Underarm Deodorant

Old Woman

Not everyone is lucky enough to know their great-grandmother, but I was. Grandma Patterson is what we called her. From Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl, she and my great-grandfather brought their many children over to California for a better life. She spent her time working in the laborious fields and raising her 10 children.

When I knew her, she was already old. She wore her hair pulled back tightly into a brown bun that rested on the back of her head. She mostly wore long straight dresses that hung like giant t-shirts. She was overweight some, and she hunched over when she walked.

And her eye vision was failing.

Back then, people didn’t always wear sunglasses when working outside in the fields, and a lifetime of abuse from the unforgiving sun did a number on my Grandma Patterson.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was chubby with an acne covered face and a mouth full of metal. My undiagnosed OCD caused me to slick my hair straight down with a perfect part so not a single hair would ever dare go out of place. I was extremely shy, awkward, and my best friends went by the names of Nintendo and Sega. Needless to say, I didn’t have girls chasing after me, and I didn’t blame them.

For Christmas that year, I remember unwrapping a Christmas present from Grandma Patterson. I think it was the last one I ever remember receiving from her. It was a green bottle of spray deodorant.

Yes, underarm deodorant.

I opened it up not knowing how to react. I was still at the young age when body odor didn’t exist, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I forced out a “Thank you!” with a decent smile.

My great-grandma stood up and walked over to me hunched over. She leaned in close to me and said, “You spray a little of that here and there, and you’ll have to fight those little girlies off of you.” She motioned like she was spraying it on both sides of my neck.

It then made sense to me and my observing parents that my Grandma Patterson thought she bought me spray cologne. Like I said earlier, her eyesight was failing.

Not too long later, I visited her with my family, and she said to me, “Terry, I bet all those little girlies are after you now, aren’t they?”

I answered awkwardly, “I don’t know.”

She continued, “Well, this is what you do. You need to get yourself a baseball bat in one hand and a croquet stick in the other, so when the girlies come after you on the right, you can knock them off with the left, and when they come after you on the left, you can knock them off with the right.”

I thought she really must not be able to see the dorky looking kid standing right in front of her; the girls at my school didn’t want anything to do with me.

On our way home that night, I silently chuckled in the backseat of our family minivan. And after thinking about it some more, it was nice to have someone see something in me I didn’t see in myself, even if that person was going blind. It was encouraging that she saw something in me that she thought others would find attractive.

A few years later, my acne cleared up, my braces were taken off, and my hair hung more loosely and naturally as it grew out in a blond, suffer style. I lost weight and spent time outside swimming in my family’s new pool as my skin darkened into a healthy shade. With my newly gained confidence, I traded in my timid shyness for a gregarious, extroverted personality.

And the girlies started to chase after me.

My Grandma Patterson didn’t get to see me graduate high school or college. She didn’t live that long. But she didn’t need to see those events because even with her blind eyes, she saw me—the real me.

I pray to be a little more like her and see others not with my eyes but with something more. I hope to see their future possibilities. I desire to be a builder of people and error on the side of encouragement.

There’s already enough honest evaluation. There’s enough tough love. Even after the silly self-esteem movement in the 1980s and this crazy post-modern society we live in now, we still need people to see in us what isn’t there yet.

We all need a Grandma Patterson who will give us our own underarm deodorant.

 

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The Librarian

I was around eight years old, and it was about once a month that our teacher took us to the school’s library to check out a book. For me, this was an exciting time. Out of all the books in the entire library, I got to choose one to take home for an entire month.

But I couldn’t really read that well.

With my speech disorder, sounding out words didn’t really work (if it ever works). But I knew there was something valuable about them—stories.

I think Mr. Bo, the librarian, knew that too. He was an elderly man who shared a resemblance with Mr. Rogers, the children’s show host.

I distinctly remember him having our class all sit together on the carpet as he gently brought out a worn book that he treated like an old friend. He carefully held the green book and lightly turned each page as he read to us The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. He ended the story in a dry voice as he read about how all the boy wanted was to be with the tree and how the tree was happy. He slowly closed the book, sat it down on the table next to him, and patted it with his weathered fingers.

“Do you know what that book reminds me of?” he asked the class of children on the floor.

No one answered.

“My parents,” the old man said.

Being only a kid, I somehow knew that was a good book, and I also knew Mr. Bo was a good man.

For a number of months, I would always check out the same book. It was a large illustrated book of fairytales. To me, it was so much better than the other books because it contained multiple stories instead of just one.

While the students were allowed to look through all the books, I looked with them even though I knew I was going to renew the book of fairytales once again. Finally, I stood in line to have the book renewed.

When I placed the old book on the counter, Mr. Bo said, “This book is getting old, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“An old book like this needs to retire to a special home where someone can take care of it? Would you want to take it home and take care of it?”

I smiled and shyly said, “Yes.”

Mr. Bo opened up the front cover and took out the library card covered with dated stamps. He then very carefully pulled out the cardholder that had been glued on the back of the front cover. He handed me the book and smiled.

At the end of the school year, my school held its end of the year awards assembly. My mom was in the back videotaping it with her large, rectangular, over the shoulder camcorder. I was just a regular kid, so I never got the best reader award or the best athlete award. I was always the good, quiet kid in class.

Towards the end of the awards assembly, the principal announced there was one more award that was very special. It was the library award, and only one student in the entire school would receive it.

Mr. Bo steadily made his way up the stairs.

My name was called.

I feel like Mr. Bo believed in me. He didn’t really know me. We never held a real conversation. But he saw something in me. And I saw something in him.

After I moved from that small town, I remember hearing that he passed away, and the school named the library after him.

I still have that old book of fairytales somewhere up in my attic safely stored away in a box. That collection of stories prepared me for the real stories I would encounter in life.

The stories I would experience, create, and tell.

Mr. Bo saw something in me and was a small part of my story although he never knew it. As leaders in this sometimes-confusing world, I hope we can see things in others. I pray that we can believe in people even after years of disappointment.

Let us be stories.

Childhood Home

There’s something special about one’s childhood home. I was born in Bakersfield, California. When I was two, my parents moved out to Derby Acers. Just to give you an idea of this area, some people called it “Dirty Acers.” But to me it was home, and a wonderful home at that.

My parents were in their very early twenties when they bought a brand new, double-wide mobile home and placed it on a quarter acer of land. They put up a nice fence and divided the backyard for a horse corral. I remember having a swing set, a tree to climb in, a little area designated for our doughboy pool, an orchid for my mom, a long, extended drive to skateboard down, and still plenty of room for a young boy’s invisible adventures. It was in that backyard that my best friend Matt and I fought off alien soldiers who hovered over us in a giant flying saucer. Other days we were fighting off medieval warriors who were invading our castle as I was a knight and Matt was a wizard.

A dog named Boy barked in excitement at the imaginary scenes as my mom baked a cake inside waiting for my dad to get home from work.

I lived in that house until my family moved to Bakersfield at age 10, so the majority of my innocent childhood was spent there.

It really was a perfect place to grow up as a kid. I left my bike in the front yard, and there was never a thought about someone stealing it. Doors were often left open for a sweet breeze, and most of the time they were unlocked. We had horses, cats, bunnies, dogs, chickens, a pig, and three-wheelers.

The foothills and mountains that surrounded the valley were close and always clear, and there was something special about the sunset that fell down over them. There was time then too. Time to watch cartoons. Time to play outside. Time to stare at my mother as she made dinner or organized her records and folded laundry. Time to wait on the front porch to see if I could spot my dad’s work truck driving home on the main road a few blocks away. Time to think.

My younger sister, Amber, was about seven years younger than me. Since we moved to Bakersfield when I was nine, and she was around three, she didn’t get to experience the same childhood I did.

A few years ago, when I was in my early thirties, and she in her twenties, we made plans to grab lunch as we tried to do every few weeks. Christmas was approaching, and we were looking for some place special to eat. I thought up the idea of driving out to Taft for lunch and another 15 minutes to Derby Acers to show her where she first lived. I was surprised that she wanted to join me on this adventure. She had recently gotten engaged, and we would get to use the long drive to catch up.

The road went from straight, long lanes to hilly roads and then to a small two-lane road surrounded by oilrigs and foothills. Turning into our, I guess you could call it a neighborhood, the road faded to dirt. My sister jerked around in my truck as we went over the uneven dirt.

We drove past my old best friend’s house, Matt, and then turned left. There in the middle of the dirt road, I stopped in reverence to show my sister her first home.

After a few seconds of silence and an odd look on my sister’s face, she said, “Why did Mom and Dad live here?”

I looked to examine my childhood home. The fence had fallen. The grass has turned to dirt. The orchid was gone to just an empty dry space with scattered weeds. The pool has vanished. No dog barked eagerly to see me. It was a pathetic sight.

I tried to explain to Amber what it was once like—the fine details of every bit of energy that Mom and Dad put into it to make it a fine home for their two children. But then I realized something.

It was more accurate in my memory than it was in real life. What now stood wasn’t my childhood home, for it was gone forever.

Or maybe, it was forever saved in my memories, where it will always be real.

That’s the moment I understood that the past can’t be revisited in real life but only in the heart.

I looked at my sister. Graduated from college. Engaged. Grown. Accomplished. Faithful. Kind. Wise. She is what I still have from that past. Not some house.

We drove to Taft and ate at a Mexican food restaurant. It was mostly empty inside. There was a huge Christmas tree with colorful lights across from our table. My sister and I laughed and smiled as we told stories and revisited jokes while eating our food. And I enjoyed the present before me—my grown little sister who would only hold the same last name as me for a few more months.

Let’s be thankful for the past and hold it dearly in our hearts, but let’s be thankful for all God’s given us in the present and never neglect for a moment what we have now because in time, it too will be gone.

Last Dance

lady-in-red

In normal high school experiences, the only thing that is worse than being dumped by a wonderful person is having to break up with a wonderful person. That was me during my junior year. She was a great girl—pretty, smart, clean, classy, but we just had different missions in life. I felt that I had a different calling than she did, so during my junior year, I had to decide to do one of the most difficult things ever; I had to leave someone who loved me crying on her front yard after I took her home after school, as I drove off alone.

