Friday, December 16, 2011
A Christmas Story To Remind You of the Reason for the Season – “A Shining Light”
It is eleven days before Christmas as I write this and for the first time in several years, snow is forecast for Sawyerton Springs. The children, as one might expect, are thrilled about the possibility of an early Christmas vacation, but to the adults. . .snow is just a cold, messy version of a mild hurricane.
Miss Luna Myers has been organizing the emergency relief effort for the Grace Fellowship Baptist Church. She compiled a list of all the men who have four-wheel drive trucks and has asked that CB channel 72 remain open for stranded townsfolk.
Rick and Sue Carper have stocked the Rolling Store with all kinds of non-perishables—in addition to the batteries, blankets, and candles the bus already carries. It is obvious that no one has forgotten the Christmas Storm of 1967.
That particular year, by the day before Christmas, most of the annual events had already taken place. The wreath competition at the garden club was won for the ninth year in a row by Martha Luker. The parade had expanded its route to seven blocks which created confusion with those who did not get the message. And, of course, that was the last year that Beauman’s Pond United Methodist Church presented their Singing Tree.
The Singing Tree was a huge structure—almost fifty feet tall— which allowed the Methodist choir to stand in a tree-like shape, one on top of the other. The choir perched on platforms, sticking their heads through pine limbs that had been placed there for authenticity as they sang like live decorations.
During that year’s performance, with the entire town in attendance, Haywood Perkins fell from the third tier and almost broke his neck. The Singing Tree was history.
To this day, no one agrees on exactly why the tradition was dumped. The obvious answer is the danger factor, but there are a few people who still blame Miss Edna Thigpen and her editorial in the Sawyerton Springs Sentinel. “Is it a good idea,” she asked, “to commercialize this season even in our churches? When a man with no record of clumsiness falls from a fake tree while singing ‘Here Come Santa Claus’ as the minister of the congregation dances down the aisle dressed as the fat man himself. . .is someone trying to tell us something?” And so after a brief discussion of church leaders, the Singing Tree was dismantled for good.
For as long as anyone can remember, the people of Sawyerton Springs have attended a Christmas Eve service at the Baptist and Methodist churches. That particular year, however, on December 23, the Baptists had somehow flooded the sanctuary at Grace Fellowship. It had been blamed on faulty plumbing in the baptistery, but most Methodists smugly assumed it to be just one more piece of evidence that the Lord leaned heavily toward “sprinkling.”
Pastor Wade Ward, being a friend of my dad—the Baptist minister—invited our congregation to join his Methodist flock for a combined service. “Really, Larry,” Pastor Ward told my father, “it might be good for your people, you know, kind of give them a chance at a second opinion!” In any case, that is how we all came to be packed into the Methodist church that night.
The service itself was different from anything I had ever experienced. Not only was the building unfamiliar and “Holy, Holy, Holy” not the first song in the hymnal—it was the first time in my life that I had been to a church in which my father was not preaching.
Pastor Ward was a great guy. Always quick with a joke, he was one of the most popular men in town. He was then in his mid-thirties, good looking, with a touch of gray already in his hair. “Howbowcha!” he would say when he passed you on the street. “Fine, Pastor,” we would answer, and he’d be on his way.
I asked my mom once why everyone called Pastor Ward “Pastor” and they called my dad “Brother.” “Isn’t Dad a pastor too?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mom replied with a smile.
“And what about Pastor Ward,” I continued, “I bet he has a brother.”
“Right again,” she said.
“Then why. . .” I went on like that for about ten more minutes. My mother was a very patient woman.
Altogether the service was wonderful. We sang “O, Little Town of Bethlehem” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” Pastor Ward even asked my father to pray.
The evening was also a success for me personally. Though I was only eight years old at the time, I had already become addicted to making my friends laugh. That night, not only were my usual Baptist targets in attendance—Kevin Perkins, Lee Peyton, and the Luker boys—I had a new audience as well.
