went home to be with our Lord. We gathered as a family again today, the numbers lessened by time. Today, we were at his graveside instead of his bedside. Thousands of tombstones still decorated with Christmas wreaths stand in formation at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery; it is a moving sight to behold. We took a few moments to share memories before thanking God for the life my dad, Jim Hirtle Sr. lived and clarity of memory for those gathered this morning.

Before we left, my niece pointed out a penny placed by someone laying atop the granite headstone of my father. Looking around, we noticed many headstones also had the copper coin placed upon their crown. I had never seen anything like it. My brother-in-law, curious as I, used his smart phone to discover the answer to this penny mystery. It seems a penny indicates a “visitor” had been there.

I will never know who this penny bearer/bearers was or were. As we walked through the grounds of the National resting place of warriors I counted hundreds and hundreds of pennies. Dad would have thought this magnificent.

So do I. Thank you and God Bless you Penny Bearer.