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Picture with me a snowy, blustery Christmas Eve. The carolers have gone to their homes. Scrumptious meals send aromas wafting out chimneys. Shouts of joy for happily-met hopes pour from the voices of children while opening their presents. For some, their dreams have been answered. Church bells cut through the darkness, welcoming worshippers to the services.
The Animal Hospital on Main Street, adorned with brightly-colored lights, is finally closing. It has been a long day for the weary and dedicated staff. Gathering up leftover sugar cookies from today’s party, many exit the back door. “Merry Christmas!” “You, too!” Jennifer, a staff assistant, thinking she is the last to leave, moves toward the front door to latch it, just as it slowly opens. Standing in the swirling snow is a bedraggled young man, holding a puppy shivering against his greasy, grimy coat. With a quivering voice, he utters, “I hope you can help me. My dog is so sick.” Jennifer opens the door wider. “Come in.” She takes her coat off, and moves purposefully behind a desk. “What is your dog’s name?” “His name is, um, his name is Knucklehead.” “And, what is your name?” “My name is Lonnie. I work at the junkyard outside of town. Knucklehead keeps me company. I sure hope you can help him.” Quiet desperation fills the empty room that had been so alive not long ago with yelping sounds and dangling leashes.
Jennifer took Knucklehead from Lonnie’s loving grasp and went into the examination room. To her surprise one of the doctors was still finishing his paperwork. Together they began an impromptu examination of their limp, sickly companion. Lonnie waited, hungry, tired and alone. He stared at the floor, prayerfully. Church bells continued to accompany his reverie. Twenty minutes later Jennifer took a seat next to Lonnie. She softly said, “We believe Knucklehead has parvovirus, a disease of the intestines. I invite you not to worry–we’ll take good care of him. We’ll give him lots of fluids and also antibiotics. He needs to stay with us for at least a week.” Lonnie rubbed his forehead. He could not look up. He mumbled, “I don’t have much money, and…” Jennifer interrupted. “Don’t worry about the money. We will talk about that later. Please come back in one week. You can also call me to see how Knucklehead is doing. Here’s my card with my name and telephone number on it.”
During that week Lonnie pawned his old pickup truck to pay for the Animal Hospital bill. One week, to the day, Lonnie returned. The Christmas lights surrounding the doorframe were still blinking. “Knucklehead is much better,” said Jennifer. “Here are some medications with instructions on how you must give them to him.” Lonnie fumbled in his old, shaggy jeans pocket for the money from the sale of his pickup. Jennifer placed her hand on his and said once again, “We can talk about money later.”
Lonnie was so overwhelmed with gratitude, and with a belief that Christmastime is full of miracles, he went to the local newspaper and told them his story: how he had gone to the Animal Hospital unannounced, five minutes before closing on Christmas Eve, and how they had cured his puppy. He cried when he told them. The newspaper printed his story with a picture of Lonnie and Knucklehead on the front page.
Folks began calling the Animal Hospital and the newspaper to donate clothing and money for Lonnie, and give praise to the clinic. One man read about the story on an animal website. A five-year-old girl, with a gentle spirit, came by the Hospital to give three dollars for Knucklehead’s bill. It was money she had received for Christmas. Another man searched endlessly to find Lonnie’s pawned pickup truck, and repurchased it for him. Two exciting days later, Jennifer called Lonnie. “You had better come to the hospital. We have lots of stuff for you!”
Upon arriving at the Hospital, he was led to a back room full of blankets, clothes and an ample amount of money. Jennifer looked compassionately at Lonnie. “All this is yours. It is for you.” Silence filled the room. Lonnie could barely find words or sound. “Well, I could use a blanket or two, and…I guess…some clothes. I want you to keep the money and give it to someone who can’t pay their bill.”
Each Christmas I picture Lonnie kneeling at the stable, holding a healthy puppy close to his grimy coat, grateful for another miracle.
My mom told this story over and over. Each time, her animated expressions resonated like a small child opening presents on Christmas Eve. She was the self-appointed chaperone in my dad’s high school band. She, along with other parents, drove budding musicians to their state band festivals, district contests, and national marching, concert and sight-reading extravaganzas, which were often hosted on university campuses. Her recounting of those pilgrimages were flooded with anecdotes, which she relished sharing.