The Methodist kids, Dickie Rollins, Steve Krotzer, and the others, were helpless in my grasp. Weird noises during the sermon. . .cow sounds during “Away in a Manger”. . .everything I did worked that night. They literally laughed out loud. From the choir, their parents gave them the “wait ‘til I get you home” look as I managed my usual straight face.
The big hit of the night, in my opinion, was my version of “We Three Kings.” As the congregation sang the traditional words, I spiced it up a bit. In a voice just loud enough for my friends to hear, I sang:
We three kings of orient are
Tried to smoke a loaded cigar
It went boom and we went zoom
All through the ladies bathroom.
Dickie, Steve, and the rest of them doubled over the pews as I kept singing—looking for all the world as if I were appalled at their behavior.
As the last carol was sung, the big double doors in the back of the sanctuary were swung open. I will never forget the sight they revealed: Snow. I had never seen it before. Snow—just like on television. White, soft, and covering everything, it was, at the time, the most incredible thing I had ever seen.
No one said a word as we all stood there looking. The trees around Beauman’s Pond appeared to be covered with frosting. The cars in the parking lot all looked alike, and the road was not even visible as the snow continued to fall in great swirling sheets.
Finally, from the middle of the group crowded around the door, someone broke the silence. It was Pastor Ward. “Lord,” he said, “we are amazed!”
Not to be outdone, I suppose, my father also spoke. “Lord,” he said, “we are in awe!”
Then we heard another voice. It was Dr. Peyton. “Lord,” he said, “we are stuck!”
It was true. We were snowed in! Now, one must realize that there were only two or three inches on the ground, but to us, it might as well have been two or three feet. Snow in south Alabama is like rain in Los Angeles or grits in New York—an extremely rare occurrence.
Once when I was in the first grade, a teacher thought she saw a flurry. All the kids were packed up and sent home. “A snow storm is dangerous!” I was told. And now, here we were, everyone in town snowbound together in one building. At least we were in church— God save us all!
“I think I can make it,” Tom Henley said. “I can get help.” For a moment we stared at him. Then a voice from the back of the room asked, “Who will you call, Tom? We’re all here.”
Tom thought about that for a bit then said, “I’m going anyway. I’m not spending Christmas here,” and with that he trudged into the parking lot. At first, he couldn’t find his car. As he brushed the snow from several others, Mr. Wooley yelled to him, “Be sure to clean mine, Tom!” We all laughed.
Finally, he found his Oldsmobile, got it to crank, and after bouncing off four other vehicles, Tom returned to the safety of the church. “We’ll never get out of here,” he said. “We’re doomed.”
“Well, I might have gotten through,” Miss Luna said, “if you hadn’t knocked my truck into the ditch!”
“Next time don’t park by the ditch,” he replied.
“I wouldn’t be here at all,” Miss Luna fumed, “if you Methodists hadn’t wanted to show off your big church. We should have ignored the invitation. God flooded our sanctuary to warn us! He tried to tell us to stay home!”
“Listen here, you old lady. . .” he said as he started toward her.
“Tom!” a voice rang out. It was Pastor Ward. “None of that now. . . . Everyone, please, come back in and settle down.”
For a while we all just sat there. What would people in Minnesota do in this situation, we wondered. Charles Raymond Floyd began to cry. Maybe because he was scared or maybe because Phillip Wilson told him that Santa Claus would be skipping us this year. I was scared too. Some of the adults began to pick up the argument that Tom and Miss Luna had begun. They bickered about what to do and who got us into this mess in the first place and whether or not anybody had food we could ration. People were nervous, and they were beginning to take it out on each other.
Suddenly, everyone grew silent. Someone was singing.
“Come, they called him, pa rum pa pum pum.”
Where was that coming from? We looked at each other.
“A new born King to see, pa rum pa pum pum.”
There it was again, a tiny voice, from the corner of the church.
“Our finest gifts to bring, pa rum pa pum pum.”
We crept closer to the voice. It was so soft, yet it cut through our tension and irritability like a knife.
“To lay before the King, pa rum pa pum pum, rum pa pum pum, rum pa pum pum.”
It was Jill Perkins, Kevin’s younger sister, daughter of Haywood and Louise. In the midst of the squabbling and worry, the five-year- old had crawled under a pew and was singing her favorite Christmas carol.
