Christmas story – Back Road Ramblings

December 24, 2022

The Christmas Pen Part Four

by Donna Poole

“Aren’t you at least going to rinse the dinner dishes, Kat?” Mr. Ken asked.

She shook her head. “No time.”

She tried not to look impatient while he took his overcoat from the hall tree and put it on. His hands trembled over the buttons, and he nodded gratefully when she offered to button it for him. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves. Bent almost double, he tapped his gold tipped cane twice and smiled up at her.

“Aren’t you ready to go yet? What are we waiting for?”

Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Mr. Ken, some things are worth the wait. That’s what my grandpa always said.”

Ken almost fell when he slipped on the ice as they waited for a taxi. She caught him.

“Do you think a walker might be safer?”

“Maybe? Do they come with gold tips?”

Even in the cab he kept shivering. “Where are we going?” he asked, teeth chattering.

“I know you’d rather be under a warm blanket enjoying your Sunday afternoon nap, but I’m taking you for a Christmas surprise. Don’t ask questions.”

“Oh, Kat, old men are happiest at home. I don’t need anything I don’t already have there.”

“Don’t you, though?” she asked, giving him a mysterious smile.

He groaned when they pulled into the winding driveway of the Riverside Assisted Living and Memory Care.

“Kat! Just because I slipped on the ice once or twice! Have you arranged a tour here for me?”

She laughed. “It’s Christmas Day, remember? I don’t think they do tours on Christmas.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Just ride along with me.”

He gave her a sharp look.

“That couple I told you about who took me in when I was a tough street kid? Bill and Sheri? He used to say that to her when she tried to be a backseat driver. ‘Just ride along with me.’ She didn’t like it much. He knew it too. But they just looked at each other and laughed.”

Kathleen saw tears in his eyes behind his half glasses. He took off a leather glove, fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose.

“They were the kindest people God ever made, taking in a tough kid like me, giving me a place to live, and telling me about Jesus. I told them I’d never believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they thought I never did, after the way I left, stealing from them, and destroying Sheri’s Bible. I’d give anything to apologize and tell them they changed my life. But we don’t live looking in the rearview mirror. We aren’t going that way. Always go forward. You remember that Kat.”

“I will, Mr. Ken, but we can’t go anywhere if we don’t get out of this cab.”

The lobby was beautifully decorated, and a group of children was singing Christmas carols. Mr. Ken smiled and waved at them. Kathleen steered him down a hallway.

“Do we have to walk far?” he asked, leaning hard on her arm.

She shook her head. “Just a few doors.”

She stopped at a door decorated like a Christmas tree. It had a sign, “First prize for door decorating.” Ken looked for a name, but it was covered by the tree.

“Who are we going to see?” he asked.

She smiled and guided him inside.

“Grandma and Grandpa, I brought you a Christmas present.”

A tiny, fragile looking lady with white curls protested, “Kat, no gifts! You promised!”

A man Ken judged to be even older than himself chuckled. “You know our granddaughter, Sheri! She has a mind of her own, just like her grandma. So, what’s the present, kiddo? Let’s have it. I hope it’s chocolate!”

“Bill!” The old lady laughed. “You’re incorrigible! And you probably should let Kat introduce her guest before you start begging for candy.”

Bill? Sheri?

It couldn’t be. Ken’s mind struggled to keep up.

Kathleen led him closer to the older couple. “Grandma and Grandpa, this is my dear friend, Mr. Ken. He’s a retired pastor and an old friend of yours, but you knew him as Sam.”

She glanced at Ken’s face and lowered him into the armchair behind him just before he fell.

Sheri put one hand over her heart and struggled to catch her breath. “Bill! Honey? The scarf he’s wearing! It’s the gift I got you long ago, the one missing from under the tree when Sam left us on Christmas, the day we found my new Bible ripped apart and thrown under the tree…”

The angels congregated to hear the tears, laugher, and conversation that followed, and they whispered to each other, “Look. It’s another Christmas miracle.”