Don’t worry. She’s fine now. She has a beautiful family and a good career.

But back to the past, it was towards the end of my junior year in high school, and the prom was approaching. This would be the first high school dance I would go to without my ex-girlfriend. She already had her date, a decent guy.

It hurt in a way. I understood everything. It all made sense. But it still hurt.

I knew what I had to do. It’s what any teenage guy would do in high school. I would ask the hottest girl I knew to be my date. Someone who would be the type of girl to wear a blazing red, short dress. Someone who would latch onto my arm long enough, so I could walk through those huge, double doors of the prom’s entrance to have my ex see me for just a moment and miss me.

Now I thought, where would I find such a girl?

My youth group, of course.

I asked her with a folded note during a Wednesday night service, back before text messaging. She happily accepted. I’m still not sure if it was because of me or because she went to another school and wanted to be allowed to attend my school’s prom, which was on the opposite side of town.

Bringing this girl to prom wasn’t purely selfish. I was hoping I would find something amazing about her and that she would win me over, like one of those 80’s movies or something like that.

Prom night finally came, and with the financial help of my generous grandparents, we arrived in a limo. She wore a short, red dress and had taken on the essence of stereotypical, high school beauty. We walked in those double doors, and she was latched on my arm. The music vibrated through the souls of our shoes as our eyes looked up to be caught by the flashing strobes. My school’s ASB has once again transformed a regular building hall into something quite magical.

My date and I quickly found my group of friends as the guys lit up in surprise as they set their eyes upon my mysterious date. Then something happened that I’ll probably always be unsure about. My ex-girlfriend walked up to my date and said something before walking away angrily. My date’s mouth dropped in awe.

“What?” I asked.

“She just called me a skank!” my date said in her most high, feminine voice.

“She did?”

“Yes, she did!”

Now that was very out of character for my ex-girlfriend, but I honestly, I laughed a little in my mind, and maybe a small smirk broke through onto my face. The night was going just as planned, which is odd in life.

Just then a popular song came on, and my friends eagerly rushed closer to the center of the dance floor.

“I told one of my friends that I would dance with him for one dance since I’m at his school. Can I go find him to dance with him, so I can get that over with, and then we can dance for the rest of the night together?” my date so innocently asked.

“Sure, that’s fine with me,” I sent her off into the dark, teenager abyss of moving bodies.

I wasn’t really bothered by her request because I honestly just wanted to dance with my own friends. Most of them only brought friends as dates, so they could dance with others.

Half an hour went by. Then a full hour. Two. Three. Still no sign of my prom date. Someone asked if I knew where she was. I didn’t. Maybe she was nearby camouflaged with the other countless short, red dresses that moved around, near, and on sweaty guys. Someone else asked if I thought she was okay? “I’m sure she’s fine,” I answered.

I continued to dance with my friends and tried to pretend that I was having just as good of a time as I did at every other school dance. But I wasn’t.

I wasn’t second guessing my decision of breaking up with my ex, but I was sad. Maybe mourning in a way. And I was alone. The familiarity of the environment made me remember first dancing with her my freshmen year, and how I felt like the king of the world back then, when everything was still brand new. I gave her up. Now she was dancing with someone else, looking happy and pretty as ever.

Eventually, all my friends were coupled up with the help of the mood of a magical environment. I awkwardly stood there by myself. I watched time fade by like the last two years of my high school life. I felt like the fool. People started noticing that I was alone, and it was weird, so I had to go.

But I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t just leave my date, although she left me. I looked for a hideout, some place unnoticed safe—the restroom.

Surrounded by the cold, tall, echoing walls of the boy’s restroom, I could still hear the songs vibrating through the floors in muffled words of bass. My feet were now sore from my dress shoes—maybe tired. I looked into the scratched mirror and examined myself. Sharp dressed in a pressed shirt. A red tie to match a missing date. Hair still perfectly styled. But alone.

What this going to be my future now? Were the best days of high school already behind me? I was once the school’s vice-president for two years in a row. But not anymore.

I now second guessed my decision of breaking up with her. I felt wholeheartedly that it was the right thing to do at the time. I prayed through it. I felt confirmation.

I looked back into the mirror.

“What’s up with this, God? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I don’t even know.”

I heard the bass under the souls of my shoes start a new song—Lady in Red, the 90’s slow song that became the signature last dance at all my school’s dances. I gave a wry smile and thought how pathetic was I to hide out during my high school prom. I remembered who I was.

A child of God.

Someone bought with a great price.

Someone loved unconditionally.

I straightened up my posture and walked out of that restroom with a confident smile to see my world turning together in slow motion to the magical mood of the music.

I stood there hoping for a miracle. Waiting. Even enjoying the happiness of others.

Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around to see Britney, a friend of mine. Not anyone I ever flirted with. Not anyone I ever considered dating, but just a friend. She said, “I thought you might be feeling along there, stranger. Want to dance.”

“Thanks.”

We slow danced together at a friendly distance for the rest of that song, and I wasn’t alone.

Although we are friends on social media, Britney and I don’t talk much. We don’t comment on each other’s posts really or even “like” each other’s photos, but there will always be an element of gratitude connected to any thought of her. And although there have been many forgotten dances with many different girls, that one dance would never be forgotten.

After the lights came on and people rushed to find their purses and jackets, I finally found my date. She told me some dramatic story about searching all over for me. I didn’t believe her, but I wasn’t upset. I knew she wasn’t the girl for me.

I really didn’t give her much thought after that night, but I did think about Britney. I recalled how she was involved at her church. I remember visiting her youth group from time to time, and she was always there and involved with something. I can never remember hearing her say anything bad about anyone, not even once. She was never the center of attention. She mostly just blended in, but she always seemed faithful in all that she did.

I believe wholeheartedly that she walked in the Spirit. I believe the Holy Spirit gave her discernment to see what I was feeling. I can imagine her notice my out of character prom date. I can picture her watching me glance through the crowd at my ex-girlfriend every now and then. I can see her searching for me during the last dance of the night and feeling a bit of relief when she found me.

We know the Spirit leads us when we’re seeking after others instead of ourselves. When we dance with people in this crazy thing called life. When we embrace those who are hurting and alone.

 

Lost in a Grocery Store

lost-in-a-grocery-store

I often hear parents talk about how rambunctious their grown children were when they were young—how they would have their hands into everything that wasn’t theirs. How they would talk a stranger’s ear off. How they would break down and throw a fit in public when they didn’t get their way.

Honestly, my parents didn’t have these problems with me, not to say I didn’t come with my own share of unique problems.

I was shy. I had some unclear speech disorder that wasn’t properly diagnosed. I was an only child for seven years, until my sister came along. Yeah, I was that kid who played the first Nintendo Entertainment System and only had a few select friends who played with me. And the rest was all imagination.

I remember being about four years old and walking around the small town grocery store with my dad. Our home was about 15-20 minutes from the well-lit store, and it was a happy occasion to get to go with Dad for a dinner run. This was a time when stores were a more decorated for every holiday—individual and custom decorations for each season. Every once in a while, I would even get to pick out a toy from the isle across from the cereal. I don’t think my parents will ever realize how a five dollar piece of plastic would make my day.

So there I was walking through the store with wide eye wonder holding my dad’s hand. Then all of a sudden, I looked up and the hand I was holding was not my dad’s. This was terrifying for a four-year-old. He was a complete stranger, and I didn’t know where my dad was. My young brain couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. One minute, I was with my dad, and the next, a perfect stranger.

The older man looked down at me and said, “You’re a cute, little guy, but you’re not mine.” I turned all over to finally find my dad standing nearby and quickly reached out for his hand—embarrassed, frightened, confused; I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t one of those kids.

As an adult now, occasionally I’ll see small children who lose their mom or dad at a grocery store. A painful terror comes over them, and after a few seconds of desperately looking all around and realizing the scary truth of their situation, their eyes begin to water, their lips quiver, and then they cry. A loud cry from someplace in pain. Sometimes a scream, as all the other children continue walking quietly holding their parent’s hand, wondering what’s wrong with that kid.

Sometimes I get discouraged being a believer in this modern world. I’m bombarded with so many anti-Christ statements, philosophies, and ideologies yelled from rooftops. I see them printed online, in magazines, in newspapers, on television, and cluttered all over social media. I start to think that the whole world holds these same views, while a few others and myself are the only ones who still attempt to have some sort of desire to follow Christ.

But I’ve learned this is not true. The church is well. The church is strong. The church is winning. This is because the church is God’s bride, and God’s faithful to his bride. And in the end, God wins.

This world is full of believers who seriously love the Lord. Famous rock stars, actors, writers, artists, athletes, politicians. They are all out there and living for the Lord.

But why can’t we hear them? Why don’t we hear true Christians proclaiming their beliefs all over the media?

Because they aren’t lost.

They are holding their father’s hand.

Children aren’t terrified when they have their father’s hand. Believers have a peace that the lost children don’t understand.

Lost children in this world cry. They shout out. They don’t understand. They are angry. They hurt others. They take, steal, lie. They are hurting. They do anything they can to help themselves because they are lost—without a father.

It’s sad really. So very sad.

When we see the lost world, let’s remind ourselves that we are not losing simply because we are quiet. Let’s remind ourselves that we aren’t alone just because other believers aren’t yelling out. We are just at peace holding our father’s hand—the very best place to be.

A Visit from Saint Nicholas

writers

“There’s something out there. I don’t know what it is, but it’s out there. I know it,” whispered Emma. She began to move again, back and forth in her ancient rocking chair. Her cracked hands squeezed nervously the quilt that was covering her legs from the winter’s cold.

Nicholas, a slightly overweight man with light hair, looked around the hoarded home and then to the door. “There’s nothing out there. Just a lot of snow. And beyond that, trees covered by even more snow.”