One story rose above the rest.
“Do you remember when…” she would repetitiously begin, “…the band was playing in the district contest in Dodge City? If they took first place, they would go to Colorado Springs to the nationals in May, only one month away. It was lots of pressure on the kids. They had practiced so hard and wanted to win so badly. Jake had selected a very challenging number for their finale. I’m sure you remember Donny Shepherd. Well, he was a fine brass player, and this number had a very difficult baritone solo in it. It started very low, and then climbs slowly to an extremely high pitch. In practices he often could not hit that last note. It was so hard for him. My hands were wringing wet every time he began his solo.”
I beamed inside as I witnessed her zest to invite us on this storytelling journey. She continued.
“The band played with such precision and blended tones that day. Then came the last number. I’m still not sure why Jake selected it, but I just trusted his judgment–poor Donny!”
Taking a deep breath and gesturing with her hands, mom stumbled for more words.
“I spotted Donny through the French horn and trombone sections. I…um, just wanted to nod at him with a warm smile. Jake waved his baton in a downward motion. The band stopped. There was a brief moment of silence. Donny began. I knew the first part of his solo was the easiest. His sounds filled the auditorium. As he began to climb up the scale towards that high note, I could feel my body rising from my chair in unison with him.”
Mom would always pause her story, leaving the listeners wanting more.
“I had a silent visit with God, not knowing if it made any difference…but I did ask for Donny to hit that note. That’s all–just hit the note! Someone heard my words because Donny played that note like the angels blowing their celestial trumpets. He held the unbroken sound for at least three seconds.”
Reliving this captivating memory, she continued.
“I went backstage after the band finished. I hugged so many of the kids, all of them sensing they had played well enough to go to the national contest. There was Donny, leaning against the wall, with sweat dripping down his cheeks. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his woolen band jacket. As I approached him, he smiled so big at me. ‘Hi, Mrs. Dalke.’ I looked at him and said, ‘Oh Donny, you played the best you have ever played.’ Then he said, ‘Well, I knew if I didn’t hit that note–God would, and sure enough God did!’ And he slid down the wall in a dead faint.”
The story always warmed my soul. Don’t know if there was any theological significance wrapped around this frequently-repeated tale, but whenever I have needed bolstering in my life’s wonderings, I think of Mom, Dad’s band, and a young man named Donny–who hit the unreachable.
Church ministry can require multiple hats. I wore many of them. In addition to consulting in local churches I also developed a pastoral counseling practice. I would see healthy folks who just wanted to be healthier. Except for Roy. His mom–with tears and a look of hopeful expectation–asked me to work with Roy. “He remembers you. I took him to church one time when you were a guest preacher and he whispered to me, ‘Mommy, I like him.’ Please, maybe just a few times? He has so many problems and the biggest is loving himself.”
I said, “Sure, I’ll see him. How about this week sometime?” Often, we need to follow our intuition–that voice inside our heart and soul that seems to nudge us one direction or another. In that moment of intuitive awareness we make a decision as to how we will use our energy. Roy was twenty-two years old when he entered my life–and had the mind of an eight-year-old. He was locked into that childlike state of being simple and free of blame, in a world that was not always prepared to welcome him.
The day for his appointment came. I did not expect to learn the many lessons about life that I would from this little boy in a big boy’s body. Surprisingly, he drove himself to my office. I watched from the window as he carefully closed the door to an old, battered pickup truck. Roy was slim in stature with tanned arms from mowing the neighbor’s lawns. He slowly walked up the sidewalk, face hidden under a dirty, beat-up Denver Broncos ballcap, to tap lightly on the door.
He sprawled out on the couch, sipping a glass of cold water. Roy told me he was working three days a week at a nursery watering trees and plants. Inwardly, I felt grateful he had been given a job nurturing God’s beauty. He was obviously feeling a huge sense of accomplishment as only an eight-year-old would.
The next week our time together felt more like we had meshed. We took a walk and talked, stopping by the Dairy Queen for a fast-melting ice cream cone. Throughout the months we met, my admiration for this innocent young man grew. I often felt that his words of wisdom fed my soul and I was full of gratitude for his coming into my life.