As we gathered around her, Pastor Ward urged, “Keep singing, honey.” And she did.
“Come, they called him, pa rum pa pum pum.”
Soon, we all joined in. Those who didn’t know the words kept the beat with a steady
“prrum, prrum, prrum, prrum.”
It was a magical moment. People who rarely spoke to each other were smiling and holding hands. I looked at my mother—she had tears in her eyes. Over and over, we sang the song until finally it was quiet. Pastor Ward took a deep breath. “And a little child shall lead them,” he said.
“Joy to the world, the Lord is come. . .” someone sang and everyone joined in. We sang for hours that Christmas Eve, and I remember noticing after a while that it no longer seemed cold. There was a warmth in that place that night that will last a lifetime. It was a flame rekindled by a little girl who reminded us of how much we really love each other, how much we really care.
As I lay my head in my mother’s lap and drifted off to sleep, the last thing I heard was my mom and dad singing. Their voices mingled with those of other parents who were also holding their sleeping children.
“Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but our fire is so delightful. And since we’ve no place to go—let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”
This blog post is Chapter 20 from Andy’s classic collection of short stories Return to Sawyerton Springs.
Purchase a copy before Dec. 22 and get another free!
26 Comments
1. Sarah:
December 16, 2011 @ 4:37 PM
"As usual, you make me laugh and you make me cry Andy! I gave this book to each of my three brothers, my Dad, my Aunt Ruth, and one of my best friends for Christmas last year - we all LOVE you!
Thanks for keeping it clean and reminding us that the important things in life are not THINGS, but people."
2. Ann Hughes:
December 16, 2011 @ 4:46 PM
"Andy, this is one of my favorites. It sounds so much like you .
Merry Christmas to you and your family. Ann Hughes GJH Dothan,AL"
3. lorraine:
December 16, 2011 @ 5:07 PM
"This was a great laugh...wonderful!"
4. Amy Robinette Gamble:
December 16, 2011 @ 5:25 PM
"Thank you, Andy for such a wonderful story about Christmas! I just received my order from you a few hours ago and included it is was this book! I can hardly wait to start reading it before I go to bed! Merry Christmas to you and Polly and your fine sons. Y'all made my year extra special when you came to Dad's. Merry Christmas!"
5. David Guthrie:
December 16, 2011 @ 5:53 PM
"Thanks Andy. At the end of a long week and Friday that was just what I needed to get me in the spirit of heading out and running a few Christmas errands. Love you Brother!"
6. Mike O'Neill:
December 16, 2011 @ 11:02 PM
"Christmas, 1967. I had watched the news coverage of the Detroit Riots at the end of July and resisted the travel plans that had me driving through Detroit in December. I was on my way to Toronto to accept a job offer and thought I should stop in the Motor City to visit an old friend, and classically alcoholic Irish bartender, since I knew something of his condition and was fairly sure it would be my last chance to see him.
“The Detroit Riots,” were sometimes called the “12th Street Riots,” but that did nothing to describe the scope of the violence. On the other hand, it said much about the segregation and the racism. It also failed to locate this riot in time. It ignored the fact of the riot of 1863 and another in 1943. It makes it too easy to see the riot of 1967 as somehow an oddity. It wasn’t.
I came to Detroit in December and found Tommy’s tiny apartment on Philip Street, just inside the city limits. It was a one-bedroom on the second of two stories; just four rooms if you count the bathroom. Tom made the most of the space with both a fold out bed in the couch and an old Murphy bed that dropped out of a double closet. Add those to his own single bed and he could sleep five. I think he took pride in always having a space for any fellow bartenders who had a few too many to get home. That was Tom. As soon as the Detroit weather began to carry a nip, so too did Tommy. He always wore an old WWII greatcoat that draped down nearly to his ankles and could easily have accommodated a man twice his size. I remember the first night I was awake when he came in from work. He went directly to the kitchen, turned the burners on the stove, and set about creating his snack of the evening. Only then would he begin to empty the pockets of the coat. Small 7-Up bottles, one after another, would appear from inner pockets throughout the coat. There must have been close to a Fifth and it was repeated nightly.