He was still a young man in his early thirties. He attended college to study psychology to become a therapist, but ended up working for a church instead. He wasn’t a pastor per say, but something in between. The church called him a “leader.” One of his jobs was to visit the sick and the elderly.

Although he fought it with all his might, apprehensiveness still appeared on his face when Pastor Brad asked him to visit Emma Huffington, the 92-year-old widow who quit coming a number of years ago. Her only son had moved away for a girl, leaving her utterly alone. Now Christmas was approaching, and Pastor Brad believed and taught that no one should be alone on Christmas.

The little tube television in the corner of the house was silently playing The Christmas Carol, the original 1938 version, but Emma didn’t seem to care. She stared at the window even though it was closed with a curtain.

“There’s something moving out there. I can hear it,” she continued.

Nicholas replied courteously, “What’s out there?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m nervous.” Emma’s fingers dug into the quilt a little more.

“When I walked up, there wasn’t anything but snow, Emma.”

“It’s dark now, and that’s when it comes out. In the end. When everything goes dark.” She coughed a deep cough that came from too many years of smoking although she had quit years back.

A gust of wind blew against the small, weathered house, and Emma’s eyes turned to Nicholas. They were wide and alarmed.

“Just wind,” Nicholas said to calm her.

She replied, “It’s just two words.”

“What?”

“They scare me, those two words.”

“What two words?” He was really confused now.

“The scariest two words ever spoken.” She learned towards him and whispered, “What if,” and she froze in that position for a moment.

Nicholas mentally recalled his academic training of psychology and his few years of experience counseling people at church. “Emma, do you have regrets that are bothering you? If so, everyone has regrets. It’s okay.”

The largest smile broke through Emma’s wrinkles on her face, “Papa said Santa is coming! And I’ve been good all year, I think. I hope I have. Santa Claus is coming to town. He’s making a list. He’s checking it twice. And… I’ve been nice. Jolly old Saint Nicholas, lean your ear this way. Don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say.” Her smile vanished and her eyes dimmed a little. “There’s something out there. Soon.”

Another gust of wind hit the house, and Nicholas quickly stood. “Emma, can I get you anything? Water, coffee? Do you have any?”

“I have coco. Would you mind getting me a cup of hot coco. It’s on the counter near the microwave. I always drink hot coco around Christmas time.”

“I would love to.” He moved into the crowded kitchen, careful not to knock anything over. As he waited on the microwave, he noticed some photos in the hall. He studied them carefully. Emma was once beautiful and her husband, strikingly handsome. Nicholas saw a framed black and white family portrait. Her Papa and mother he presumed.

The microwave dinged, and Nicholas brought Emma her hot coco.

“Here you go. I hope it’s not too hot for you.” He carefully handed her the cup and saucer.

“What’s your name?” she asked completely lost.

“I’m Nicholas.”

“Oh, Saint Nicholas! Papa said you would come. Momma said so too. If I was good. Did you get my letter?” She was giddy in excitement.

“I’m from the church.”

“Yes, yes! Okay, Santa Claus, I need to change my letter. I don’t want a doll and stroller anymore; I want something else.”

Curious, Nicholas asked, “What do you want, Emma?”

She thought for a while and was fighting who she was. She went back and forth from child to elder until settling somewhere in between. “I want Robert back.” Her head sunk into her shoulders in that stagnant rocking chair. I told him to go fight. He could have stayed. He asked me what the right thing to do was, and then I sent him off in his uniform. I know he did what was right, but what if I would have told him to stay with me? With me and Jimmy. What if? He had already served his time. What if I would have told him to spend Christmas with me and go another year, or never go? My boy would have been raised right with a father. I would have been held in the cold of night. But I told him to go. And he did. And he fought. Brave. And he never came home.”

Emma pulled out the golden heart that hung around her neck by a purple ribbon. Just then another gust of wind pushed against the house.

The tired woman forced a broken smile and said to Nicholas, “You’re from my church, right?”

“Yes, Grace Community Congregation.”

“Will Jesus give me grace?”

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

“There’s no other name to believe in.” She motioned up to the cross hanging over her doorway.

“He will give you grace, Emma. God loves you so much.”

“Enough to cover my what if’s?

“He will wipe away every what if.”

Her eyes blinked longer now as she appeared even more sunken down into her chair.

She whispered, “Every what if?”

“Emma, they are all gone. Completely wiped away. You have been forgiven of every mistake.”

Her words grew softer and weaker: “Jolly old Saint Nicholas, something’s outside.”

“It’s windy outside.”

“Santa, I want my Robert back.”

Her eyes stayed closed longer before they opened again.

Another gust of wind.

“Open the door. Robert’s here.”

“It’s just the wind, Emma. Get some rest, okay?”

“Just open the door for me.”

“It’s cold out; you’ll freeze.”

She whispered slowly, “Please, open the door.”

Nicholas apprehensively stood up and moved to the door. Emma’s weary eyes fought to stay open. As Nicholas turned the rusty doorknob, the door flung open, pushing him out of the way, and to his disbelief the snowy wind that flew in was in the faint shape of a man.

Years later Nicholas would recall that the faint shape of that snowy wind resembled a smiling man in a uniform, but he was for certain that Emma Huffington passed away that windy night with a hint of a jolly smile on her face, peacefully in a rocking chair.

A Look in the Fountain

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“Daddy, why doesn’t this water fountain freeze like the ponds?” a little girl pulled on his black pea coat seeking his attention.

He put his phone back into his warm side pocket and stared at the lingering frozen snow reflecting the sun into his eyes.

“Daddy?”

“Oh, there must have been some sort of warming system installed into it that keeps it from freezing.” There was apathy in his voice.

A little boy, about his daughter’s age, was sitting on the stone edge of the fountain. He had been listening intently, but the father was oblivious of his presence. From behind the scarf wrapped around the little boy’s mouth, he said, “There’s nothing in that pond.”

The father turned to the boy and asked, “Really, then why doesn’t it freeze?”

“That’s easy,” he replied, “It’s a magic fountain.”

“Oh, my mistake, I forgot about all the magic fountains in this city.” He rolled his eyes to his daughter, “Let’s go, Carolina.”

“It is magic. My great-grandma told me so. She was here before all these buildings, and she said this fountain was here before them and that there’s an angel that makes it magic.”

A ringing from Preston’s pocket turned the boy’s words into distant rambling as he took his daughter’s hand. They walked toward the street and signaled for a taxi.

The inside of the taxi was cluttered with seasonal decorations: garland bordered the dividing glass as little Santa Clauses dangled from the top, held on by layered clear tape. Bells dangled from the rearview mirror, annoying the father as he conversed on his phone. But to Carolina, they were something beautiful. They reminded her of her mother, who she could only remember vaguely since she had died when Carolina was only three. It was breast cancer that had prematurely stolen away her young life. But Carolina could remember her mother’s face clearly in one particular memory of her standing by a Christmas tree. She remembered her mother’s bright eyes and open smile as the Christmas lights glowed behind her. That picture was engraved upon her heart, although time was slowly washing it away into a feeling rather than a visual image. But there was something about Christmas that brought back memories.

Preston went from one call to the next, a stoic voice unchanging in tone: “Emma, I have to go in for a surgery tonight. I know I said you had the night off, but I need you to watch Carolina. Call me back when you get this, or just come over.”

Carolina watched intently as the big city displayed its seasonal decorations of triumphant red and green, and people in Santa costumes stood on street corners collecting money for various charities. The drive soon turned from the busy city streets into an elegant suburban world, behind large gates and surrounding walls.

“I thought you didn’t have to work tonight, Daddy?”

“Emma should be there.”

Carolina just stared out the window in silence.

“You still like Emma, don’t you?” he asked.

She replied, “Yeah, I like her. Why do you have to go?”

“Remember, your Daddy’s a doctor. I have to fix people, or they will die.”

“We were supposed to get our Christmas tree tonight. Why can’t other doctors fix them?”

“Emma can take you to get a tree.” This didn’t please her. “Have you thought about what you want for Christmas this year?”

“No,” she said softly.

When the two walked from the cab to their home, Emma met them at the door. Preston grabbed his medical bag and proceeded to the hospital.

***

“Dr. Patterson, Dr. Crawford would like to speak to you,” a nurse informed Preston as he was cleaning up from a successful appendectomy.

Dr. Crawford, the hospital director, was a balding man with a long nose. He seldom smiled—the ideal professional. He had traded his lab coat in for a prestigious position, which he had sacrificially dedicated his entire life to earn.

When Preston entered Dr. Crawford’s office, the director sat behind a large desk of dark mahogany wood, without a smile. He cleared his throat two or three times before he spoke: “Preston, you’re one of the best surgeons in the state. During your ten years here, you’ve never lost a patient, nor have any of your patients ever had any complications that you couldn’t quickly rectify. You have completed more surgeries than any doctor with your same experience.”

Preston interrupted quickly, “Thank you.”

“I say all this with adulation, but I’m very concerned about you.”

“Concerned? What is it that—”

Dr. Crawford interrupted him, “Please, Preston. Can I speak to you honestly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“After Katherine…” He looked down. “You took a few months off. When you came back, you just jumped back into your work. You volunteer for every case that comes up, while still holding strongly to your old patients.”

“Yes, I’m very dedicated to my practice.”

“Maybe too dedicated, though.”

“I didn’t know that was possible in our field.”

“Preston, I’m not speaking for the hospital right now. I’m speaking for you. Katherine passed away five years ago, and you haven’t taken a break since. You’re living too fast. You’re going to miss your life.”

Preston began to understand his point and gathered his thoughts for a moment: “I don’t really have much to miss anymore. It’s just me and Carolina now.”

“Who’s there for Carolina? You can’t possibly be raising her on your own with your hectic schedule.”

Rubbing his forehead, Preston responded, “I have a nanny who helps out at times—a really good nanny.”

“But it’s you who is her father. You have saved so many people, but don’t lose your own daughter in the process.” He sat back as his large leather chair making a stretching sound, and all the words settled for a moment.

