Tag: Christmas

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Listen for the Whisper

by Donna Poole

I love the hustle and bustle sounds of the season, little bells jingling on street corners, big bells chiming in church steeples, people laughing and talking, and music everywhere. I never tire of Christmas music!

I got a text from one of my grown children the other day. “I heard ‘Silver Bells’ and it made me miss you. It’s one of your favorites, right?”

Sometimes I sing my favorite Christmas songs, and then someone in my family finds some “real” Christmas music to play that isn’t off key, too loud, and monotone.

I get as excited as a child when I hear, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” I bow my head and worship to the beautiful strains of “O Holy Night.”

Sometimes the memory of a granddaughter’s version of “What Child is This” sings itself in my mind, and I chuckle. She was little and didn’t know all the words, so she made up her own. Her song went like this: “Your stinkin’ lambs and your stinkin’ goats, and I will get lots of pr-e-sents.” Like any country kid, she knew the manger would have been smelly.

Not only do I like the music, I like the organizing and the shopping, the rushing and the cleaning, the cooking and the wrapping—and we do a lot of it. There are twenty-five just in our immediate family, and we have several gatherings during the holiday season. It began on Thanksgiving Day when relatives from near and far joined us for a meal of turkey and ham and love and laughter. Sunday we’ll feed our church family in our fellowship hall after church; it’s our way of saying, “Merry Christmas! We love you, and we thank you for your love and kindness to us all year.” Next comes family Christmas, when hopefully all our children and grandchildren will gather for a day. Last, on Christmas Day, we’ll celebrate with just the four of us who live here.

I even like the noise in our small kitchen when we squeeze around each other to cook, bake, load and unload the dishwasher, and handwash dishes to keep up with the big bake-a-thons we do to feed a crowd.

People with normal brains might be able to do all this without lists, but lists keep me sane. One notebook holds menus and grocery lists for the gatherings. The Christmas notebook categorizes gifts and the items going into stockings. I have several Christmas notebooks; this one I started in 2011. I like the sound of the yellowing pages flipping until I get to 2024 and find the name I’m searching for.

John and I wrap gifts together. I like to hear his box cutter slicing through the wrapping paper, the tape as we rip it off the roll, and the complaint the tags make when we pull them loose from their sticky paper.

After not being allowed in stores for several years because I was too immunocompromised from cancer treatments, I even like hearing the sound of squeaky shopping cart wheels, and tired shoppers correcting cranky children.  

But sometimes, perhaps because I was away from crowds for so long, the noise can be overwhelming. I feel like the old man in the children’s book, Too Much Noise. And that’s when I pause and listen for it, and when I hear it, I’m amazed at the wonder of it all.

In the midst of the busyness of life, I listen for the “whispered sound of sandaled feet.” I read that phrase somewhere and love it. It’s Jesus’ birthday we’re celebrating, after all, and we can hear him everywhere this season, if we get quiet enough to listen. Someone, not me, paid for a friend’s meal in a restaurant the other day. I heard about a nurse in a hospital being kind to someone I’m praying for. Someone said, “Human love is Jesus showing his hands.” In every kindness I hear the echo of his heart.

I don’t like the sounds of sorrow; who does? Yet even in tears we can hear whispers of our Lord’s comfort. A friend of fifty years went to heaven last week, and her last mile was not easy for her or for her family. But there were more than tears around that hospital bed; there were hymns played and sung, sweet memories rehearsed, love given and received. Our church family drew close, supporting them with food, love, and prayer. Now they are planning a funeral meal and hoping it will bring some comfort. A little girl made a sympathy card for the bereaved husband. She drew a picture of him and his wife holding hands. She printed. “You will be okay. We love you. Your church family loves you.” He treasures the card. He hasn’t said so, but I know what he hears. He hears the whispered sound of sandaled feet.

In the twinkling lights that add a glow to dark December nights, we can hear Jesus say, “I am the Light of the world, and Light will always overcome darkness.”