Two taps sounded on the door. Kathleen was the only one who heard it. She opened it and stared into the brilliant blue eyes of Johnny Dryden.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the volunteer chaplain here. I come here every Sunday to get advice from Bill and Sheri, and they pray with me. What are you doing here?”

Kathleen’s grandpa hollered, “Hey, Johnny, come in! I want to introduce you to my granddaughter and tell you a story you aren’t going to believe!”

Johnny grinned. “I’ve already met your granddaughter, and I can’t wait to hear your story. He took Kathleen’s hand and guided her to a love seat under the window. They sat down, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen’s grandma stared at her and raised an eyebrow. Kathleen shrugged.

“Young man, what are your intentions toward my granddaughter?”

Johnny looked at Kathleen and smiled. “To be determined.”

“Then perhaps you should let go of Kat’s hand while you work out the to be determined part.”

His face flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

But he didn’t let go of her hand.

Kathleen laughed. So did her grandparents.

Mr. Ken said, “I’ve been expecting this.”

The three older people began reminiscing again.

Johnny said quietly, “I still want to get to know you, Kat Jones. What do you do in your spare time?”

“I’m writing a novel based on the years my grandparents spent at their country church.”

“I’d love to have you read it to me.”

“Maybe you could come for dinner sometimes. We could invite Mr. Ken too. He’s terribly lonely.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Ken said, “My hearing’s pretty good for an old man. I better warn you, Johnny, she’s a terrible cook.”

“Yes,” Sheri said proudly, “she gets that from me.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” Johnny said.

“Wise decision,” Ken said, laughing.

“Oh, Grandpa, I almost forgot,” Kathleen said. “I want to show you how all this started.”

She tried to reach into her purse.

“Johnny, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.”

He flushed again.

Kathleen pulled out the antique red pen. “Mr. Ken fixed the pen you gave me.”

Ken nodded, pulled from his shirt pocket the pen that matched it, and showed it to Bill.

Bill’s eyes filled with tears. “You kept that pen I gave you all these years?”

Ken choked on the words. “I never forgot you. I kept the pen to remind myself of the man I was before your love and the love of Jesus changed me. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? That happened on a long-ago Christmas afternoon when we got home from church, noticed the missing gifts, and saw the torn Bible under the tree. Sheri and I dropped to our knees and told God how much we loved you. We’ve prayed for ‘our Sam’ every day since.”

Kathleen went and hugged Ken who was crying. “It’s no wonder I loved you almost as soon as I met you. From the time I was a tiny girl, I’ve been praying for Grandma and Grandpa’s ‘Sam.’ And here we are, all together, because of the Christmas pen.”

Next, she hugged her grandpa. “Here,” she said, handing him the pen, “this belongs back with you, Grandpa. It’s a great reminder prayer can mend broken things. Even broken hearts.”

Kat sat on the loveseat and took Johnny’s hand. The sweet talk of the older ones flowed around them like a warm blanket until suddenly it became very quiet.

Johnny chuckled. “Look. They’re all sleeping. Do you think you should take Ken home so he can get a real nap?”

“I will soon,” she whispered, “but tell me. How did a Physician’s Assistant become a chaplain?”

“Well, I came here often to visit my grandpa who’s in heaven now. He was in the room next door, and one day I came into your grandparent’s room by mistake. Your grandpa was cleaning his collection of fountain pens, and I was intrigued. We got talking, and one thing led to another. He told me he’d been praying for someone to be a volunteer chaplain and. . . .”

The three old ones kept napping. The two younger ones kept talking. Outside the snow kept falling. And the angels kept listening to another Christmas miracle just beginning.

December 23, 2022

The Christmas Pen Part Three

by Donna Poole

“Third Sunday in a row we’ve had snow,” Kathleen said to herself, as she closed her computer. She liked her job as a biomedical engineer, but her real passion was writing. She’d been working on her novel in snatched minutes of time for almost two years and sometimes got so engrossed in the story she lost track of time. Like now.