“I don’t know anymore… I’ve saved so many people. Why couldn’t I have saved Katherine?” His eyes were wide and empty.

“Doctors and fathers have many responsibilities and jobs, but it’s not our job to ask why.”

Preston didn’t move except for the contorting muscles in his jaw.

Dr. Crawford added, “My door’s always open for you, Dr. Patterson. Now, go home and get some rest. Oh, and congratulations on another successful surgery.”

“Thank you, Dr. Crawford.”

***

When Preston arrived home, he found a beautifully lit Christmas tree, giving off a euphoric tint to the surrounding room. Under the tree, Carolina was curled up in a throw blanket on a pillow. He could still smell the remnants of a cozy fire, and Emma lay asleep on the couch with an open novel on the floor.

“Let’s go to bed, Carolina. Daddy’s home.” He picked her up to tuck her in bed. She coughed a few times before she rolled over and faded into a dream. When he came back into the living room, Emma was walking out the front door with heavy eyes.

“Emma,” he caught her attention. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said in a softly worn voice that came from her slender body.

Preston stood in the living room examining the elaborate tree and wondered if Carolina had put up the ornament hidden in the bottom of a worn cardboard box of saved decorations. He searched the tree, seeing a plethora of school made ornaments: small bells, cut-out snowflakes, and even one with Carolina’s Kindergarten picture, the year sketched underneath it.

And then he found it—the decoration Katherine gave him when she was sick. It was half-hidden behind a verdant branch, a silver heart that had an engraving that read: Together or apart, you’ll always have my heart.

He remembered his last Christmas with Katherine. How she was so weak, so feeble, but she still found strength to do all the little Christmas traditions for him and Carolina. Christmas was something very special to her, and to him too, back then.

He put his fist over his mouth and continued to stare at those unique words reflecting the twinkling lights. His body began to shake, and tears rolled down his aged cheeks. And they continued for a moment longer, until he was so worn out that he made his way to his room and fell onto the bed.

***

Another busy seasonal week flew by like frosty wind. Toy stores were filled with anxious eyed children as impatient parents waited in congested lines. Business men wore ties with Santa Clauses and reindeer on them as others wore red and green, fuzzy Christmas sweaters. Parents gathered for school choir concerts, and families, for church plays. Volunteers went out into the cold to help homeless shelters. And some simply just drove around looking at neighborhood light displays, while listening to radio stations play all the holiday favorites.

But there were no lights up on the Patterson home. Just that Christmas tree that Emma and Carolina put up. The two would have probably put up more decorations, but all the others were in boxes that were too high up in the attic to reach.

After Preston’s talk with Dr. Crawford, he thought little about cutting back in his work schedule. The holidays brought in a lot of patients, and instead of referring anyone to another doctor, Preston was determined to handle this busy challenge with his perfect medical record. He spent hours prepping for surgery for his patients. His newest challenge was a little girl, only a year older than Carolina, who had a severe stomach infection. In the little girl’s state, the permeation of the infection was life threatening, and there was no way Preston was going to let parents lose their daughter two days before Christmas.

With his precise eye-hand coordination, abundance of knowledge, and consistent experience, the surgery was another success. After he informed the worried parents, they cried with joy and thanked him earnestly.

“Excuse me, Dr. Patterson, you have an urgent message,” a nurse said.

“I’ll be there in a moment. I’m going to walk Mr. and Mrs. Eastin to see their daughter,” he responded while walking away.

The nurse continued, “Dr. Patterson, it’s concerning your daughter.”

“Please see to it that the Eastin’s are taken to their daughter,” he said as he hurried back to the offices.

Coming up to a tall counter, he asked, “Nurse Walker, there’s a message for me?”

“I have three messages here from a… Emma Bennett. Let’s see, ‘Carolina is ill, please call me back ASAP.’”

Preston rushed to his office and bypassed the missed calls on his cell phone, calling Emma immediately: “Emma, what’s wrong with Carolina?”

“Oh, Preston, she was running a fever last night, but this evening, it went up to 104. She couldn’t even move,” her voice was broken with worry.

“I’m coming home right now. Let her know that I’m on my way.”

“No, she’s already at the hospital, in the pediatric building. They wanted to put her on an IV. They’re trying to lower the fever.”

“I’ll be right over.” He ended the call and held the phone in his hand, staring at it in grief. He whispered, “Oh God, I save others but not my own. What’s wrong with me?”

***

As Preston entered the hospital room, Emma arose. He knelt beside his daughter and said gently, “Carolina, Daddy’s here now.”

“I don’t feel good.” Her voice was faint.

“I know you don’t. But the doctors will fix everything to make you well again.”

“You’re a doctor, Daddy. Why can’t you make me well?”

A blanket of guilt fell over him, suffocating him with those innocent words. He looked to Emma, “What pediatrician does she have?”

Emma hesitated, “I think his name is Dr. Ryder.”

“Ryder’s a good man,” he nodded his head. “I’ll be right back.”

Minutes passed by as Emma sat next to Carolina, softly rubbing her hand with her thumb until Preston came back with answers: “Emma.” She stood up. “We’re pretty sure she’s going to be fine. She has a severe flu, along with a minor infection that the antibiotics will take care of. The rest will just require a lot of rest.”

Preston sent Emma home to sleep, while he stayed overnight by the side of his daughter. With medication, Carolina slept most of the night, and Preston sat wondering how in the world did he ever expect to do all this without his wife as he occasionally dozed in and out of consciousness. The next morning, Carolina’s temperature had lowered, so she was able to return home.

It was now Christmas Eve, and the warm drive home felt more comfortable than the chilly hospital.

“Do you want the heater on more?” he played with the knobs near the radio.

“It’s fine, Daddy.”

Colorful lights and bright decorations flickered on as they drove by homes and businesses.

“It would be nice to turn on some Christmas music,” she suggested.

He pressed through different stations until he came to one with soft, classic Christmas melodies. Just then, white powder began to lightly fall.

“It’s snowing! Look, it’s snowing again!” she lit up in excitement.

“That’s peculiar; the weather forecast said there wouldn’t be snow again until next week. That’s one good thing about being a weatherman, you can be completely wrong, and people will still listen to you. A doctor makes one mistake, and his career is over for life.”

“Then you could stay home more.”

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t have our nice house or even this car.”

“Daddy, those things aren’t really important to me.”

He drove on through the snow with music and lights.

“Emma is going to meet us at home, so I can get your Christmas present. Did you decide on what you want yet?”

She nodded her head.

“Okay then, what is it? Remember, like I said, anything you want?”

She pulled a folded paper, worn and torn from a store catalogue, from her coat pocket. He unfolded the paper with the fingers of his right hand as his left steered the car. “What a beautiful, little jewelry box.”

Carolina added, “It plays music when you open it too. I want to keep Mom’s jewelry in it.”

Katherine passed down all her jewelry to her daughter, and although Carolina had some of it now, Katherine had planned out for her father to disperse it during special moments and stages of her life: like her first prom, her 16th and 18th birthdays, and her wedding. She even had a special piece of jewelry for him to give to her if there was ever a time or a moment of hardship.

Carolina had searched for the perfect box to hold all the beautiful pieces her mother left her. This box in the photo had an angel’s face engraved on it that she adored, making it perfect for the jewelry.

As they pulled into their driveway, Preston asked, “Now how old is this catalog that you found this jewelry box in?”

“I don’t know, but it’s the one I really want.”

He looked at her pale face and helped her to the house as soft snowflakes fell down upon them. Emma was already there and had prepared Carolina’s bed for her along with some warm soup. As soon as she was in bed, he gave Emma the doctor’s orders and took off in search of the jewelry box.

***

Preston carefully swerved through slow snowy traffic with the catalog picture folded up in his shirt pocket. When he arrived at the store, he showed the picture to the first attendant he saw. She earnestly helped him by looking all throughout the store and then on the computer. She learned that the catalog was over three years old, so chances were slim that the jewelry box would still be available, but her computer showed that the downtown store still had one left in stock. He would have to hurry because the downtown store was closing in 20 minutes. He thanked her and charged out the door.

He arrived to the store finding an open parking place near the front window on the street. This is truly a miracle, he thought to himself as he began to step through the fresh powder snow. Bright window lights welcomed him with displaying Christmas trees, snowy village scenes, and a miniature North Pole locomotive circling the holiday display.

Just as he reached out for the door, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He glimpsed a figure crossing the street. It stood in the center divider before attempting to cross to the other side, falling into the snowy asphalt.

He better get up. There’s no way a car can see him in these conditions, he worried. There was no movement. Preston looked back to the store again and remembered the time. Then in the distance, he saw a truck coming.

“Get up,” he said under his breath. He looked at the truck getting closer and then back to the inviting entry doors.

The next thing he knew, his feet were stomping through the white powder. The truck slowed down as its window opened, and a man stared angrily at Preston, “Get out of the way, you stupid idiot!”

He quickly picked up the wet figure and helped the person to the side of the street.

Preston unwrapped his scarf from his neck, catching his breath and said, “Are you okay?”

The figure was in a dark coat with a hood on, now clearly in the shape of a woman.

She took her time standing up.

“Hello, are you okay?” he said a little louder, starting to get frustrated with the unusual situation.

She removed her hood and turned to him, and he saw her clearly for the first time with help from the store’s Christmas lights. She had wavy, almond, shoulder-length hair, and her eyes were a bold brown. Her face was well shaped although she was covered with filth from the street, but her teeth were perfectly white, causing him to wonder about her story.

She answered with an unrecognizable accent, “I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking though.”

“What were you doing in the middle of the street?”

She smiled at him, “It’s a special and most beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Preston said under his breath, “I don’t have time for this.” But the next second, the store lights clicked off into sudden darkness. He ran over to the door and started knocking against it with a closed fist, “No, come on! Come on, now!” but as far as he could see, it was already empty inside.

He muttered to himself, “Great! That’s just great! Now what am I supposed to do?”

The woman’s voice answered the question, “It’s Christmas Eve. There are countless things to do.”

