Hi, it's David.
My blog has moved here.
Thanks for all the support you've given this site. This was an exercise in writing every week whether I had something to say or not. After a while, the topics became dry and I took a break. My Wordpress blog will not be updated as often and it is more dedicated to writing. Please take the time to visit, read and comment just like before.
Thank you for everything,
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Well graduates, it seems you’ve done it. Congratulations, you’ve got your diploma. Now the real work starts. I’m going to help you out here will some challenging advice.
You’ve grown up immersed in technology which is still growing at an exponential rate. While I don’t realistically foresee a future where we are enslaved by robots, it already seems we’re already slaves, not to technology, but to the culture that’s come with it.
I’m going to issue you a challenge. If you accept it and accomplish it, you will have done something powerful that sets you apart from nearly every other graduate in the western world. It’s breaking the bonds to that culture. Brace yourself, I’m going to tell you what you should do.
Once you’ve got your diploma and twirled your liripoop, here’s what you’re going to do. Don’t take a selfie.
Every kid your age is going to be doing it. You can stand out from the crowd in a radical way. Don’t take a selfie after you’ve graduated. In fact, don’t take one for 12 hours after this ceremony.
Some of you might have ambitions to change the world. You can start by not making it about you. Don’t take a selfie. Others among you might just want to be rich. How are you going to do that? Be different. Don’t take a selfie. Some of you, perhaps many of you, might not know what to do with your life. Start by doing something memorable. Stand with confidence that this moment will endure even if it’s not captured in a digital image. Don’t take a selfie.
If the rest of the world is doing it, stand out and don’t do it. But if this post goes viral, imagine that. What if the class of 2015 could be known as the class that graduated and social media went dark that night? What would the world think of those graduates who thought more of the world than themselves?
Share this post if you believe in something bigger than yourself. Let’s use social media to make it about something other than a collection of images. Let’s make it real this year. #donttakeaselfe
Thursday, April 2, 2015
The Man with the Crown
“He says he’s their king,” a soldier said. Claude went on with his work, fingers moving over the woven leather vest until the hole closed up. He nodded in satisfaction. It was finished. The armor was repaired now.
Laughter burst from outside the courtyard. Claude tried to ignore it. As long as it wasn’t at him, he didn’t mind. Today they had found someone else to torment. Yesterday had been different when one of the big soldiers had taunted Claude about being too weak to lift a spear. Claude had wished he had the strength to stand up to the man. Instead, he had tried to make himself small enough not to be seen. Then the big soldier had stumbled forward as their captain slapped the back of his head. The captain had then reminded the company that Claude was touched from the gods with his talent for repairing the things that they all broke. Those soldiers had the best armor in Jerusalem thanks to Claude so they should show respect, lest their leather weave become weak with holes.
Claude focused on inspecting his work and heard another eruption of laughter. There was a prisoner on trial who claimed to be the King of the Jews. Another revolutionary, Claude supposed. Just another man trying to lead others against Rome. Just another man who would die on a cross and be forgotten.
“You,” a voice said. Claude looked up to see his captain grinning at him. “I have a task for you, boy,” he said. “Come.”
The captain led Claude behind the barracks where the scrub brush grew thick on the slope. He pointed to the dry plants that formed the barb-like thorns that could pierce leather armor.
“Take some of those thorns there,” the captain directed. “Use your skills to weave them into a crown.”
“Yes, a crown like what a king would wear on his head. Make a crown from these thorns. Do it right away. I want it as soon as our king arrives.”
Claude put on his gloves and was careful taking cuttings from the thorny plants. He heard more shouts as he carried the items back to his work bench, this time from the crowds. They seemed to be furious about something. Perhaps they didn’t like this man who called himself king. Well, they would be pleased when they saw him suffer and die. Claude didn’t care for executions. He hoped he would be allowed to return to his normal work once his task was completed.
Claude wouldn’t rush this work. He went slow, bending the sticks and twigs around each other. The thorns pointed in all directions, including inward. This King of the Jews would feel the thorns going into him, but Claude dismissed that thought. The man was a criminal. He deserved what Rome handed down. What’s more, he would welcome death as a release from the suffering.