“Wow, I’m running late!”

Kathleen detested being late for anything, but the prelude was well underway when she slipped into her pew at Christ Calvary Cathedral for the Christmas service. Mr. Ken smiled at her. She felt uneasy about the elderly man; he was still wearing his overcoat and red and green plaid scarf and looked pale. It was plenty warm enough in the building.

Is he sick?

“You okay?” she whispered.

He nodded and patted her hand. His gloves were still on too.

The program started. Without words, accompanied only by the orchestra, children in tailor-made costumes acted out the manger scene.

The production was beautiful, but Kathleen had to stifle a giggle. She couldn’t help remembering the year at Grandpa’s country church when there weren’t enough boys and she’d had to play Joseph. She’d been upset; she’d wanted to be Mary or an angel. And then the bath towel someone had wrapped around her head had fallen off halfway up the aisle and everyone had laughed. She hadn’t thought it was funny then, but it was one of her favorite memories now.

The perfectly dressed children exited, and the choir sang the beautiful song by Ron Hamilton, “Born to Die.”

“On the night Christ was born, Just before break of morn,

As the stars in the sky were fading,

O’er the place where He lay, Fell a shadow cold and gray,

Of a cross that would humble a King.

Born to die upon Calv’ry

Jesus suffered my sin to forgive

Born to die upon Calv’ry

He was wounded that I might live.”

As the choir finished, a hush fell over the auditorium. Two teenage boys dressed like Roman soldiers came up the aisle carrying a big wooden cross. They took slow, deliberate steps in the silence. When they got to the large, decorated Frasier Fir in the front, they raised the cross and dropped it with a loud thud into a stand that had been set up next to the tree. The boys stood quietly, looking at the cross. Then the younger of the two fell to his knees and began crying. It obviously wasn’t part of the script. The older boy looked around awkwardly for a minute; then he knelt next to the younger boy and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered something and the other boy nodded. They stood, both crying now. They faced the congregation, raised their right arms high, fists clenched, then tapped their hearts.

The boys shouted in unison, “Jesus is Lord!”

Kathleen reached in her purse for a few tissues. Mr. Ken needed one too. She heard sniffles all around her.

The pastor stood head bowed. Finally, he said, “My sermon today was titled, ‘The Perfect Tree,’ but I don’t need to preach about the cross. These boys have done a far better job than I could ever do.”

To the soft music of “Silent Night,” the congregation filed out quietly.

Mr. Ken sat in the pew, head bowed, praying. Kathleen waited for him.

Finally, using his gold tipped cane, he struggled to his feet, smiling at her through the tears on his face.

How can I love this old man I’ve only known a few weeks? But I do. Even his smile reminds me of grandpa.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.

Mr. Ken chuckled. “Just an old man who can’t get warm. Am I still invited for that awful dinner? You said you’re a terrible cook.”

She laughed. “You are and I am.”

Once again Johnny Dryden was waiting to help them into a cab, and Kathleen’s eyes widened when Mr. Ken invited him to her apartment for lunch.

Johnny’s incredibly blue eyes met hers and he laughed. “You’re safe. I have to get to work.”

She nodded. “I guess physician’s assistants have to work Christmas Sunday?”

“It’s my other job. My volunteer one,” he said, as he helped Mr. Ken into the cab. “But Kat Jones, I still want to get to know you. What did you think of the sermon?”

“Best I’ve ever heard.”

“Same.” He smiled and waved as the cab pulled away.

As promised, Sunday dinner was terrible. Kathleen sighed. “This is the first time I’ve goofed up spaghetti.”

Mr. Ken laughed. He took another bite of the undercooked pasta covered with the too salty sauce. “It’s not that bad, Kat. It’s nice to eat with someone. This more than repays me for fixing your grandpa’s pen. It should work for many years now. The one I have just like it wrote love letters to Ruth and thousands of sermons, and it’s still working.”