He looked at her, annoyed with her strange answer. “No, you don’t understand. I need to buy my daughter something from that store. Now I won’t be able to get her what she wants for Christmas.”

She responded, “I think it will all work out in the end,” as he walked right past her and got in his car.

After a few struggling engine sounds, he shuffled around in the seat of his black, luxury vehicle and then got out, slamming the door. “I don’t suppose you have a cell phone on you, do you? I didn’t charge mine last night.”

“I’m sorry. People like me don’t have a need for phones.”

Preston looked at her worn dress hanging down from under her coat and figured that he understood. He leaned against his car as a little snow slid off it, and he folded his cold hands deep within his pockets.

“I have a warm place I can take you if would like,” she suggested.

He looked around and saw nothing but Christmas lights and closed stores—not a taxi in sight. “You don’t suppose there’s a phone there?”

“I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for,” she began to walk down the sidewalk.

He caught up with her with a quick jog, “Now, I don’t think I caught your name?”

“My name? I don’t think you’ll be able to pronounce it even if I told you.”

“So you’re not from around here? And I’m Preston, by the way.”

“Hello, Preston, and I’m not from around here.”

“So what were you doing in the middle of the street? Did you faint? You almost got ran over by that truck.”

“No I didn’t.”

As they walked, he could see his breath in front of him. “Yes, you did! I saw it coming straight for you.”

“No I didn’t, because you saved me,” she smiled.

Preston gave up on the argument, focusing on the cold. Arguing with a deranged homeless woman downtown on Christmas Eve while his sick daughter was waiting for him at home was not what he wanted to be doing at the present moment.

“Preston, I bet you’re the type of person who likes to save people, aren’t you?” she looked at him confidently.

She had caught his attention, despite the situation, so she continued, “You’re probably even the type of person who blames himself if there’s ever a person you can’t save. A true perfectionist. A type A personality.”

“So where are we going?” He tried to hide the impatience in his voice.

“It’s a very special place, and don’t worry, they’ll have a phone there.”

Preston had some difficulty understanding her through her accent, and he was still trying to figure out what kind of accent it was. It almost seemed like a mix of many different languages.

“It’s just another block away now,” she informed him.

As the two walked through the falling snow, Preston noticed wreaths, bells, and bows on store doors and manger displays in dark windows. He looked up to the sky and could see the bright snowflakes fall with the lamppost light behind them. It reminded him of when he and Katherine used to go ice-skating in the city’s ponds when they first started dating so many years ago. He painfully reminisced about the time they spent together, just simply observing the world around them—perfectly content.

Finally the woman stopped in front of a building filled with happy noise. Bright light beamed through the window.

“What’s this?” Preston asked.

“It’s the Simonson Children Center, a place for children without parents or children who have been taken away from their parents due to abuse or—”

He sharply interrupted, “I know what the Simonson Children Center is. I mean, why did you bring me here?”

“Because they’re always open, and there’s a phone here. Is there a problem?”

“My wife used to volunteer here before we had our daughter, some nine years ago.”

She added, “Then you know it’s one of the best places in the world to be, and I’ve been everywhere.”

Large sleigh bells jingled as he opened the door. The woman entered behind him.

Preston said, “This place hasn’t changed a bit.”

There were two large living room areas and a commercial kitchen on the left side. It was more of a miniature cafeteria than a kitchen. There were about 30 to 40 children in the center. Some were playing board games near the fireplace. Some were eating out of little stocking bags of candy. Some of the younger ones rolled toy cars on the carpeted floor or played with their new dolls in the corner. A small group of adults stood by the kitchen, and the woman went over to them.

Just then, a man approached Preston, “Can I help you, sir?” He was a tall, lean, black man with a deep voice wearing a collar neck shirt with the name of the center screen-printed on it, faded jeans, and a Santa hat.

“My car broke down, and my battery died on my cell phone, so I came in with hopes that I might use your phone for a moment. That woman over there guided me here.” He gestured to where the woman stood now with the others as she smiled joyfully entertained by their conversations.

“Which woman?” the man asked, looking at the group.

Just then, he heard, “Preston? Oh my gosh, Preston Patterson!” A blond woman hurried over, as the man left to console a child who had just dropped her candy on the ground. “Preston, it’s me, Susan Carter, Kathy’s old friend from college!”

Memories like pictures flashed through his mind as he remembered meeting Susan before when Katherine used to help out at the center. She had even been over to the house a few times. If he recalled correctly, she used to be an engineer but gave up her career to be a volunteer at the center.

Preston nodded a humble greeting.

“So what brings you in on Christmas Eve?”

He cleared his throat, “Well, besides meeting strange people on the street,” he motioned to the woman who was now sitting and laughing with a small child, “my car broke down a few blocks from here, while I was shopping for Carolina, and my phone died.”

Susan lightly laughed and directed him to where the phone was located.

“So how are things going in the good old Simonson Center?” he changed the topic from himself.

“Besides funding cuts, a lot of the kids have been sick lately. We have one little boy in the back room by himself who has had the flu this entire week.”

She could tell what he was thinking as he rubbed this chin.

“Would you like to take a look at him, Dr. Patterson?”

“Let’s take a look at the little guy.”

She took him to a small room in the back where a small child lay pale and motionless. Preston put his hand over his forehead. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

“We just had him there a few hours ago. He was sent back.”

Preston sighed, “That’s the inner city for you.”

The lean, black man stuck his head in the doorway, “Susan, there’s a phone call for you.”

“Thank you, Wallace. I’ll be right there.” She turned to Preston, “Please excuse me.”

As she was walking out, the peculiar woman walked in the room with Preston and the ill boy. She asked, “What’s wrong, Preston?”

“This child is dehydrated first of all, not to mention that he has a dangerously high fever. Someone’s going to have to get him to my hospital at once.”

“So you’re a doctor,” she said calmly.

“Yes.”

“So it’s good that I brought you here.”

He paused and looked at her sternly, “Why did you bring me here, anyway?”

“Because it’s what you need.”

“Oh yeah, the phone.”

“No, that’s not what you need, Preston.”

“Really, then why don’t you tell me what I need?”

“Hold on, it’s starting to get warm in here; let me take off this coat.” She unbuttoned the long coat, and under it, he could clearly see her modest dress, one that would appear old in style, but it made her look more trustworthy. She then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face. He was almost embarrassed to admit it to himself, but she was oddly beautiful. “Let’s begin that question with knowing what you don’t need.”

“Okay, then, what don’t I need?”

“Preston, you don’t need to save everyone on your own. There are others who can save too.”

He sat down in a plastic chair. “If I don’t save everyone, who will?”

“There are others like you, but have you completely forgotten that God can save too?”

“If God could save, he would have saved my wife.” He gritted his teeth, “But he couldn’t, and even worse, I couldn’t save her either.”

“There’s so much hurt in you still. God didn’t save your wife because everyone has an appointed time to die. It was her time. No matter what you did to try to save her, it was her time to go home. Everyone on this earth is only here on loan. And you loved her more than anyone, which is why God gave her to you.”

His eyes filled with moisture, and his voice broke when he spoke, “What do you know about me and my wife? I don’t even know you! You don’t know the first thing about saving anyone. If you can even remember, it was I who saved you less than an hour ago.”

The woman slowly walked over to the ill child in bed, put her hand over his warm forehead, and said, “May God be glorified. Be healed, child.”

Preston shook his head with an angry chuckle, “Are you serious?”

The woman walked out of the room, and Susan came back a moment later, “Sorry, the phone is always ringing around here.”

Preston stood up, “So where did you find her anyways?”

“Find who?”

“The woman I came in with, the one who was walking around with the kids.”

“You came in with a woman?” she seemed confused.

“Yeah, I even pointed her out to you. She was sitting with a kid in the play area.”

“I’m sorry, Preston, but we all watched you come in, and it was only you.” Susan saw something move out of the corner of her eye. It was the ill, little boy. “Steven? Are you okay, honey?”

“Yeah, did I miss Christmas?” he asked, his face glowing with health.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I didn’t miss Christmas, did I? Is my gift still under the tree?” he asked with excitement.

“Of course, still wrapped and all.”

The child started to throw off his blankets, but Susan stopped him, “Hold on there, turbo! Let me feel your forehead.” She put her hand over it. “Fever’s gone.”

Preston put his hand on the boy’s forehead, “It is gone.”

“What did you do, Preston? Did you give him medicine or something?” she asked in awe.

“I didn’t do anything, Susan.”

The child asked impatiently, “Can I get my gift now?”

“Go ahead, Steven. Take it easy now,” but before her words were out of her mouth, the child was already in the other room. Susan turned, “Preston, that was a miracle—an answer to my prayer.”

“I have to go now. Thanks for letting me visit for a while.” His mind was trying to make sense of everything. He had to catch up with the woman.

***

He flung the door of the center wide open and looked right to see nothing. He turned to his left and saw a dark, blurry image in the snowfall. He ran through the piling snow, almost losing his balance a few times. The distant image turned a corner, and he caught up. As he turned, he realized where he was. It was an open cemented park area for sitting and resting, surrounded by large buildings of offices. It looked different with the freshly fallen snow and the sporadic twinkling of Christmas lights in office windows, but what really set it apart was the silence. He could hear the soft snow fall. And then he saw the woman, sitting on the same city fountain that his daughter had sat on only days before.

Preston enjoyed the unusual silence, and the woman looked impossibly beautiful as she sat so contently with no jacket in the falling snow. Her skin wasn’t red from the cold nor was she even shivering.

He broke the silence: “Hello.”

“Hello, Preston.” She had a calm half-smile.

“How did you do that back there? The boy is completely well.”

“Oh, Preston, you baffle me sometimes. You clearly saw what happened. And you know that it wasn’t me who did anything?”

He silently reasoned within himself.

“So, don’t you love the center? It’s one of my favorite places in all the world. I used to spend a lot more time there, but I’ve been busy other places.”

He grew curious: “Were you there when my wife was?”