A thorn penetrated his glove and Claude winced in pain. He pulled off the glove and sucked at his finger for a moment. There was a drop of blood on the thorn and he cursed at it. Then he sighed and put the glove back on. The thorn was only a dry bit of wood. It had no malice and didn’t know what it was doing. It was one of many thorns being shaped into a crown. He worked at it until it was done.
Claude smiled at his finished product. His captain was right to charge him to this. This crown was large and sturdy. His efforts had made something good. He stared at the thorns. Once he wiped the blood from the single one that got him, he couldn’t tell one from any other. They were all alike.
Finally the doors burst open and a group of soldiers marched into the courtyard. They were pulling along a man who held his head up. The man seemed to want to come along. He wasn’t resisting, but they hurried him anyway.
Claude stared at the face of the man. He didn’t look like a king or even a criminal. He looked like any other Jew in the land. But his face, the more Claude looked at the man’s face, the more the man perhaps did look like a king. What was this? Then Claude realized it. This criminal looked like he knew each of these men’s names. When the criminal’s eyes fell on him, Claude shuddered. This man looked at him as if he knew his name and everything about him. Claude dropped his gaze to his work table. The crown was gone.
The captain had hooked the crown with the end of his whip and was carrying it to the man. He lifted the end of his whip and dropped the crown on the man’s head where it sat lightly.
“Hail, King of the Jews,” the captain said, the last words coming out in a laugh.
Then Claude watched as his captain put his whip on both hands and pressed the crown of thorns down hard on the man’s head. Through the guards cheering, Claude heard the man cry out in pain. But when the captain pushed the criminal to the ground, Claude was astounded. The man looked up at the captain into the captain’s eyes with a look of pity. The cheers died down, replaced by angry shouts.
Claude was ordered from his workbench to stand in formation. The man was beaten. Claude tried to watch as little as possible. But all the while, he could never shake the feeling that this condemned man was the one in charge. The captain called orders and the strong men worked the whip. But this man who could barely stand after a while never lost the look that he knew everyone’s name and if he wanted to, he could just walk away.
At last they had enough of the beating. The captain called for assembly to march. Claude looked at the man, torn and hurt, struggling to his feet. The crown was still secure on his head. He had indeed made it well for it to remain on the man’s head. Now the man was beaten and suffering for his crime. It was a harsh punishment indeed. Did this man deserve such torture?
The captain stepped in front of Claude, blocking his view. “Your work was superior, he said. “The crown is well made. You have earned the right to carry this.” The captain handed Claude a sign written in three languages. All Claude knew was his own, which read King of the Jews.
Claude was put out in front and told to hold the sign high. This was the man’s crime. Everyone would see the offence this man had committed and see the condemned man punished severely for it. The population would be taught the consequences of crimes against who ruled.
They started off through the streets of Jerusalem. It would not take long to reach the hills outside the city, but the condemned man moved very slowly. Claude was astounded at how crowded the streets were. It seemed the whole city and more turned out to see this man. Soldiers were positioned in front of Claude to keep the way clear and he held the sign high for all to see. So many people, and so many who did not seem to hate this man. Women and children were crying for him. Several men too, cried for this criminal.
The procession halted. The man had fallen. Claude glanced back and saw the crown still on his head. Then his heart pounded in sorrow. The man would die with the crown still on. Claude had only made it thinking about his craftsmanship and how skilled he was. He had never thought about it being the last and only thing a man wears while he bleeds and dies.
The man spoke to the crowd. Claude could not understand the local dialect. Whatever he said, it seemed to make the women even more sad. Finally another man was pulled from the crowd to help carry the cross through the streets. The walk to the hill outside the city still took a long time.
Once at the hill the soldiers assembled in formation at the base. Some of the crowd pressed against the line of men. Claude was called to the top of the hill with the sign. He stood and held it, not so high anymore, while the man was laid on the cross and nailed down. Claude handed over the sign and it too was nailed to the cross above the man’s bloody head. Then the cross was lifted. Claude was gestured in and he stepped up to assist his fellow soldiers. The cross rose up and then dropped into place.