“How did you become a pastor, Mr. Ken? I have to leave at three o’clock, but we have time for your story.”

He took a crunchy bite of the too dark garlic bread, coughed, and grabbed his water. “It’s a long story. What do you say you keep eating and I’ll tell it? I’m kind of full myself.”

He’d barely begun talking when Kathleen’s face paled and she pushed away her own plate. He’d been a runaway, hated his abusive parents, hated the church that knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it, and hated God. Then he decided there was no God. A confirmed atheist at the age of sixteen, he’d lived on the streets, a tough kid who’d do anything for food or a bed. Then he got sick.

“It was a bitter cold winter, a lot like this one. I intended to mug and rob whoever answered the door that night, but I was too weak to even knock. I guess I made a lot of noise falling into the door, because a woman opened it. She called her husband to help her, and they half-carried me inside.

“I could see right away they were poor, and I cursed my dumb luck for not stumbling into a place where I could take something worthwhile. They asked my name. I was sick and half out of my mind, but street smart enough not to give my real name. I told them my name was. . . ”

Kathleen interrupted him. “Sam.”

Her mind was racing.

How did I not see this before? The pen. The phrases he uses. The scarf!

He raised his white bushy eyebrows and stared at her. “How’d you know that? Lucky guess? Anyway, they took me to a walk-in clinic that night and got me some antibiotics. I heard Bill, that was his name, tell Shari he was sorry he’d had to use some money he’d been saving for Christmas to pay for it. She hugged him and said she didn’t care; he’d given her a gift she’d never forget by helping me.

“I thought they were a huge joke. Like people from another planet, you know? How could they be for real? They said I could stay with them as long as I wanted. They fed me. She was a terrible cook, and I didn’t let them know it, but I enjoyed every meal. They gave me a warm bed. But they kept talking to me about God, and every time they did, I got mad. I told them there was no God and no good people either. Everyone had an angle, and I’d figure out theirs sooner or later.

“Sometimes I’d hear Bill and Sheri praying for me late at night, and that made me angry too. I didn’t think I needed their prayers. They said they’d always pray for me.

“Bill was a seminary student. He was going to be a pastor somewhere when he graduated. I told him it was a fool’s job.

“I’d been with them about a month. It was Christmas Day. They begged me to go to church with them, said we’d open gifts after we got home. I refused. I’d had it with their God talk. As soon as they left, I raided the gifts under the tree. Sheri had wrapped a gift for Bill, a scarf. I took it. I wear it to this day to remind me of what I was before God saved me. Bill had wrapped a gift for me, the red fountain pen you see me write with. His gift for Sheri was a Bible. I tore pages out of it, left it under the tree, and hit the streets.

“After a few more years of alcohol, drugs, and street life, I was a mess. I ended up in the Rescue Mission. I’d never been able to forget Bill and Sheri and the love and kindness they’d shown me. They’d made God seem real to me, and I hated what I’d done to them. When I finally understood God’s love in sending His Son and asked Jesus to save me from my sin, I looked for them to thank them and ask forgiveness, but they were gone. They probably forgot all about me, but I never forgot them.”

Kathleen had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “Mr. Ken, we’ll eat dessert later. It’s almost three o’clock. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’d really like you to come with me.”

“Old men need afternoon naps, Kat.”

He looked at her pleading eyes.

“Okay. Let me get my coat.”

She smiled. “And your scarf, Mr. Ken. Be sure to wear your scarf.”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Four

***

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

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

December 23, 2019

The Broken Gift

by Donna Poole

“I don’t think so, not this year.” Annetta shook her head. If it weren’t for the white curls and deep lines in her face, she’d look just like a stubborn child.

Kate and Bob looked at each other. “Mom, come on! The candlelight service has always been your favorite! You know Bob will help you get into the church.”