“Oh, Katherine, of course. She was one of my favorites. So sweet. She had so much compassion for those little ones. And then she quit coming around so much, with Carolina being born. Oh my, she was so happy that day. Remember what she said?”

“What did she say?” he grew nervously still.

“Don’t be silly, Preston. You know as well as I do what she said. She looked at you and said, ‘Darling, look at her. Our love can make miracles.’”

“There’s no way you can know any of this.”

“You see, Katherine prayed for you all the time. Even when she was fading out of this life, she still prayed for God to remind you of the love that you shared together and of the miracle that it produced.”

Belief was slowly pushing within his heart. “I want to believe you so much. I really do. Can you just show me a sign, or let me see a miracle. Anything?”

“I’ll show you anything you want. What is it that you would like to see more than anything, Preston?”

He face contorted as his lower lip quivered, “I want to see my wife. I want to hold her in my arms once again and tell her that I love her with all my heart.” Tears fell with the light snow, and his body shook while standing.

“Then just look into the fountain here, and you’ll have what you have asked for?” She stood up and moved out of the way.

Preston walked over to the fountain and bent over it looking down. His eyes blurred, so he wiped them with his cold thumbs. The reflection in the water wasn’t his own. His jaw shook, and he finally understood as he stared looking at his daughter in the water. The image soon faded in ripples from the falling snow. Preston turned around to the woman, but she was gone.

Two little lights came blurring in the distance. As they came nearer, he could make out that it was a taxi. He hurried to the street to flag it down.

The taxi’s window lowered, and Preston recognized the driver by the cluttered Christmas decorations in the cab. The driver said, “Merry Christmas, sir! Where am I taking you?”

***

When Preston walked into his home, he saw Carolina sitting by the Christmas tree, and as the warm fire lit the room, her face looked like his wife for a moment. She jumped up and ran over to him.

She yelled, “Daddy, Daddy! We were waiting for you! Emma and I made Christmas cookies and we’re watching Christmas movies.”

“He knelt down and hugged her within his arms, and whispered, “I love you with all my heart.”

Emma, Carolina, and Preston spent the rest of that Christmas Eve watching seasonal films with milk and cookies as Carolina was free from any illness.

The next morning, Carolina woke her father with the excitement of Christmas morning. Preston dreaded having to tell her that he had failed at getting her a gift but knew she would understand with his car breaking down—the part of the story that he told her.

“Thank you so much, Daddy!” she yelled out as she saw a square shaped box under the tree.

Preston was puzzled, not sure where it had come from. Carolina opened it gently, and there was the jewelry box.

“It’s even more beautiful than the picture!”

He picked up the gift and stared at it with a smile, for the angel that was engraved upon it was the woman who had changed his life the night before—a Christmas angel.

 

The Cold Christmas Present

book

His fitted jeans and striped hoodie were not nearly enough against the crisp bite of wintry air that came against him the moment he stepped out of the rustic bookstore and began to crunch his way through the fresh powder on the sidewalk. Cold. Converse made horrible snow boots, and he was a city boy, not too familiar with the snow in his adult years, but he liked it nonetheless. He liked how the Christmas lights hung loosely on Main Street and reflected against the piled up snow. They were mostly the large colored bulb lights that in some way had survived from the early 80s, creating some mysterious form of nostalgia. On the corner of the street, a short snowman stood appearing ready to direct traffic with his branch arms sticking out.

The bookstore was peaceful, mostly full of the common classics. He could tell that the owner was not up-to-date with the newest trend of pop novels. No teen wizards or sparkling vampires for people to romance about, and after trying to warm up inside, there was nothing more to really interest him in there for the moment.

The entire town seemed out of vogue by a good 20 or maybe 30 years. There were no signs of smart phones or tablets. No Starbucks or energy efficient hatchbacks. Just locally owned mom and pop store fronts—some even still had wooden hand painted signs hanging outside near the snowy streets. These streets were lined with a few worn down, parked trucks that made his own stand out as something new. And oddly, he liked it all. All except the cold.

A vibration buzzed in his left pocket. He pulled out his phone, quickly swiping open the screen to a new text: Did you find what you’re looking for yet?

He hesitated to text her back for a moment and then responded: Not yet, but I think I’m glad I came.

Then I’m glad too, I wish I didn’t have to work tonight.

And he wished the same although there had been a distraction in their relationship. Things had been off and on again for a while now. She was a sweet and patient girl, but before he could move on to make the relationship something serious, he had to take care of something first. He didn’t drive alone for over three hours from home just to see the snow. He had a purpose in mind, even though he wasn’t exactly sure what it was yet.

He walked down Main Street until the cold became overbearing again. He looked into a window that was half fogged over, and envying the warmth, he opened the heavy door as sleigh bells jingled from the handle. Unlike the franchised coffee shops that he was used to in the city, this coffee shop appeared full of warm and hospitable life. It was obvious that people weren’t there to quietly read a novel or to do web searches on their laptops; they were there for each other, laughing loudly and sharing stories.

Classic Christmas music could still be heard over the gregarious groups of people. He noticed there were even more people in the back of the coffee shop. It almost appeared to be a Christmas party as people hugged and patted each other on the back. They greeted him too—an unknown stranger—with a joyful “Merry Christmas!” although Christmas was still a few days away.

He ordered a cup of hot apple cider and sat down listening to the loquacious townspeople interact with each other. Then he noticed a man stand up from a table in the corner. He was an older, heavier man, about in his 60s, wearing a Santa Claus costume with a fake white beard hanging loosely below his double chin.

“Hello there, welcome to Bells Town. I reckon you’re not from these parts,” the man said as his fake white beard bounced with every word.

“I actually used to come up here every Christmas. My grandma lived just down the street—Maple to be exact.”

“Ah, Maple Street. Yes, just two blocks down and take a right and then your second left.”

“That sounds just about right. Honestly, I haven’t been in the area since I was 10.”

“That seems like a long time to stay away. Most people visit Bells Town a lot more than that.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really look that way,” he thought of the open streets outside. “Honestly, my grandma died when I was 10, and then my parents separated. I guess she was the glue that held everyone together. We didn’t live here with her, but we came up a lot to visit. And every year, we spent our Christmas here, and it always snowed.”

“There’s something about the Christmas season that brings back the past, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, it kind of makes things difficult.”

“The past does?” the man asked.

“No, the present does.”

The man rubbed his heavy face a little, “Haven’t you ever heard that the present is a present?”

“Of course.”

The man pulled his beard up over his lower face, fitting him well, and asked, “So what do you want for Christmas this year? Maybe I have a present for you?”

He smiled a little and responded, “You know what, you’re alright. I’m Scott, what’s your name?”

“Santa Claus.”

“Of course, how didn’t I know that?”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t believe?”

“Maybe I could believe in God or angels, but definitely not Santa Claus or the Easter bunny. Oh, and definitely not the tooth fairy either,” Scott rolled his eyes.

“What if Santa Claus is really just an angel sent here to help people?”

“Then he’s an angel that has a problem with the sin of gluttony.” Scott looked down to Santa’s large stomach hanging over his wide, black belt. “No offense, Santa.”

“None taken at all, and if you ever had the cookies in Ms. Mary Smith’s bakery, you would have a problem with gluttony too,” he smiled joyfully through his fake beard. “So what do you want for Christmas this year?”

Scott thought about it for a moment, wanting to answer honestly. “I really just want to go back and see my grandma’s old house and see a little bit of life the way it used to be.”

“Well then, let me take you there; trips into the past can be difficult to go on alone.”

“Thanks, Santa. I could probably use some company tonight,” Scott said sincerely. He took a deep sip of hot apple cider, which already seemed to have gone cold.

The two walked out of the vibrant coffee shop, and as the door closed, a serene silence came over the street, only broken by the crunching snow and sporadic gusts of wind.

Scott couldn’t help his obvious curiosity of the town and finally said, “I just can’t get over it. The same decorations are still being hung in the same places. Like that house right there, the same decorations were hanging up when I was a kid. And that pizza shop is exactly how I remember it; my grandma took me there a few times with just me and her. But it’s just so damn cold here.”

Santa said, “I feel fine.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re Santa Claus—North Pole and all.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

As they continued walking, bright yellow lights and muffled sounds came from a building up ahead. It was actually a small country-style church with a tall steeple.

“Looks like a Christmas party,” Santa said with delight.

“I remember this church. It’s the only time my family ever went to church. Everyone was really nice here.”

Santa opened the large door to a bright sound of happy laughter. “It sounds like they still are. After you, Scott.”

People were mostly sitting at different tables stacking together gingerbread houses with large piles of assorted candies.

Santa said, “Oh, one of my favorites, the annual gingerbread house competition!”

“Yeah, I remember my grandma won one year. She was so excited that she talked about it for weeks.”

Santa said, “Maybe you can reclaim her title. There’s an open table right there with all the materials ready to go.”

“Come on, Santa, let’s build a gingerbread house. I mean, how could I not win with Santa Claus on my team?”

In the midst of a combination of a boisterous crowd and classic Christmas music being played on an old wooden record player in the corner, the two worked diligently as Santa stealthily bit off a piece of gingerbread every now and then for himself. But the two were disrupted suddenly when a chair was pulled out from the table and a young woman, appearing about Scott’s age, asked, “Okay, so my team is being totally lame, can I join you two?”

She looked oddly familiar to Scott, and there was something about her inviting eyes that locked onto his when she spoke. She was charming to say the least, and her voice was one that mesmerized his soul with every word. It was like she had never experienced the things of this world that make one calloused—so innocent and trusting.

“Sure, if you don’t mind being on the winning team,” Scott smiled. “I’m Scott, and this is, ah, Santa.”

Santa said with glee, “Merry Christmas!”

“Wow, Santa Claus? Well, I don’t think we’ve seen each other since I was six.” She turned to Scott, “And you aren’t Scott Simons, are you?”

“Yes, I am. Don’t tell me you’re Melanie Harper?”

“I am!”

“No way! Santa, Mel and I used to play together as kids when I would come up.”

