Stepping out of my usual genre,
I am sharing a fictional Christmas short story I wrote.
Enjoy!
Pam
It wasn’t the right time to
be cleaning out the attic, but what else did Pat have to do on Christmas? With his
daughters spread half way around the world, no one would be stopping by. This
time last year he would have been visiting with his mother Louise for a few
hours, but her recent passing had changed everything.
Pat was now left with a
drafty attic, full of what was most likely junk, and a heart full of regrets—regret
for ignoring the fleeting grimace of pain he saw crossing his mother’s face when
he visited in September; regret for not returning her calls; regret for letting
work and too many hours at Casey’s bar consume his family relationships. And
now, he was alone on Christmas—and every other day of the year.
“Guess I’ll start with these
old boxes of Christmas decorations,” he mumbled to Darcy, his mother’s long-haired
feline. She lifted her head from her paws and thunked her fluffy tail on the
wooden floor slats in acknowledgment.
Most of the featherweight
boxes were crammed with ancient glass ornaments whose once shiny surfaces were
now discolored and crackled. He stacked them atop one another, in readiness to
take an armload down the precarious attic steps and out to the dumpster parked
along the side of the house.
One box, however, seemed
heavier than the rest—heavy enough to pique Pat’s curiosity.
Opening the box, he began unwrapping
the crumbled layers of yellowed newspaper. Pat sneezed as dust particles
assaulted his nostrils. He’d need an allergy pill when he finished. “Whatever
is in here is sure packed well,” he said aloud.
Darcy ambled over to check
out the newspaper, sniffing and sneezing along with Pat. She clawed and bunched
the paper till it was arranged to her satisfaction, then hunkered down to watch
Pat work.
As he withdrew the last of
the newsprint, he saw a wooden box wrapped in tissue. Removing several layers
of thin paper he turned the box over. He traced his fingers gently over the intricately
carved nativity on the lid. “Wow! This is beautiful!” he whispered in awe. “I
don’t remember seeing this box before.”
Though he was merely speaking
his thoughts aloud, Darcy mewed in reply. Pat smiled and rubbed her head.
“Shall we see what’s inside, old girl?”
Loosening the clasp, he
opened the box. Letters neatly stacked and in order by postdate filled the box.
Bearing old Air Mail insignias, every letter was addressed to his mother Louise
and postmarked England. “Must have been when Dad was in the Air Force,” Pat
mumbled to the cat.
A gust of wintry wind
whistled through the louvered vent. Pat shivered. Tucking the box of letters
under his arm, he gently gathered up Darcy and retreated downstairs where he
could read in the warmth and comfort of the kitchen over a steaming cup of
coffee.
Pat was startled to learn
that the letters were not from his
father, but from a man named Joseph Dooley who was a pilot during WWII and who had
apparently been engaged to Pat’s mother, Louise. His letters shared humorous
happenings with his fellow airmen, descriptions of acts both courageous and generous,
and of course, expressions of ardor for his fiancé.
Woven throughout every letter
was the man’s deep trust in Jesus Christ—a poignant reminder to Pat of the many
conversations in which his mother had tried to share her faith. However, Pat’s vitriol
skepticism and turned head effectively stopped her mid-sentence—another of his actions
he now regretted.
In his letters to Pat’s
mother, Dooley gave God the credit for sparing him from day to day. He shared with
Louise passages from the Bible that he depended on, encouraging her to also trust
in God and His Word:
“God is our shelter and
strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. So, we will not be afraid,
even if the earth is shaken and mountains fall into the ocean depths; even if
the seas roar and rage, and the hills are shaken by the violence . . . The Lord
Almighty is with us . . .” (Psalm 46:1-3, 7)
“[Lord, you are always with
me.] You hold on to my right hand. With your advice you guide me, and in the
end, you will take me to glory. . . My body and mind may waste away, but God
remains the foundation of my life and my inheritance forever. . . Being united
with God is my highest good. I have made the Almighty Lord my refuge.” (Psalm
73:23-28)
Dooley often quoted John
15:13, “The greatest love you can show is to give your life for your friends.”
The last letter, dated October
1943, must have accompanied the box. Dooley told Louise how he found it in a
small antique shop on Portobello Road. He shared that the carved picture reminded
him that Jesus willingly gave up His life in Heaven to come and live among us. “Jesus
lived John 15:13. He showed us the greatest love, by giving His life to save us
from our sins,” Dooley wrote.
At the bottom of the box Pat
found a brittle, yellowed obituary for Joseph Dooley. It stated he had been
killed in action on October 14, 1943 while flying a B-17 bomber in a raid on Schweinfurt,
Germany. In the margin at the bottom of the paper, in the small, precise
handwriting Pat recognized as his mother’s, was written, John 15:13.
Fishishing his coffee, Pat
contemplated the truths he had found in the box. Dooley obviously lived out the
faith he spoke of in his letters. And, despite his resistance, Pat couldn’t
deny that his mother Louise had also trusted in the One who showed His love by
giving His life.
As he set down his mug his
eyes fell on the worn and cracked leather cover of the Bible his mother always
kept on the corner of the kitchen table, within easy reach as she ate her
breakfast or sipped a cup of tea in the evening. Perhaps the old book held something
worth looking into. . .
©2017 Pamela D. Williams
