Faith Works 12-19-20
Jeff Gill
A trip around the block (part three of a story in four parts)
___
He knew his grandkids would be unhappy with him for doing this.
His neighbor, whom he hardly knew since she and her kids had moved in after the first of the year, and COVID had made a mess of neighborliness by the time it got warmer, was sitting in his truck.
She had her mask on, and he his, but she'd come over as he'd been backing out, asking for a ride to the drug store to get a prescription for her mother, who was living with her now along with the two small children. Tammy was her name, and she'd explained her car was at the shop, but a medication change for her mom's pacemaker prescription put her in a bind, and hey, he was wanting to get out anyhow, just to drive around the courthouse to see the lights.
So he put his mask on, let her in the truck after she ran back to her house to explain where she was going, and now they were almost there.
"I really, really appreciate this," Tammy said, staring through the windshield. It was hard to read her face what with the mask, but he could tell she sounded a mix of embarrassed and anxious.
"Honestly, I wanted to go somewhere, and you caught me just heading around the block and maybe downtown. Happy to do it." His reply was sincere, and she could tell it, and relaxed accordingly.
"I'll just be a moment," she said as he pulled into a parking place at the pharmacy door.
"Hey, if you need to pick up some other stuff, since we're out, feel free. I'm in no hurry."
"Thank you, so much. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"Thank you, so much. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"Nope," he smiled over his mask. "I'll just be out here enjoying my escape from the house."
"Okay, just a minute," and she clambered quickly out, closing the door and darting inside.
It was more than a minute, but not too long. She came out with a medication bag and a plastic bag with a few items weighing it down. "I got some candy for the kids, for their stockings Christmas Eve. You like chocolate?"
"Nah, I'm on a diet." He pulled back, looking over his shoulder, swinging around and then back into traffic. "Hope this helps your mom."
"Nah, I'm on a diet." He pulled back, looking over his shoulder, swinging around and then back into traffic. "Hope this helps your mom."
"It should." Without any other warning, Tammy started crying. "Oh, I am sorry to be a pain."
"Not at all."
"It's just, she says if I wasn't working from home, we'd probably have her in a nursing home, and she's right, but she gets so discouraged."
"She can't fend for herself, is that the problem?"
"Not at all."
"It's just, she says if I wasn't working from home, we'd probably have her in a nursing home, and she's right, but she gets so discouraged."
"She can't fend for herself, is that the problem?"
"That's right. And things are so… different. She just says about every day what's the point, she's just a burden."
They stopped at a light, then as he made the turn, he said "This is hard, what you kids have to deal with. When I was your age, it was different, but we had a clear enemy to fight, and a goal to reach, and just the newspaper and radio to sort out about it."
"You were in World War II?"
"I was. Just the last couple years of it. It was no walk in the park, but I was one of the lucky ones. Came back, got married, got a good job, bought this house, raised my kids, now my grandkids raise me, but…" He paused to make the last turn, then into her driveway, putting the truck into park.
"I was. Just the last couple years of it. It was no walk in the park, but I was one of the lucky ones. Came back, got married, got a good job, bought this house, raised my kids, now my grandkids raise me, but…" He paused to make the last turn, then into her driveway, putting the truck into park.
"So now I can't do everything I could, but I'm blessed to be able to do more than some."
"Wow. You're like twenty years older than Mom, then."
"Aging is tricky. Anyhow, I'm just saying my generation gets a lot of praise, and we did our part, but now you're doing yours. I'm glad to help you out, even just a little. We got through ours, and you'll get through this."
"Aging is tricky. Anyhow, I'm just saying my generation gets a lot of praise, and we did our part, but now you're doing yours. I'm glad to help you out, even just a little. We got through ours, and you'll get through this."
"Thank you," she replied, "but I still worry." The bag from the drug store crinkled as she squeezed it between both hands. "I guess I shouldn't."
"Oh, you'll always worry. You have kids, don't you?" She laughed, with a hesitation, then more emphatically. "So you worry, but you hope. You have hope, right?"
"Oh, you'll always worry. You have kids, don't you?" She laughed, with a hesitation, then more emphatically. "So you worry, but you hope. You have hope, right?"
She stopped laughing. "I don't know. I may not. Not much. Some."
"Look, that's what Christmas should help us with," he said to the windshield as much as to her. "We remember what got it started, a baby and a birth and a little town, and who we've celebrated it with, and how they're with us in the traditions and decorations and stories and songs. That's where my hope sits, up on the shelf with my grandma's manger scene. Hope that keeps an eye on me, showing me the way ahead."
