Perfect Winter Day

The sun decided to shine today.  For the last week the clouds have controlled the skies but not on this day.  A few darkish clouds tried to sneak in from the north this afternoon, a couple of cottony ones from the south this evening; not once were shadows lost.  As is often the case in late December the sunny day came with a price; cold air.  Odd, isn't it, how winter sun and summer sun send the mercury in opposite directions?  The temp was below zero this morning, stayed in the ones place above zero all day, then fell below zero again after dark.  Not a bitter day - no, bitter sounds too harsh.  "Crisp" is the word - the air was crisp all day.

Last Wednesday was the kick-off of Christmas festivities as school ended early and my daughters and I exchanged our gifts.  Thursday and Friday brought Christmas Eve and Day, respectively, with two final events Saturday just to make sure nobody felt shorted on holiday hoopla.  For me, however, the holiday fun started today when I took my first steps on frozen water.  Normal folks get visions of sugar plums around the holidays; I get visions of Swedish Pimples and fat walleyes.  "Tradition" is a word that gets thrown around a lot as Christmas approaches, and though I'm not very fond of most aspects of Christmas there is one tradition that I will forever link to the Christmas season - fishing for walleyes through the ice on "Secret" Lake.  

The excitement I usually have on this first fishing outing was replaced by apprehension as I stood at the shoreline and studied the lake.  The warm December has made ice conditions sketchy at best; seeing nobody on the ice didn't help my fears.  There were, however, snowmobile tracks on the lake (and no gaping holes at the end of the tracks) so I calmly started tiptoeing my way towards the bar I wanted to fish.  A half-mile later my tiptoe steps had become confident strides, the excitement was back, and I was fishing.  The perch bit like crazy for two hours, and at sundown I caught my first two walleyes of the season while missing several others.  At 6:00 I reeled in my lines and began packing up.....and began my favorite holiday tradition.  The pre-fishing excitement and the act of fishing are both fun, but what I look forward to the most this time of year is the post-fishing trek from fish house to home house.

There is no stronger feeling of solitude than that of walking alone across frozen water in the dark.  If I'm lucky it's a clear evening, and cold....really cold; this evening was both.  On such an evening as the sun goes down the ice starts to expand and pop with thunderous booms that echo forever in the stillness, as though the lake is calling out to let it's users know that its ice is getting thicker.  By the time my gear is packed up the half-mile walk back to shore is under the glow of starlight.  If you've never looked at the night sky from a frozen lake then you've never seen the true night sky.  Even the dimmest of stars have a bright glow in the winter air, making it hard to walk a straight line when the desire to keep looking up is so strong.  But walk a straight line I do, my numb fingers begging me to pick up the pace and get to shore.  With one final look out to where I've been and another look up to where I'll never be, I climb into the car and begin the second half of my journey home.

The drive back to the main highway is on a narrow road that curves just enough to keep me driving slow, giving me time to hear some of whatever Christmas CD I've popped in.  The evergreens that line this lake road are coated with white as they stand behind the snowbanks along the road, giving the illusion of deep wilderness that is betrayed by the twinkling lights of the lakeside homes.  The end of this road usually coincides with the first warmth from the car heater, so I pick up the pace on the highway as my stomach reminds me that supper is still twenty minutes away.  The drive takes me through the town I call home and on the backroads to home, all the while carrying me through time as well as space.  I consider all of the winters and all of the trips just like this one, how many of them have passed and how many of them might be left.  How so much has changed over time but how each trip each day of each Christmastime seems so similar to all the others.  It's soothing to know some of the best things in life never really change.  Like home at Christmas.

I can see home from about a third of a mile away, after cresting an incline following a right angle left turn that I've unbelievably never slid off of (one of the few who haven't).  From this distance the yard light, house lights, and Christmas lights combine to cast a dome-like glow over the entire farmstead.  When I get close enough I can see the tree twinkling through the windows and the FoxNews blaring and the kids bouncing and the ladies cooking......and where else could I possibly want to be arriving at that moment?  Opening the door of the house brings a blast of warmth, noise, and smells that together announce: "Hey man, it's Christmas.  Welcome home."