After repeated refusals, Annetta’s family left. “Maybe she’ll change her mind before Sunday,” Bob said, but Kate cried.

As Bob pulled out onto the gravel road, Kate looked back at the old farmhouse thinking of Christmases past when Dad had been alive and the aroma of fresh cut pine and an impossible amount of baked goods had filled the home. Now the house smelled old and musty. It had been years since Mom had been able to host family Christmas. They couldn’t even let her walk to the end of the driveway to get her mail anymore; her balance was that bad. Mom couldn’t stay alone much longer, and that was going to be a battle Kate dreaded. After the holidays, they’d give her a choice, live with them or go to assisted living. She sighed; neither option was optimal. Kate felt sure Mom had no idea what they were thinking. Let her enjoy one last Christmas at home.

Annetta sat in her rocker; she too was thinking of Christmases past. How could she tell her family she didn’t want to go to the candlelight service because she was tired to the bone of having nothing left to share? Once she’d had so much to give her family and her church family. For many years the congregation had sat in awed silence at the candlelight service as she’d offered Christ and them her soprano solo of “O Holy Night.”

When her cracked and aging voice had stopped her from singing, Annetta had started writing short stories she’d read to the church children at the candlelight service. The adults had liked them as much as the kids. But then the cloud in her mind had ended the stories.

“It’s the beginning of dementia, hardening of the arteries,” the doctor called it.

“It’s hardening of the ought-eries,” Anetta murmured to herself. She couldn’t seem to remember what she ought to do, and when she did remember, she couldn’t find ambition to do it.

Annetta picked up her worn Bible, shivered, and pulled a quilt around her knees. Why is it always so cold?

“Lord, Lord,” she murmured, as a tear traced its way down a deep wrinkle in her cheek, “I can live with my body being so cold, but I can’t live with this empty, cold heart. I’ve nothing left to give.”

Everything was gone, even joy. Christmas would be at Kate’s again this year. Bless her heart; Kate tried, but she was busy. She worked full time, as did all of her siblings. No one cut a real tree anymore. No one had time to make crescent rolls or beautiful, layered Jell-O. And no one had read Luke chapter two on Christmas Day since her beloved Jacob had died. What she wouldn’t give to hear his strong voice read that once more.

Annetta sighed and opened her Bible. As she read about the wise men giving the Christ-child expensive gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, more tears followed. She longed to give the Lord Jesus something special this Christmas as she had so many years in the past, something of herself, but she was broken, body, soul, and spirit.

Blessed. Broken. Given. The words stirred a memory in Annetta’s foggy brain. Hadn’t Jesus used those words? He’d accepted a little boy’s meager lunch, blessed it, broken it, and given it to the hungry crowd and had miraculously fed a multitude.

Before He’d died on the cross for the sin of the world Jesus had taken bread, blessed it, broken it, and given it to His disciples. “This is my body, given for you,” He’d said.

Annetta remembered that after Christ’s resurrection His followers had recognized Him when He’d blessed, broken, and given them bread.

It must have been a habit of His, this blessing, breaking, and giving, if His friends recognized Him because of it, Annetta thought. But what does it mean? What does it have to do with me?

“I’ve been greatly blessed,” Annetta murmured, “and now I’m broken. Can I be given? What’s left of me to give?”

Annetta chuckled, remembering the year the pastor had preached, “Just give what you have to Jesus.” The next Sunday, Annetta had been shocked to see five-year-old Kate drop her favorite doll in the offering plate.

After church, the treasurer had come to Annetta, holding the grubby doll that was missing both an arm and a leg. “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

Annetta had laughed. “You’re the treasurer; you think of something. It’s Kate’s favorite doll, and she sleeps with it every night. I don’t know how she’ll get to sleep without it tonight, but she wanted to give it to Jesus.”

“What do you want, Lord?” Annetta whispered. “Do you want this mind, getting worse with dementia every year? Do you want this body, crippled with arthritis? Do you want this empty soul? It’s all less than worthless, but I give it to you.”