"Look, that's what Christmas should help us with," he said to the windshield as much as to her. "We remember what got it started, a baby and a birth and a little town, and who we've celebrated it with, and how they're with us in the traditions and decorations and stories and songs. That's where my hope sits, up on the shelf with my grandma's manger scene. Hope that keeps an eye on me, showing me the way ahead."
(to be continued)
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he usually writes some odd bit of fiction for the Christmas season. Tell him what you think should happen next at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
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Faith Works 12-26-20
Jeff Gill
A trip around the block (part four of a story in four parts)
___
His young neighbor got out of the truck. He had given her a ride to the drugstore, both of them wearing masks, not well acquainted having barely met this past year since she moved in.
It was January when she and her two kids had moved in, March the COVID business had made everyone careful. He was glad at his age he could still live on his own, drive, pick up his groceries in the "drive-up" stuff his adult granddaughter set up for him, and he was getting bored enough at home he was checking out channels on the cable the kids got hooked up him beyond the usual network fare he usually stuck to.
The truth was he'd just planned to go out for a drive around the courthouse to see the lights, since the roundabouts bothered him less than they did his son (to hear him talk about it when he visited), when Tammy from next door had showed up, nervous and anxious, needing help picking up a prescription for her mother who had been moved into her house somewhere in the last few months, he wasn't sure when.
They got back, the sun down and all the lights on, the chill in the air more distinct. They talked a bit in the cab of his pickup about Christmas and hope, then she thanked him for the fifteenth time, and got out. He was going to pull back, and then into his drive and the garage, but years of habit meant he sat and waited as she walked up to the door to go in, and . . .
Which is when she slipped on some unseen patch of ice, and went down in a heap. Faster than he thought he still was able, he put the truck in park, turned off the engine, and swung out to walk carefully over to where she was slowly getting up from the stoop.
"Oh, that drip from the gutter put a slick spot on these steps, please be careful." She said it out of breath, getting up with a hand on the railing, her bags strewn around. He smiled at her warning.
"I will. You be careful getting up, young lady, and I'll grab your bags here." She opened the door, and he stepped gingerly across the shiny tread onto the shallow stoop, and into the front room.
The girl's mother was across the room, farthest from the door, with an oxygen tank next to her recliner, and a table with various tubes and bottles and remotes on the other side. She wore a nose tube thing, whatchacallit for oxygen, her eyes bright and wary as this new face entered the house. He reflexively reached up and tugged his mask up under his glasses, but they fogged up anyhow. Tammy took the bags.
"Mom, this is our neighbor I was telling you about, who gave me a ride to get your new pills."
"Ma'am, pleased to meet you, sorry I can't stay and be sociable." He stood uneasily at the door as Tammy disappeared into what he knew was the kitchen, from sixty years of living next door. "I need to stand here a bit, though, and get my glasses cleared before…"
"Before you go out and fall down and we call the squad for you?" she chuckled.
"I will. You be careful getting up, young lady, and I'll grab your bags here." She opened the door, and he stepped gingerly across the shiny tread onto the shallow stoop, and into the front room.
The girl's mother was across the room, farthest from the door, with an oxygen tank next to her recliner, and a table with various tubes and bottles and remotes on the other side. She wore a nose tube thing, whatchacallit for oxygen, her eyes bright and wary as this new face entered the house. He reflexively reached up and tugged his mask up under his glasses, but they fogged up anyhow. Tammy took the bags.
"Mom, this is our neighbor I was telling you about, who gave me a ride to get your new pills."
"Ma'am, pleased to meet you, sorry I can't stay and be sociable." He stood uneasily at the door as Tammy disappeared into what he knew was the kitchen, from sixty years of living next door. "I need to stand here a bit, though, and get my glasses cleared before…"
"Before you go out and fall down and we call the squad for you?" she chuckled.
"Exactly."
A pause hung in the air, behind the frosted lens of his glasses. "Sorry I hadn't been able to come over and introduce myself."
"That's the kind of year it's been, don't apologize."
"That's the kind of year it's been, don't apologize."
"Still feels odd, though. Anyhow, hope you have a happy Christmas: you've got a good daughter there looking out for you."
"Oh, they're all good to me. Falling apart, but they tend the pieces just fine. You get to see anyone for Christmas?"
"I've got adult grandkids who live locally; we're careful, but I'm keeping to myself mostly. They've shown me how to use my tablet to see 'em, but I generally like to talk and great-grandkids don't talk much. It's a mix."
"Great-grandkids, eh? Don't know that I'm likely to see them in my shape."
"Hmmm," he said, not having much to answer to that. "They'll hear about you, though. I guess we just try to leave a good impression behind."
"Great-grandkids, eh? Don't know that I'm likely to see them in my shape."