Looking back on this day it's hard to pick out any part of it that could have been better. Sunshine on frosty trees, time with my daughters, time alone, fresh fish, clean air, good food, good company....the perfect day.  Maybe Christmas does mean just a little bit more.

2015 Christmas Card

            With three small shopping bags under my right arm and one large under my left I crossed the mall’s center plaza, eyes locked on my feet’s destination; an empty bench.  After unknown hours of weaving through, waiting for, and listening to humans, sitting beside one was out of the question.  The bench remained empty until my large bag landed on it (“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I muttered without any joy) followed by the other bags and my spent body.  Breathing a sigh of relief mixed with frustration and chased out by exasperation, I grimaced at my surroundings.  Shoppers, most wearing expressions of anguish, rushed by with their treasures as an irritatingly slow version of “Silver Bells” dripped from hidden speakers.  Empty presents on Styrofoam snow under a recycled plastic tree looked almost as genuine as the smiles on Santa’s helpers.  Amongst all this bustle, I saw…a pair of eyes looking straight into mine, getting closer with each passing moment.

            He wasn’t hard to notice.  He carried no bags, pushed no cart.  Not very clean, but not exactly dirty.  Clothing that fit him but was dark and drab and worn, a sharp contrast to the seasonal colors all around him.  His bent posture spoke of a man who had spent many years enduring life.  My first inclination was to pity him, but those eyes that kept looking back at me contained so much energy that all pity was driven down and replaced by…….fear!  He was coming towards my bench!  And although I had strategically situated myself in the center with bags on either side he somehow was sitting beside me and chatting without so much as a “May I?” or “Mind if I sit?”

            With more than a little guilt I brushed aside his attempts at small talk with grunts, nods, and monosyllabic responses.  I already knew it was a busy in here, of course I’m Christmas shopping, no I’m not done yet, yes I’m shopping for my family, I DON”T HAVE THE STRENGTH FOR THIS!!  He finally stopped asking questions and just studied my face.  Without another word he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small, thin flask that had seen more days than its owner.

            “You could use a little Christmas cheer,” he said as he handed me the flask, which had no cap.

            “No thanks, I don’t –“ I started, but was stopped as he suddenly turned the flask upside down.  It was empty.

            “I don’t either,” he replied, pulling the flask back and staring at it as he talked.  “You hoped I wouldn’t sit beside you, yet here I am and there you still sit.  You didn’t want to talk to me but you didn’t completely ignore my questions.  And while you pretend you don’t like Christmas your foot keeps the beat to every song that plays.  It was this conflict between what you do and what you feel that led me to you…I chose you because you can still be saved.”

            Chose me?  Save me?  What was going on here?  Before I could ask, he continued.

            “Growing old while doing without has been tough, but growing up the same way was tougher.  Christmastime, though, has rarely failed to delight me.  Early in life my Father helped me find joy during this season by pointing out the most simple and peaceful details of Christmas that could be easily found by all; the music, the colors, the unending goodwill, and the hope – the wonderful feeling of hope – that great days are ahead.”  He paused, let out a slow sigh, and spoke once more.  “Great days never arrived for me, and finding joy at Christmas became harder with each passing year.  The gift from my Father on my twentieth Christmas was this flask.  He saw Christmas dying inside of me so he encouraged me to use it as a symbol to remind myself, and others, of where the true beauty of Christmas lies.  The flask is easy to keep with me; so, too, the spirit of Christmas.  It is simple and quite plain, like the very first Christmas.  The open top is a reminder to let peace and goodwill flow freely, and the emptiness a reminder of the many souls in need of both.”