Claude could not stop himself from looking up at the man with the crown. The man was looking upward at the darkening sky. Then in short gasps, he spoke. Claude wondered what the man said. The words were spoken with the same pity the man had carried throughout the beating and procession. What words could this dying man say? Claude felt he had to know.
Two other condemned criminals hung on crosses and shouted back and forth. At one point, the man with the crown spoke to one of them. When he did that, the criminal, a thief according to his sign, had such a look of peace that Claude wished even harder that he understood the local language.
Who was this man who could give peace to a dying criminal? Who looked on his tormenters with no hate, but pity?
Claude glanced around. Most of the soldiers had been dismissed. There was still the small formation at the top of the hill and now several of the locals had made it up with them. Most of them paid no mind to the Roman Soldiers, only a few looked warily at Claude and the rest. Claude recognized one of the men as a merchant from Arimathea who had traded with them. He would know both the language of the locals and of Rome. Claude considered stepping over to speak to him.
Several of the soldiers shouted up to the man. They told him he may come down now. One of them was wearing the man’s robe. Despite being midday, the sky was growing even darker.
All at once, the man with the crown cried out. At the foot of the cross an old woman began wailing in earnest. Another man put his hand on her shoulder and spoke to her. She shook her head. The man with the crown spoke once again. His words were pained, but still carried strength.
Claude slowly stepped over to the group at the foot of the cross. The sky rumbled. He glanced at the merchant who backed away from him. The captain walked up carrying his spear and looked up at the sky and frowned.
The next time the sky rumbled, the man with the crown cried out. People all around looked up to him and spoke among themselves. Claude looked to his captain who looked concerned. Then the man with the crown shouted and everyone jumped in surprise, even the captain.
“I have heard cries on the battlefield before,” the captain said softly. “That was not a cry for mercy. That,” he pointed up with his spear. “That was a victory cry.”
Claude looked from his captain to the man. Before he could speak he was knocked to the ground. People everywhere cried out as the ground underneath shook. Claude heard the city behind him rumble under the earthquake. He got to his hands and knees and looked up, right into the eyes of the merchant from Arimathea.
The captain offered Claude a hand and pulled him to his feet. The captain’s face was still troubled. Claude reached down and offered the merchant a hand up. Then the three stood together and the captain drew a deep breath.
“Surely,” he said. “This was the Son of God.”
Claude turned to the merchant. “Do you know what he spoke?” he asked.
The merchant looked to Claude and his face softened. “He was calling out to God,” he said.
A wind was picking up and Claude felt drops of rain, or perhaps hail. “I made that crown,” he murmured. “I made that crown of thorns he wore when he died.” Claude felt his voice break.
The merchant frowned and said nothing. It seemed the connection between them was done. The man bowed his head. Claude saw his captain raising his spear to the man with the crown. Claude and the merchant both turned their backs. There was a cry of shock from the men and women at the cross.
Claude began to feel tears in his eyes. He did not feel like a soldier of the Roman Empire then. He felt like someone who had made sure this man died in pain.
“He said something else,” Claude heard. He looked over to the merchant whose face looked just as pained. They looked to where the cross was being lowered. Rain was falling hard and most of the soldiers were busy. Once the cross was low enough, a young man started to work the crown loose. It took some effort to get it off and the man’s fingers were bleeding when he finally got it off and flung the crown away.
The merchant looked at Claude as he watched. “He said this,” he told him. “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”
The man had spoken words of forgiveness? Could it be that the horrible thing Claude had done was forgiven? He would have to think about this.
As he left the hill, Claude looked in the direction that the crown had been flung. He couldn’t see it anymore.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
I quit blogging, but I didn’t quit writing. For a couple of years I wrote and posted every week. I would ponder what to write about and every Monday I would compose and post a blog here. Usually the topic was just something I was thinking about. It was rarely poignant enough to share and sometimes quite dull. But I kept at it because it was part of my writing regimen. But around the middle of last year, I just stopped.
I had to be truthful. I told myself I was blogging to stay in the habit of writing, but there was plenty I could do to maintain the habit other than the blog. I was really blogging for the attention. And once in a great while I would post a winning blog that people might read and comment on and that just fueled me. And I realized that if I was writing for attention, then I needed to change what I did.