There. Her broken gift lay next to Kate’s grubby doll offering. Of the two, Annetta thought her present looked worse by far, but a quiet peace filled her soul.

Annetta went to the candlelight service. Bob helped her struggle to her feet, and in a halting voice, stumbling over words and missing several, she read Luke chapter two. There wasn’t a dry eye in the congregation.

On the way home, Annetta said to Kate and Bob, “I have a Christmas gift for you.”

Kate frowned. “Mom, we agreed, no gifts this year. No one needs anything.”

“Oh, you need this,” Annetta said mysteriously.

“What is it?”

“You have to wait until tomorrow.”

Christmas at Kate’s was nice. The catered ham dinner wasn’t too bad, and Annetta didn’t mention the dry rolls.

After they ate, Annetta handed Kate and Bob a small box. They opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. On it Annetta had written, “I’ve decided to go into assisted living at Maple Lawn after the first of the year. I love you, Mom.”

As Kate cried and hugged her, Annetta thought, blessed, broken, and given. It felt good to still have something to give. And to receive. The thought came suddenly. Adventure. It had been decades since she’d thought of that word in connection with herself, but who knew? Was she actually looking forward to a new life at Maple Lawn? Maybe. Maybe she was.

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Photo credit: Drones Over Broome: used by permission

December 17, 2019

Not on My Watch

by Donna Poole

The bottle of Dom Perignon was half-empty, but Jer hadn’t touched the Champagne. He wasn’t interested tonight in the pricey, popular Treasure Chest of drinks. Its dry ice drifted in a lazy fog over their table of four. He yawned and looked at the yellow-gold Rolex Lisa had given him.

“Here,” she’d kissed him lightly and laughed. “If you’re going to be appearing on billboards all over Chicago with my Dad, advertised as his brilliant, young, new law partner, you need to look the part.”

He hadn’t wanted to accept the watch; he and Lisa really weren’t at that point in their relationship. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to be, but things were complicated. He’d never have moved up so quickly in the law firm without Lisa’s dad, so he felt obligated to take the watch, obligated to keep being with Lisa, and he didn’t like the feeling. Jer sighed. He was tired and suddenly homesick for a place he hadn’t been in years, the hills of Tennessee.

“Hey!” Bud laughed. “What’s up, Jer? It isn’t like you to look bored at Three Dots and a Dash! This is our third club of the night, and you’ve only had one drink. Something wrong?”

Jer pushed aside his memories of a small church in the Tennessee hills where it snowed every Christmas, all roads led home, and grown men still called their fathers “Daddy.” His Daddy was the pastor at that church. Right now they were having the Christmas Eve candlelight service, and he knew light from inside was shining through the stained glass windows and reflecting on the snow. When Jer had been a boy, Daddy had always left the church lights on all night Christmas Eve, and as Jer’s family had left the snowy parking lot and headed home to the farm, he’d loved looking back at that reflection. It had seemed magical.

“Jer? You still with us?”

Jer looked at Bud, shrugged, and glanced at his watch. In a half-hour it would be Christmas. “I’m tired. Let’s go.”

“And leave the rest of the Treasure Chest? Well, it’s your buck! It you want to spend $400.00 for drinks plus your usual big tip and then not finish drinking, okay. The rest of us have probably had enough anyway.”

Enough and too much, Jer thought as he helped his friends out the door and waved for a cab.

Bud laughed again. “What’s that drunk doing here? He’s a long way from the mission!”

Jer hesitated, then walked over to the man lying on the sidewalk. What was a drunk, homeless-looking man doing in front of this trendy, expensive bar? Even in the dim light Jer could see the deep yellow of the man’s skin. If he wasn’t dead already from liver damage, he soon would be.

The man started shivering violently. Obviously not dead yet, Jer thought. But he’s soon going to freeze to death. They don’t call this the Windy City for nothing.