Melanie added, “I remember looking forward to Christmas break every year because I knew I would always have a friend to go sledding with. And then, when my parents told me that our neighbor, your grandmother, passed away, I was sure that I would never see you again. I felt like a part of my childhood ended then, but now here you are right in front of me.”

“It feels like nothing has changed here. Even you look just like I would have imagined you to look all grown up.”

“So I look like a little girl still? Is that what you’re saying?” she teased.

“No, you actually look beautiful.”

She smiled and then noticed him rubbing his hands together. “Are you cold?”

“I’m fine. I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to get warm here, which is odd because I’m hardly ever cold.”

“Well, it’s supposed to snow again tonight.”

Santa looked at Scott’s cold hands and his red nose but didn’t say anything at all.

The group continued to work on their gingerbread house as Scott and Melanie reminisced about their childhood adventures of sledding, snowball fights, building snowmen, and venturing through the town together for hot coco and last minute Christmas gifts. But neither of them bought up the time when they kissed softly on the lips the night of Christmas Eve outside his grandmother’s house in the fresh snow—their first kiss. That story was left out of conversation although it was on both of their minds.

Their playful laughter and long private stares took precedence over the competition as Santa gladly partook in other interactions with people he knew. Hours went by, and people slowly began leaving the church. Eventually, Santa came back to Scott and said, “Miss Harper, would you mind being this young man’s guide around town tonight? It’s getting a little late for this old man.”

“I wouldn’t mind one bit. Tis the season.”

Santa replied, “Tis the season indeed, and Merry Christmas!”

As Scott and Melanie stepped out onto the snowy street, Melanie stated, “I know we’re older now and all but that doesn’t mean we can’t still hold hands, does it?”

Scott, living completely in Bells Town now, reached for her tiny hand, and the two walked down Main Street together as icicles hung off of buildings, and the icy road reflected the large bulb lights back into their eyes as they gazed at each other. Her hand fit so perfectly within his—so soft. And for a moment, Scott started to think that he had finally found what he was a looking for. He had found home, his good memories come back to life.

“Look, it’s snowing!” she pointed eagerly.

“I love it. It’s like a real life snow globe.”

“Yes, and we’re the tiny, little couple holding hands in it,” she leaned her head on his shoulder as they turned down towards Maple Street. The snow started to fall a little heavier now in large flakes.

Melanie whispered, “I wish you hadn’t stayed away for so long.”

“I don’t know if I did.”

She faced him, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve always been here in my heart. This place and even with you. In this season and this snow. I don’t think I ever really left.”

The two slowed to a stop, and she put her arms around his neck and finally asked, “Remember that one time we were together in the snow?”

“Like I said, I never really left.”

Her eyes sparkled as she stared deep into him, and she was now more than a dream as two cold lips once again touched in the falling of the white sky that freshly painted another layer on the winter wonderland, visible even in the dark of night. For the following lost moments, they held each other close, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw lights on in his grandmother’s old house down the street.

“There’re people still living in it—my grandmother’s house!”

“Of course.”

He started moving quickly to his destination and said without looking back to her, “I always heard that it was left vacant.”

“No, not at all,” she hurried up to him.

“As he arrived in front yard of the house, he saw the same classic Christmas lights faithfully hanging from the rafters. The windows lit up in bright yellow as black silhouettes moved back and forth inside. The front door burst open, and a little boy came running down the steps with a scarf flowing behind him as he struggled to put on his second mitten with the hood of his bulky coat falling over his face.”

“A little boy lives there, like me. I’m so glad.”

Melanie responded, “Yeah, he finally came back.”

“Who? The little boy?”

She replied stoically, “Yeah. You.”

The front door opened again, and a familiar voice yelled out, “Scotty, only a few minutes now. I don’t want you catching a cold before Christmas,” and as Scott’s eyes focused in through the night, it was her—Grandma.

Then a younger version of his father ran out after the boy yelling with a wide smile on his face, “Watch out, Scotty! I’m going to get you back,” and the boy threw a snowball at him. It was all clear now.

Scott couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t smile. He could only watch this historic scene of his family play out in front of him. Soon his mother came out too and swung a snowball at his father, and he playfully wrestled her onto the snow with tickles. He then hollered out to his son, “Scottie, come make a snow angel with us.”

His grandmother peaked through the window and then hurried to the front door, “Did I raise a bunch of crazies? I don’t want my entire family sick on Christmas. You all get in here right now. The pies are about ready now. Come now, hurry on!”

The wind blew violently, making a deafening sound. Instantly, all the figures froze as the scene of his past now stood still in front of him like life-size sculptures. The wind brushed painfully against his ears, and the frozen figures began to disintegrate into nothing more than snow, being taken away with the unforgiving wind. Soon all that remained was a dark, lonely, weathered house standing half open and damaged by years of neglect—only barely visible now in the dark.

“Mel, what’s going on? Tell me you know. What’s really going on here?” He reached for her hand, taking it in his.

A sad and gloomy look came over her face, “Scott, you’re so cold.”

Her hand in his began to feel like sharp pieces of ice, and then the perfect flesh on her face flew off in ash-like snowflakes with the wind. Layer after layer blew away as her eyes sank deeply into empty voids, exposing her skull and bones throughout her body until they too drifted away into the cold snow. Standing completely alone now, the lights down the street switched off into darkness.

He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he was cold and had been for a while. It was a dangerous kind of cold that was beginning to steal the life out of his body.

So he ran. Sliding on roads of frozen ice and falling every which way into fresh snow, he continued to get up over and over again running.

Turning back onto Main Street, a ghost town now silently awaited him, lit only by the pale moonlight that managed to break through clouds and shine off the white ground. Doors hung halfway off abandoned buildings. Signs were worn off and faded, weathered by the seasons. Windows were cracked and broken. Roofs were sunken in. No vehicles were visible on the street. No merry sounds came from the church. No bright light shown from the coffee shop’s window. Nothing.

Just cold.

A cold that ate through his Converse and fitted jeans. A cold that devoured his striped hoodie. A cold that had moved through his skin and was now starting to wear inside his heart, slowing his blood. He didn’t know how long he had been in this cold, but he knew he didn’t have too much time left to find some sort of warmth as his body was slowing down altogether. Spotting his truck far down the street half covered in snow, he moved lethargically towards it.

As he treaded down the street, he felt bewildered and mouthed out with a breath of fog, “How is any of this happening?”

He felt the presence of another. Maybe it was so cold that any nearby body heat could be felt. Or maybe it was because there was some sort of sound other than the snowy wind. But whatever it was, Scott’s senses told him to turn around, and he saw him standing only a few steps behind.

“Merry Christmas, Scotty.” He stood in that same red and white suit unaffected by the cold. Although serious, his face was still jolly somehow.

“What’s going on? Please just tell me who you really are, and what’s going on?”

“You seem upset, Scotty. I’m sorry that you don’t like your present.”

“I don’t understand. You let me go back, but why didn’t you let me stay?”

“Because you would freeze to death.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s nothing in the past except for the cold. The warmth is always in the present. Look around you. There’s nothing here except cold.”

“How about Mel?”

“Melanie moved away with her parents when the town began to go under many years ago. She’s divorced now with two kids and is nothing like how you imagined her. It’s always interesting how the imagination plays up the past. And sorry to tell you this, but she doesn’t remember you at all. Not even that first childhood kiss you two shared.”

Scott looked away for a moment, flexing his jaw. “It was so wonderful here for a few hours. So perfect.”

“This was all created by your own wistful memories, and although pleasant to visit from time to time, if you live in your memories, you’ll have nothing but the cold.” Santa walked closer to Scott. “You’ll only find death in the cold, but in the present, you see, in the present, you’ll find warm life. It won’t be perfect, but it will be warm.”

Scott looked back to the snowy desolation of darkness of what used to be such a wonderful wonderland. He then looked to Santa, desperate for some sort of help. Anything. Santa took Scott in his large red suited arms and embraced him wholeheartedly until Scott’s entire body was healed by a deep, inner Christmas warmth.

‘Thank you, Santa.” He felt truly content.

“Now go home and enjoy your present. It’s still warm there, although someday it too will be cold, so enjoy it while you can, taking in all the joyful warmth that it has to offer.”

Scott got in his truck and waited a moment for it to defrost as his wipers pushed the fresh powder off his windshield from left to right. He took out his phone and texted her back: I found exactly what I was looking for. I had it the entire time.

As he drove off, the snow continued to fall heavily behind him, and Santa stood waving goodbye in his large, white gloves. Then, within a blink, Santa was gone, and the town behind him seemed even a little darker.

Whether he was the real Santa Claus bringing a young man a very special gift or a Christmas angel in disguise, Scott was now ready to truly embrace the warmth of life that would be his greatest Christmas present ever.

Fire at the Lighthouse

words

It was a coastal town, affluent in nature but cool to the touch. It was a place where the young fell in love again and again every summer and spent the school year in a fine balance between academic readings and sandy beaches. It was a place where the elderly reclined back in retirement, listening to the consistent rush of ending waves as each held a memory that broke into a thousand others as they crashed. Between the elderly and the young, there was a vast array of people who spent their Saturday evenings glancing through bordered windows of specialty shops searching for their most beloved apparel. They rode their beach cruisers on scenic routes of mystic evenings and spent the nights in local restaurants receiving the most hospitable catering to meet their custom appetites.

North of the neighborhoods and shopping district featured the town’s most historical monument. It stood 127 feet high—a lighthouse, pure of any color. Its old purpose was to guide in desperate sailors from long journeys through the blinding fog, but now it just stood as a reminder of a forgotten history. The great wonder had been retired for a good 50 years and only mentioned from time to time in long, fabricated stories told by wistful grandparents.

During this particular summer, the lighthouse wasn’t a symbol of the town’s nostalgic past but now served to warn the town if a fire was close by. For several years, distant field fires had threatened the town, spreading ominously by a dry summer wind. The highway divided the town from foothills covered with fire hazards, but if a fire did cross the highway, the first thing in its path would be the lighthouse. From there, it could take an easy stroll to the town.