Light and darkness. Darkness and light. How dark the world would be if Jesus hadn’t come to carve out a path home to the Father! A supernaturally bright star announced his birth to wise men. Angels appeared like flashes of lightning to shepherds in dark fields to tell them the Savior had been born. Jesus died on the cross with the horrifying darkness of our sin taken into his own heart. Even the sun hid its face for three hours. But three days later, Jesus rose victorious with the sunrise. I imagine it was the most beautiful sunrise of all time.

And what does God promise to those who believe Jesus died to destroy their sin and take them to heaven? I heard it again last night.

Last evening our power went out. In an instant darkness snuffed out light. Work came to a sudden stop. I couldn’t flip through the pages of my notebooks and try to figure out how I was going to get everything done in time for Sunday’s meal for all our friends at church. We couldn’t cook, or shop online, or wrap gifts. So, in that deep darkness, we went to bed early. As we always do, we listened to a proverb before we fell asleep. Half awake, I heard these words, “But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.” –Proverbs 4:18

The Christmas lights weren’t shining on our tree; there wasn’t a single star in the sky, but Christmas had never looked brighter. Because, in the windy darkness of a winter’s eve, I heard the whispered sound of sandaled feet, and they walked beside me on a path that will shine ever brighter until I get to the glory that’s heaven itself.

“Glory!” The angels thundered in the night to the shepherds. “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”

And then they left, and their light faded from the sky. But that baby Jesus? He brought with him a light that the darkest night of earth can never dim.

God loved us and sent his son. Listen for that whisper and be amazed at the wonder of it all.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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The Street Kid

by Donna Poole

The street kid knew things; he’d always known things. At nine Davey had known he’d die if he’d stayed home any longer. It was only his mother who’d kept his father from killing him in one of his drunken rages, and with her gone he knew he’d suffer way more than beatings and being thrown against the wall.

His dad had killed his mom on Christmas Eve; Davey had seen him throw her down the stairs. He’d also heard him tell his cop friends she’d fallen. His dad would get away with it. In that big city the blue wall of silence was a real thing; Davey and his mom had learned that the hard way when they’d tried to report his dad’s abuse to his fellow officers. Like I said, Davey knew things, things a nine-year-old shouldn’t know. So, the night his mom had died, he’d hit the streets.

What he hadn’t known on the streets he’d learned in a hurry. Sometimes the victim, sometimes the aggressor, he’d survived seven harsh winters since the Christmas Eve he’d left home at nine years old. With the wail of sirens and cops crawling all over the house, it had been easy for him to escape unnoticed.

He’d wiped away one tear when he’d looked at his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. She’d still had on her red apron, the one she’d worn earlier in the day to make him Christmas cookies. The frosted Christmas tree cookies were still on the table when he’d left, but he hadn’t taken one. He’d thought about them often in the years that followed and wondered what had happened to them. His father hadn’t liked sugar cookies.

That tear was the last one Davey cried. Street kids don’t cry. Only the strong survive, and they survive any way they can. I won’t tell you the horrible things that happened to Davey or the terrible things he did to others, because they’re too sad. This story has already been sad enough, and it’s a Christmas story.

Once, when he’d been about thirteen, a girl his age had asked him, “Don’t you ever get homesick?”

Davey had laughed, a bitter sound. “Homesick? For what? Home is the last place I’d ever want to go. If you want to go home, why don’t you?”

She’d shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

He hadn’t asked what reasons. He’d kept a small circle, watched his back, and looked out for number one. That’s how you survive on the streets.

Sixteen now, Davey was as tough as any man in the northside homeless camp. Fists or knives, Davey could hold his own…until he couldn’t. A wound to his calf festered for weeks, and then the fevers and nightmares started.

Davey woke from a dream with tears on his face and heard the laughter. Someone mocked, “Did you hear him call for his mama?”