"Hmmm," he said, not having much to answer to that. "They'll hear about you, though. I guess we just try to leave a good impression behind."
"Thank you," she said.
"Sure. Um, I was going out anyhow."
"No, not for giving her a ride, though I appreciate that, too. I mean for not sugar-coating it. You're right, my great-grandkids will hear about me, won't they?"
He smiled over his mask. "One way or another." His glasses had cleared to where he could see her nodding vigorously.
"You've reminded me of what I can do, not told me what I might someday do. I can give them some good memories of Grandma." He nodded back.
"No, not for giving her a ride, though I appreciate that, too. I mean for not sugar-coating it. You're right, my great-grandkids will hear about me, won't they?"
He smiled over his mask. "One way or another." His glasses had cleared to where he could see her nodding vigorously.
"You've reminded me of what I can do, not told me what I might someday do. I can give them some good memories of Grandma." He nodded back.
Reaching for the door, he said "I'll be going, but hope to see you again."
"One way or another," she answered.
"Amen, and Merry Christmas," was his farewell out the door.
"One way or another," she answered.
"Amen, and Merry Christmas," was his farewell out the door.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he usually writes some odd bit of fiction for the Christmas season. Tell him what you think should happen next at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
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Faith Works 1-2-21
Jeff Gill
An Advent postscript in Christmastide
___
Christmas morning he'd gone out his front door to get his paper, and found a bag with ribbon around the top on the front porch.
Christmas morning he'd gone out his front door to get his paper, and found a bag with ribbon around the top on the front porch.
There were some candy canes, in colors he didn't think were really candy canes, but might be worth trying, and a couple of foil wrapped Santa Clauses in chocolate.
There were also two packets of hot chocolate, which he wasn't sure needed milk or water, but he might just mix up with his coffee, half a packet at a time. His wife had always made fun of his habit of tending to use half of whatever was in an envelope of soup or spices or cocoa, but it went back to the Navy in the Pacific, and that's just who he was. Even if she usually threw out the clipped half packets as they piled up, but now they tended to stack up until his daughter came over and cleaned up the kitchen.
He liked to think he didn't give her too much to do when she did, but of course that had not happened this year except that trip over in July. There was still one adult grandchild in town (well, the next town over), but she kept out of his business unless asked. He tried not to ask too much. Mostly the cable and the tablet stuff; she's the one who showed him the Christmas log channel he'd come to like so much.
Her kids, the great-grandkids made him crafts and ornaments these last few years, but they hadn't done cards. At the bottom of the bag on the porch were two big sheets of paper, folded in half, done in a mix of marker and crayon with some faint pencil guidelines underneath in a more adult hand.
Setting the candy and packets of hot chocolate on the dinette table in the kitchen, he went back out to his chair, turned on the lamp, and held up the two cards.
They were brightly colored — one had a rainbow on it, in fact — and both said "Thank you" and "Merry Christmas" on them either in front or on the inside. That's where the pencil lines were most clearly at work below the heavy crosshatching of color.
One, with the rainbow, was definitely a tree, with a big yellow five pointed star at the top, and the rainbow arched from (or to) the star, going off the page in a way that told him someone had to scrub the table where the artwork was done.
The other card he was less sure of, but after some scrutiny, and grandparently intuition, he decided it was a manger with a baby. It could have been a sleigh, or it might have started as a sleigh which turned into a manger rather than wedge in some reindeer. There was something of both vessels in the reddish-brown oblong, and either a gift-bearing saint or a child with a halo atop it. Either way, he thought. Either way. A gift and a blessing, that's what Christmas is.
Inside, the guessing was even more challenging. Could be wise men and camels, or possibly a family view of mom, two kids, and grandma in her recliner. You could see it either way in the one card.
The other card, inside, was shockingly easy to recognize. It was his house, his truck, and him, cap and glasses and old jacket. "Must be the older one of the two" he thought, admiring the work clearly done from the window on the end, but capturing his home from the front even so. He got up and crossed the living room and dining room to the far window, looking towards their house.
Sure enough, through the frosty coating, there was a child with two hands pressed flat against the glass, a nose print in the middle, then a frantic wave. He waved back, and then the shadowy figure vanished back into the house.
Heading back around to the kitchen, he set the two cards on the mantlepiece on either side of the manger, open and propped in place with camels and sheep. Grabbing the bag with the ribbon he'd opened, there was another note at the bottom, no crayon or colors, just handwriting.
"Thank you for the reminder. Spent last night making some good memories with my grandkids. See you one way or another, after the vaccine or in God's good time."
We shall see, he thought. We shall wait, and see.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he is as curious as anyone about what the new year might bring. Tell him what you think is ahead for us all at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
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