On one of our walks we stumbled along a railroad track that seemed to narrow into infinity. Roy stopped and looked at me. “My Daddy died.” I said, “Yes, I know. I’m sure that makes you very sad, and I’m sorry.” He continued. “He was an engineer on a train.” Roy rarely talked about his Dad, and only minimally, mentioning that he missed him. Walking the tracks stimulated another memory. Balancing his hands on the rocky ground, he leaned down and carefully put his ear to the rail. Looking up at me, with hope in his voice, “There’s a train coming. Maybe it’s my Daddy.”
Every time we met, the Dairy Queen beckoned us. I believe Roy would walk miles for an ice cream cone. Our time together was almost over. As we neared his unwashed truck he fumbled for his keys. Roy looked up at me, almost as if he had waited until the end of our visit to muster up the courage to tell me, “Tomorrow will be my last day working at the nursery. They told me not to come back.” My first impulse was to run as fast as I could to that workplace, to tell them what an injustice they had imposed on this beautiful young man who simply believed in doing the right thing in this mixed-up world. However, I have learned it is best to avoid acting on my first impulse. So I just listened to his thoughts about tomorrow–his last day of work.
“When I go to work tomorrow, do you know what I’m going to do?” I remained silent with no expectation as to what I would hear. “I’m going to bake them all some cookies. And then, do you know what else I’m going to do?” I thought, Finally, here is where his anger is going to come out, and he’ll be able to express how unfair it feels to be let go from a job that means so much to him. He said, “Tomorrow, before I leave, I’m going to roll up the hoses the very best they have ever been rolled up!”
I miss him and all that he taught me.
The two-storied, gray wooden house sat stately on the corner directly across from the grade school building. Several chairs were placed on the spacious front porch, welcoming all who wanted to visit or just watch cars go by ever so slowly on a summer evening, a frequent pastime in this small Kansas town. Uncle Fred and Aunt Eula had lived in this place for nearly forty years.
Fred Howard was the local pharmacist and owned Howard Drug. He was like a “poor souls” resident doctor. Bottles of prescribed drugs sat on the shelves in the back of his store, out of the reach of everyone except my Great Uncle Fred. Once in a while, he would emerge from his pill-counting and come to the front of the store to pour himself a frosty Coca-Cola, or to stir up a mouth-watering cherry malt (with luscious Steffens ice cream) just for me. When visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, who lived just two blocks away, I would spend countless hours at Uncle Fred’s drugstore.
Aunt Eula was the most benevolent person I have ever known. If my mom complimented her on a piece of furniture or knick-knack, she would simply say with the graciousness of an empress, “Here, Katherine, why don’t you take it?” She loved to cook and her food preparation was presented simply and beautifully. Every conversation with her left little doubt about what she believed spiritually, how she felt about her town, and what she thought about the status of current affairs. No one had ever been created like her, nor ever would be again.
I remember the day Aunt Eula drew her final breath on this earth. I received an unexpected telephone call from my cousin Kent. “David, Aunt Eula died last night. They want you to come and speak at her service.” As I drove the hundred miles to a grieving family and community, I rehearsed in my mind the meager declarations I had prepared for the eulogy. The combination of words and thoughts seemed woefully powerless. She was more than words.
We would be celebrating her life in the same Methodist Church where my parents had been married thirty years before. Many of the folks that attended that sweltering summer wedding, with sweaty smiles adorning their faces, were now shedding tears. On this crisp fall day the choir sang with quivering voices without Aunt Eula’s ever-present soprano vibrato. Kent offered a measure of hope as he read haltingly from the Scriptures. “The Lord… the Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not…” I was next. I do not remember the words that came out of me that day.
Kent had flown in from the West Coast and needed my help with transportation to the airport. As we rode together, many memories of Aunt Eula flooded the car. It was a time of catharsis for both of us. When we neared the airport, Kent thanked me for the two-hour ride and conversation. Then–as if he had been savoring one last truth–he said, “You know, David, Aunt Eula never had to say, ‘I wished I would’ve…’ ”