In the middle of downtown, there was a barbershop untouched since the 1950s. The spiral red and white cone was still on the outside display, and the inside contained four large workstations with scissors, black combs, blow dryers, hair gels, etc.

Sarah Keys, one of the hair stylists, had decided that she simply wanted to cut hair for a living, despite her parents’ desire to see their daughter go to college. Everyday was routine. She would often bicker and complain about her inconvenient work schedule that separated her from weekend activities, but her friends had all grown up and had families. Now, weekends were spent visiting her elderly parents and hanging out with a cat who faithfully waited for her from the perch on the windowsill everyday. And he would fall asleep shortly after her arrival.

The day before when she came home from work, the mixture of the marine cloud and ash that was blown from the northern fires had turned the summer day into a premature evening. From her second floor apartment, she could see the orange-red lights in the distance, and she saw them as something beautiful… maybe it was just the bright contrasting colors in the darkness, or maybe it was because they made a difference in the world—not a good difference, but more of a difference than a simple hair stylist. Her cat meowed and soon lay down to sleep.

At work the following day, she had her usual clientele: Mrs. Washington, who wanted her roots dyed from gray to her youthful black; Mr. Hernandez, who would talk about his son’s little league victories until he left the shop; Tommy Teagarden, who was in for his seasonal buzz cut; and many more of the town’s idiosyncratic characters. Today, however, every customer had one conversation in common. They all mentioned the fire and gave their own self-assured input on whether or not the fire would cross the highway. It had never happened before, but there were summers when it came close. If the lighthouse caught fire, the whole town would know that it was time to quickly grab their belongings and leave.

When closing time approached, Adriana, the only other hair stylist still working, went to flip the sun bleached sign over and lock the door. As she turned the lock, the door sprung open, knocking her back some.

“Hello, I sure hope there’s time for one more. Oh, good mercy, there is, there is!” a wide, black woman said as she entered with a line of people behind her.

Adriana rolled her eyes and said, “Sorry, we’re already closed. There’s no way we can cut all their hair.”

The group entered in almost a circus-like manner. One man wore a helmet and half-skipped as he walked. A woman was wearing an oversized faded cartoon t-shirt with sweatpants that were hiked high, showing her naked ankles. Another man moaned, and another shouted out his words as he spoke incoherently to the others. Then there was one in the middle who stood nervously as the caretaker spoke to the hair stylist.

“Oh no, honey. They’re all getting an ice cream next door, only Ethan needs a haircut.”

“Adriana, I can take him,” Sarah said forcing a smile.

“Oh goodness! Ethan, go ahead and get over there in that seat. She’s gonna do you up well,” the caretaker directed.

Adriana rolled her eyes and began the redundant process of closing down the store while Ethan made his way to the seat, shuffling his feet through the temporary mosaic mess of multi-colored hair on the ground. At that moment, a middle-aged, acne scarred woman entered halfway in the door from outside and hollered, “Fay, you got him taken care of?” She was the other caretaker.

“Yeah, all good, honey,” Fay replied.

The acne scarred woman called out to the others in a singsong, “Come on guys, let’s go get your ice cream. It’s ice cream time. Ice cream time.”

Smiles took over their faces, as one clapped his hands in a robot manner. Another yelled, “Ice cream! Ice cream!” in a low voice heavy on vowels. Adriana went into the back, and Sarah, Ethan, and Fay were the only ones left in the shop.

Sarah noticed Ethan’s sharp red hair. She had seen this type of thick, red hair before but normally accompanied by freckles but not with Ethan. Ethan’s face was clear—pale and clean except for the tired shadows under his eyes. His hair came over his ears and had been parted the best he could to keep it from falling in his eyes. He wore a pair of khaki pants and a plaid shirt tucked in.

“So what are we doing here today?” Sarah asked in her cordial tone.

Ethan looked to Fay for guidance. “Go ahead, honey. Tell her how you want it.”

Ethan turned nervously to Sarah. His unbalanced hand pointed to his hair, “I want it cut short in the back but not too short in the front.”

Sarah responded, “That won’t be too hard. Short in the back, not so short in the front.”

She began to comb through his heavy, thick red hair. The comb strokes waved through his fiery flames.

“No! Stop!” Ethan voiced in a panic.

Sarah jumped back, startled.

“What’s a matter, honey?” Fay asked.

“I want it cut short…” he froze searching for his words that were once so easy to find but now a challenge. “Short on the sides. I want it cut short on the sides too.”

“That will be no problem,” Sarah went back to the comb and pulled out the scissors.

Thick chunks of red flickered far from his head onto the black wrapped around him. Ethan absorbed her every cut with great concern.

After a few minutes, he broke out, “Short on the sides too!”

“I know, I haven’t gotten to the sides yet, but I will. Don’t worry.” Sarah was very tense, not knowing when another unpredictable outburst would take place. Fay saw this too.

“Ethan, calm down there. The young lady gonna make your hair look real nice.” Fay then turned to Sarah. “He’s a little nervous; he gets to see his family tonight.”

Sarah responded, “How wonderful! You’re going to see your parents or brother and sister?”

Ethan didn’t say anything but just sat there in another world.

Fay finally responded for him, “No, his wife and children. He gets to see them about every six months.”

“Oh, what does your wife do?” she asked more to Fay this time.

“She’s some manager for some oil company. He has two babies too. Well, not so much babies anymore. I think, if I’m right, they’re in high school now. A boy and girl.” She turned to Ethan, “Am I right?”

Ethan nodded cautiously, not wanting to interfere with the haircut.

At this time, Sarah noticed a scar on the left side of his head, hidden deep underneath thick hair. “You got a pretty deep scar here under this beautiful hair.”

“It’s from the accident,” Fay answered.

“Accident?”

“Ethan was hit by a car when he was crossing the street some seven years ago.”

Sarah looked to Fay for details.

“It was the day before Valentines. He was out shopping for his wife. I guess the driver didn’t even see him because the fog was so thick that evening. Oh, dear, bless his heart. He used to be a schoolteacher, before the accident. Pretty good one too. At least the kids sure loved him. He used to get so many letters from them, but most of them all grown up now.”

Ethan continued to sit still as the clipping of scissors was intensified by the silence. Sarah looked at him now as she cut more of the thick red. She could see a different man inside that body. One who could have been attractive once and even charming. One who encourage and taught young children. One with a passionate fire that burned so bright that it consumed all, even himself.

The door suddenly burst open with a man shouting out of breath, “Fire at the lighthouse! The fire’s at the lighthouse! You have about half an hour to clear this area.” Then he was gone.

Adriana came rushing out from the back. “Sarah, you have to get out of here!” And she was gone.

Sarah began to put down her comb and scissors when Ethan’s eyes grew in size, “You got to cut the back short. The front, not so short, but the back, cut the back short.”

“Ethan, honey, we have to leave, the fire crossed the highway,” Fay attempted to reason.

“No, the back should be short, like the sides. The front, not so short!”

“Sorry, Ethan, but we gotta go now.” Fay said to Sarah more quietly, “He gets this way before he sees his wife and kids. He wants to look like he did before the accident. Poor child… he knows.”

Sarah looked at Ethan sitting there in the chair. She looked outside and thought about her apartment. Most of her valuables were already packed due to the warning on the radio a few days before. She would still have enough time to grab her things and cat and drive to safety. So she said, “We can finish; there’s enough time.”

Ethan looked up at her with a thankful smile from that different world he was in. That smile did something to Sarah. It made her realize that she had finally made a difference in the world—and it was a good one.

The next seven or so minutes were filled with joyous exchanges from the three people in that little barbershop as the precise chops of scissors and the strokes of the black comb made Ethan look about seven years younger.

He left the barbershop with Fay and traveled away to safety where he would be reunited with his wife and children once again, a little more like himself.

Sarah quickly locked up the shop and looked into the distance for the fire. She saw lights but thought there should be sufficient time to go to her apartment before the fire arrived, if it even would arrive. As she got in her car, she jammed the key into the ignition of the old junker but was met with the notorious repetition of clicks. She turned again. More clicks. She thought about her cat, and said, “Come on now!” as she gave it one more turn… off she went.

As she approached her apartment, she was frightened to see the fire was already upon the evacuated homes of her surrounding neighbors. With the push of the rising wind, sporadic bushes around the empty complex now glowed red in the approaching night. She reminded herself, “Now, don’t turn off the engine. You’ll be fine, just don’t turn off the engine.” She put the car in park and saw her cat in the dimness of the towering window. The electricity was off. As she considered her escape plan for her cat and her packed bag of sentimental belongings, she could hear the cat’s frightened meows.

“I’m coming, Kitty, I’m right here!” she hollered as she trampled up the stairs. But with a paralyzing realization, she looked down to find the car below her turned off. The heavy wind of the night brought an ominous warmth.

With one hand, she grabbed the packed duffle back, and in the other, she squeezed the disoriented feline. She slid down the stairs to her car and turned the key. The clicks continued. She turned the key again. There were less this time. She kept on turning and turning, denying defeat until there was just one single click and no hope that the car would ever start again.

Night had finally settled and the fire flourished.

She would have to run on foot, she thought, so she hurried back up the stairs to see the direction that the fire was heading. With the claustrophobic view, she saw that it had fully surrounded her tiny apartment complex and was filling in.

She froze for a moment until being warmed by a gust of heat and her most trusted companion rubbing against her leg. She picked up the cat and calmly walked into her apartment, where she sat back in her homely recliner and watched the fire battle against the losing darkness. In the distance, she could see a warming glow. She said softly, “That must be the lighthouse, still burning.” She then remembered Ethan and how she cut his hair to make him look more like he once did.

It was nice, she thought. It sure was nice doing something important in life. Still staring out the glass-sliding door of the small balcony, Sarah held her cat in her lap as it gave out a questionable meow seeing the flames rise.

“It’s okay, Kitty. It’s okay now. I finally made a difference in this world.”