After something cooked, always hot, and the contents of a few of the bottles, Tom was off to his bedroom. The door was always closed and not because I was not alone, but had been accompanied to Detroit by a young lady and we occupied the living room. Once or twice I had to wake Tom for an early shift the next morning and discovered a lumpy mound on his bed. On the coldest of nights the window was fully open and Tom was completely zipped into a sleeping bag, head and all.
That was five months after the 1967 riot. The tension was still thick; and it is not much better now, over forty years later.
Christmas Eve overtook us. An old Catholic church, a couple of blocks into Grosse Pointe Park, was the closest. I don’t know how we decided to go. She was not churchy and I had been a rare attendee since deciding the seminary was not my calling back in ’64. But we went. We walked side by side, not touching, not really together, just there at the same time. It was midnight Mass, overcast and bitter cold. The lights from the close set houses offset the absence of residential street lighting.
But the church. The church was brightly lit with outside floods and Christmas lights. A life size manger scene decorated half the lawn. Lights were hung in all the trees. Carols drifted from beneath the large doors closed against the cold. It was not a formal choir, but unmatched voices singing with remarkable gusto. Adeste Fidelis. Her gloved hand gripped mine. It was not devotion. It was a question. Do we really want to go in?
We did. It wasn’t the church of today. There were no volunteer greeters. A few people hanging their coats glanced at us as we entered. There may have been a welcoming smile or two. I don’t remember now. We found a spot, at the back of course. There was some residual Catholicism in us.
I was home.
It didn’t register at the time. I did not receive Communion. It had been too long and I was too arrogant. I still believed that somehow I could actually deserve the Body of Christ if I engaged in some sort of miraculous cleaning up of my act. What a fool, but Tom had told me more than once how much God loved fools and drunks. Someone young sang part of the Mass in Latin. Mass ended with more carols. Maybe it was O Holy Night, or Silent Night, or Little Town of Bethlehem. I don’t remember the carol. I remember crying quietly.
The walk back to Tommy’s apartment was different somehow; not dramatic, just different. It had started to snow during Mass. She held my hand all the way back and I held hers. It wasn’t love, but it was a connection.
I never went to Toronto. I have been a “Detroiter” for forty-four years now. I love this old beat up city. The real city with all the suburbs that the legalisms will say are not really part of Detroit. They are. I am.
When Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he knew who we are."
7. Sandy:
December 17, 2011 @ 12:31 AM
"Andy,
What a poignant memory. I was saddened, when I read where you related someone asked, “Who will you call, Tom? We’re all here.” Now, it seems there are way too many people we could call, because they would not be in church with us.
Thank you for sharing. Merry Christmas!
Blessings,
Sandy"
8. Robert:
December 17, 2011 @ 12:40 AM
"Perhaps every one should experience something like this. Wouldn't the world be a better place."
9. Cathy HIlde:
December 17, 2011 @ 12:56 AM
"I loved this story! Wonderful"
10. Tim Harrison:
December 17, 2011 @ 7:29 AM
""The Return to Sawyerton Springs" is the funniest book I've ever read! I laughed out loud countless times while reading it in bed. My wife thought I was nuts!
Blessings to you, Andy, this Christmas. May you receive that Christmas miracle you're hoping for."
11. DW:
December 17, 2011 @ 7:37 AM
"This story reminds me of the Methodist church that I attended growing up. My mother still goes there, I moved up the road to a Baptist church. Small town stories are the best. Thanks Andy for letting us enjoy the ride with you. Merry Christmas."
12. Larry Elevier:
December 17, 2011 @ 10:47 AM
"I was priveleged to sit and have coffee with you in New Orleans once. Been a fan ever since. Andy you have a marvelous talent, never stop making people laugh and touching their hearts. LE"
13. Michael:
December 17, 2011 @ 11:13 AM
"Andy, again I am amazed by your words. I was taken back to Christmas as a child as I read the story to my wife cuddled beside. I could barely read at times for the lump in my throat. Finding your books and thoughts this past year have changed my life. Thank you for this gift. Merry Christmas!"