He shifted his gaze upon me.  “For countless years I’ve watched people lose sight of the simplicity of Christmas.  Are you seeing any peace around you?  The only hope I see is the hope to be done shopping.  And goodwill?  You know how hard it was to find someone who actually talked to me?  I’ve spent the last two days walking this mall, and you are the first person who took the time to only kind of ignore me.  That’s why I can save you, just like my Father saved me.  I was losing my faith in the beauty of Christmas and life when my Father’s simple gift reminded me to find joy and spread it to others.  So now I ask you:  Where do you find your joy?”

            I sat motionless for a few seconds or an eternity, I’m not sure which.  Then, with numb fingers, I pulled my wallet from my pocket and found the three pictures I was hoping were still there.

            “This is my oldest daughter, Molly,” I croaked, as I handed him the first picture.  “She just turned fifteen years old…fifteen years that disappeared far too fast.  This is her volleyball picture.  It’s her favorite activity; she was a middle hitter on the C team this season.  She is a freshman in high school where she works really hard in all of her classes.  She is studying Spanish, which has resulted in a lot of strange words coming from her mouth.  She looks forward to next semester when she can begin driver’s training class and after that the spring softball season.  She has a really big heart and is proving it with a quilt-making project for her World Studies class; she recently secured her first grant and will begin production on fleece quilts for Children’s Hospital patients.  In her spare time she loves reading and playing piano and being with her friends.”

            “Who’s this long-legged lady?” he asked when I handed him the next picture.

            “That’s Sage, my twelve year old.  She is a sixth grader this year and is enjoying being one of the big kids at school.  She, too, works very hard in her classes and is learning some really advanced topics as a result.  She joined me in deer stands this fall as a licensed hunter for the first time and had some exciting adventures.  She was a dedicated hunter and made some very mature decisions about shooting deer.  I was proud to have her as a hunting partner.  She also was a member of the volleyball program this fall, filling the role of varsity manager and part-time practice player.  She is currently enjoying her favorite activity – figure skating.  While I wait eagerly for fishable ice on lakes, she’s just as eager for skate-able ice.  She loves to spend time reading and helping out around the house…as long as the helping out is on her terms!“

            “And this smiley little blonde bugger must be the youngest,” he ventured with a slight chuckle.

            “Yup, that’s my Jenna.  She is an eight-year-old second grader and is the straw that stirs all our drinks.  She is full of smiles and mischief and is as unpredictable as the weather.  She figure skates in the winter and plays softball in the summer.  Her favorite pastime, though, is playing with her Barbies and baby dolls; she is terrific at finding ways to keep herself busy with independent play.  She also has begun to spend more time with books; she’s always been a strong reader but rarely chose to read in her spare time.  Now she, like her big sisters, can often be found with her nose in a book.  All three girls have grown up way too fast, but Jenna has probably matured the fastest – her vocabulary, mannerisms, and real-world knowledge rivals that of her older sisters…and some adults!”

            As I tucked my pictures away a crash at my feet pulled my attention from my companion.  An armful of packages had been dropped, their carrier nearly in tears as she tried to pick them up and balance them again.  As I helped her with the last of her bags I asked if she wanted to sit with us and rest or if we could help her carry something.  She looked puzzled, and when I gestured for her to sit I discovered why; he was gone.  I quickly scanned the plaza looking for some sign of those worn down dark clothes.

            “Is that yours?” she asked, nodding to an object on the bench.

            I grabbed the flask and frantically looked for some sign of him, knowing the importance of this small object I held in my hand.  This token was his life, and without it…

            Once again he was already looking at me when I finally saw him.  He was by the ascending stairs, as if waiting for me to find him before he stepped on.  Our eyes locked for nearly a second before, with a quick wink and a smile, he began his journey up.  It struck me then that no one was looking at him; he didn’t seem to be noticed as he walked towards me or sat with me either.  When his climb took him from my sight I looked again at the flask and noticed an inscription on one side.  These words brought clarity to all that had transpired; a Christmas angel had delivered a message, and to those who would receive it a mission was now at hand:

Find peace.  Find hope.  Find joy. 

Share them.

Merry Christmas.