“Give him you coat, son.” Jer’s father’s voice sounded so clear, he looked around, startled.

Why not? It’s not like I can’t afford another one. I can afford to buy anything I want or need.

“Are you sure you don’t need something money can’t buy?”

Again, Jer looked around started. Why did he keep thinking he heard his father’s voice? He wasn’t drunk, not on one drink. Was he losing his mind? He took off his coat and bent to cover the man on the sidewalk.

Jer’s friends laughed. “Hope you never want to wear that coat again; it’s covered with lice and fleas now. Come on, Jer, cab’s waiting. Leave that guy. He’s just going to die anyway.”

“Not on my watch, he isn’t,” Jer said abruptly. “You guys go on. I’ll catch you later.”

Jer ignored his friends’ laughter and sarcastic comments as he dialed 9-1-1. He did hear Bud jeeringly call him a Good-Samarian Jeremiah. Bud knew he hated the name Jeremiah and all its biblical connotations. Jer was definitely not a Jeremiah, and he hadn’t been one, not for a long, long time.

Jer felt a hand grab his ankle. “Afraid,” a hoarse voice moaned.

Jer squatted next to the man. “What’s your name? And what are you doing here?”

“Samuel. Walked from the mission. Wanted to see Three Dots and a Dash one more time. Used to come here with my buddies.”

Jer’s thoughts raced. Wait. Three Dots and a Dash had only opened in 2013. This man looked like he’d lived on the streets at least forty years. When had he been sober and wealthy enough to have come here? And how had he walked from the mission?

Jer had volunteered at the mission when he’d first come to the city, before he’d left his faith behind, so he knew its location. It was a brisk forty minute walk away for a healthy man. It must have taken this man at least two hours to stumble here in his condition.

“Rum? Got rum?” Samuel’s voice was so low Jer could barely hear it.

Jer shook his head, and tears stung his eyes. It had been a long time since anything had made him cry.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t want to die alone.”

“I won’t leave, and you aren’t going to die, not on my watch!” Jer peered through the crowd of bodies that had gathered to gawk. Where was that ambulance? Finally.

The paramedics rolled Samuel onto a stretcher. He grabbed Jer’s hand.

“May I ride with him? I promised not to leave him.”

“You a relative? You can only ride in the back if you’re family.”

Jer shook his head, but Samuel muttered, “He’s my brother.”

“Get in.” A paramedic chuckled and motioned to Jer.

Samuel kept a grip on Jer’s hand. Jer had never seen such grime on a human body.

Again Samuel said, “Don’t want to die alone.”

“Hey! I told you. You aren’t going to die! Not on my watch.”

The paramedic caught Jer’s eye and shook his head slightly.

“Afraid, afraid!” Samuel moaned.

Jer was surprised to hear himself say, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

“John 3:16,” Samuel whispered. “I believe. So sorry. Almost forgot Jesus. Not alone. He’ll walk me Home.”

A few minutes later Samuel relaxed his grip. Jer didn’t need the paramedic to tell him Samuel was gone. Jesus had come and walked him the rest of the way Home.

“What happens to guys like him if they die without insurance or families?”

The paramedic shrugged. “DHS might help with cremation.”

“You look like an honest guy. “ Jer slipped off his watch. “Will you sell this, pay for a funeral for Samuel, and give the rest to the mission? I’d do it myself, but I need to catch the first flight to Tennessee.”

The ambulance pulled up to the hospital

The paramedic’s eyes widened as he looked at the yellow-gold Rolex in his hand. “Isn’t this thing worth like forty-grand? Sure, I’ll take care of it for you. It just so happens my grandpa is one of the chaplains at the mission. Who should I say the gift is from?”

Jer jumped down from the ambulance and turned to shake the paramedic’s hand. “Tell them Jeremiah gave it to you,” he said, “Jeremiah from Tennessee.” Then he sprinted off to find a cab.