14. Frances:
December 17, 2011 @ 5:02 PM
"Absolutely beautiful. Thank you Andy for a most wonderful Christmas gift! God's blessings on you and your family this Christmas and all through 2012!"
15. Kathleen Glasscock:
December 17, 2011 @ 5:19 PM
"Andy, thank you for sharing that. It is needed as are so very many of your stories. We need to get back to God and away from the tyranny of our own selfishness and the allure of technology. God bless you this holy day season and may the Lord grant us many more years of listening to your voice in the wilderness. I, for one, want to hear all you have to say. You have spoken to my heart!!"
16. Bonnie:
December 17, 2011 @ 7:52 PM
"Andy, you are my most favourite speaker and God has allowed me the privilege of hearing you 4 times. I have read most of your books and enjoyed each one of them. You have a gift for touching hearts and reaching the place where you make our lives better. Thank you for blessing my life. May God abundantly bless you and your family. Merry Christmas!"
17. Myron Remington:
December 17, 2011 @ 9:41 PM
"Andy, thank you for a delightful portrait of the Christmas spirit. Truly the joy of Christmas is seen in how we respond when things do not go as planned."
18. Susan:
December 18, 2011 @ 12:22 PM
"Oh my Mr. Andrews, you certainly know how to conjure up the images with your writing. You are able to bring tears, smiles and warm memories all with a few amazing words. Thank you so much! Please keep writing and touring to share your messages of love, hope and inspiration."
19. Barbara Rae:
December 19, 2011 @ 4:25 PM
"As always, Andy comes through with a strory that warms the heart and makes you smile! Andy Andrews is one of God's gifts to us that is cherished by millions. Especially by me!!! Thank you Andy and Merry Christmas to you and yours."
20. Mike and Marsha Berglund:
December 19, 2011 @ 6:21 PM
"We love this story and your books. We have so many of them and have given gifts to encourage others. You do warm our hearts, make us laugh, and teach us so many down to earth, valuable life lessons.
God bless you and yours this Christmas and New Year!"
21. Emily Joyner:
December 20, 2011 @ 2:45 PM
"As a girl who hails from South Alabama, or L.A., as some have been known to call it - I thoroughly enjoyed reading this Christmas story!!!! That just shows how folk of different thinking can come together for a common cause and lay all differences aside!! I would love to read more of your writings!
Christmas Blessings"
22. Linda Gower:
December 20, 2011 @ 9:43 PM
"What a wonderful story. As I read the above article I could almost hear Andy reading the story. What a masterful story teller he is. We have the audio version of the book, Return to Sawyerton Springs, just so we can listen to Andy tell the stories. Thanks Andy."
23. Charla A:
December 20, 2011 @ 11:11 PM
"Thank you, thank you, thank you Andy for being such a GREAT story teller!! You ability to tell a storry makes someone NEVER want to leave where you are taking them in that story!! So glad you talked to us all up in Sacramento this past October @WOF & WAY back in February in Nashville! WOW, you are a GIFTED weaver of life in word! Blessings to you in the New Year! C : )"
24. Marilyn Brown:
December 24, 2011 @ 9:07 AM
"No matter what; hard times, war, illness sadness,Christmas is Christmas everywhere. The baby came to us all!
Andy, as usual, you came through with the best! A blessed Christmas to you and yours!"
25. Vickie carpenter:
December 27, 2011 @ 9:34 AM
"Beautiful story to remind us about real Christmas spirit. Maybe we need to be made to slow down more often as we don't willingly do it often enough to enjoy our blessings. At this time when I have not been well for the past weeks which is so out of the ordinary for me, I have begun to see that it has forced the time on me to reflect on priorities and relationships. You have become one of my favorite authors since I heard you speak at a convention. You bring much for us to think about. Thank you."
26. Sherri Rollow:
January 30, 2012 @ 12:03 PM
"Loved this story. Granted, I'm a little late reading it, but all the same. Your story really touched me. Thanks!!!"