He didn’t know it; his fever was so high he didn’t know much of anything, but it was Christmas Eve again when he stumbled out of the camp, once again afraid for his life. The weak didn’t survive there, and he was weak. That much he knew.

Davey stumbled down dark streets and lurched into buildings, feeling warm tears freeze on his cheeks. It was snowing, and the snow wasn’t gentle. The wicked winds from the north blasted through his clothes, and he began shivering uncontrollably.

Then he smelled them, those sugar cookies. And he saw her in her red apron, smiling at him.

“Mama?”

He slid down a building into the snow.

Davey felt someone shaking his shoulder. “May I help you, son?”

He looked up. The man was tall, taller than he was. Davey tasted the fear.

“Get away from me!”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before!”

Davey lurched to his feet and bent to reach for the knife in his boot but toppled forward. The man caught him.

“Son, do you want to go home? I can help you find home.”

“Are you crazy, man? Home is gone. No one can help me find home.”

“Come on. You’re going home.”

Too weak to protest and half-conscious Davey felt the man half lead, half carry him through the blinding snow. He felt the man lay him down and smelled sugar cookies.  

When he woke, he was lying on a couch and covered with blankets. A young couple was smiling at him.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman asked. “I’m a doctor. I hope you don’t mind, but blood was seeping through your jeans. I cut off the bottom of them, dressed your wound, and gave you a shot of antibiotic. I don’t usually keep that kind of medication at home, but I had a bad infection myself after I had the baby.”

Davey just stared at her.

“I think you need to give him a minute to wake up, Mary,” the man said. “I don’t think he knows where he is.”

“Where’s the man who carried me in here?” Davey asked.

“What man?” Mary looked puzzled. “Did you see a man when you answered the door, Joseph?”

He shook his head. “There wasn’t any man. You were just pounding on our door mumbling “mama.” You looked half dead. We would have taken you to the hospital, and we will as soon as the roads get cleared from this storm.”

Davey tried to sit up. “No! No hospital. I don’t have any money. No insurance either.”

The two of them looked at each other. “Listen. We try to do something to help someone every Christmas. Please, let us help you.”

He tried to say thank you, but the words got stuck. Joseph patted his shoulder. A baby cried, and Mary hurried out of the room. Davey fell asleep again. When he woke again Mary fed him hot chicken noodle soup. He sat up, looked around, and noticed a tall tree dazzling with lights.

“Merry Christmas.” Mary smiled at him. “Are you still hungry?”

He nodded. “You don’t happen to have any sugar cookies, do you?”

She laughed. “Matter of fact I do.”

Shadows fell, and Davey dozed on and off. Mary rocked the baby, and Joeseph sat next to her reading.

Davey woke again. “So, Mary, you’re a doctor. What do you do, Joseph?”

“I’m a carpenter; I make custom cabinets and many other things.”

Davey sat straight up. “No way! My mom took me to Sunday school when I was a kid. Mary, Joseph…wasn’t the Joseph in the Christmas story a carpenter?”

Joseph laughed. “We get that a lot.”

Davey nodded at the baby in Mary’s arms. “What’s the kid’s name?”

“It’s Joshua,” Joseph answered, “another name for Jesus. Jesus means ‘The Lord is salvation.’ Hey, we need to talk. I could use an apprentice, and you look like you could use a job. And we have a little guest house out back. You can live there if you want and eat your meals with us. What do you say?”

Davey swore then apologized. “I’m sorry, but are you people crazy? You don’t know a thing about me!”

“Let’s give it a month and see how it goes. Then we’ll reassess. Okay?”

The street kid, who hadn’t willingly shed a tear since he’d seen his mom crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, started to sob. A half a box and several hugs and Christmas cookies later, Joseph opened a Bible.

“We always read from Luke chapter two at the end of Christmas day,” he said. “‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.’”

Davey fell asleep before the reading was finished. His last thought was these people are the real deal. I know. I’ve always known things.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author