I kept writing. I spent a few months revising the hardcopy of Sidewinder. Then in October I participated in a challenge to write 500 words a day and post them on my blog, which I did. In November I wrote a first draft of a new novel for National Novel Writing Month. When that was done, I started into a 4th draft of Sidewinder.
I wanted to finish it by the end of February, but it went a lot slower than I thought it would. But then finally I hit a pace and started writing every day. I only missed a couple of days and in the end had a 51 day writing streak. I finished the 4th draft of my novel yesterday.
Now what? My biggest fear is that I will fall out of the habit of writing. This could be especially easy to do this week when I’m getting less sleep due to my busy work week, the week before Easter. So I managed to get up this morning with the thought that I would write a blog post. I thought it would recap everything so far about Sidewinder, instead it’s been a recap of my writing life of Sidewinder? I want to share about it. Maybe tomorrow. I have a lot to consider for it. I’m in uncharted waters. A 4th draft of a novel, not ready for publication. So again, now what?
Sunday, December 21, 2014
The Reason for the Season
“What are you looking at?” Joe asked his reflection in the water. The image of a brooding twenty-something stared up at him over the bridge rail, rippling, breaking and reforming. The water looked cold. His reflection looked just as broken and mixed up as he felt. He wished he had a rock to throw in. He wished he had the courage to jump. One might say it took more courage not to jump and just endure, but he was not jumping mostly because that water looked icy cold. That, and he wasn’t really that miserable, was he?
He pushed back from the cold railing and looked across the bridge both ways. Empty. Not even a vehicle. Why did he think that there would even be another pedestrian? Everyone was home or in church doing Christmas Eve stuff. Even the shops were closed tonight. Stupid little town with its little population. Stupid December.
He looked back at the dark water below with the rippling figure looking up at him. He knew he wouldn’t have the courage to climb over the rail and… then what? Let go? No, the water was cold. And you know what? He still had friends and a family. Parents who thought he would be born on Christmas so they picked out the name Joseph and went ahead and named him that when he was born weeks early. A big brother whose birthday was in May. Did it get any better than May? What was worse than a December birthday? Well, a December birthday for a young adult was worse. Too old to have a fuss made. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. Christmas would just be worse. What did it matter now?
What did anything matter? What was tomorrow, other than another cold day in a cold month in a cold year of a cold life?
Joe pulled off his coat and dropped it on the ground. But then he thought that if he did jump, then the coat would be better to have on and weigh him down.
What was he thinking? He leaned hard on the railing, looked down at the reflection and asked: “What are you thinking?”
“What are you thinking?” said a voice behind him.
Joe whirled around and there was an old man next to him. He had a scraggly white beard and was not much taller than Joe. He was bundled in a long brown overcoat and an old aviator’s fur cap, complete with goggles over his forehead. He stood there looking like an old war flying ace at Joe with the kind of smile someone has when they’re about to reveal a secret.
“Wow, you scared me,” Joe said. “Where’d you come from?”
“What are you doing?” the man asked. He looked over the bridge railing as if to see if Joe was looking at something in particular. Then he nodded as if in understanding.
“No, I wasn’t going to jump,” Joe said. “I just came out here to think, okay?”
“Of course,” the man said. “I’m Donavan.” His voice was gravelly and careworn. He extended a gloved hand.
Joe gave it a shake. The man’s grip was like a football player’s and he almost winced.
“Sorry,” Donavan said. “It feels good to shake hands with someone.”
Joe looked him over. The man was dressed in old clothes but they looked warm. He had all his teeth and he didn’t look like the stereotypical alkies that hung around town. He still might be homeless. Might as well ask.
“Have you got a place to go tonight?” Joe asked.
“As a matter of fact I do,” Donavan said.
“I mean, like a home? Or a shelter?”
The old man nodded. “I have a place,” he said. “But right now? I’m supposed to be here, Joe.”
Joe backed up a step. “Did someone send you to look for me?” he asked. “Is that how you know my name?”
Donavan nodded. “Not who you think,” he said.
Joe stared at him. He heard the rushing water below him and felt the cold wind on his nose.
“This isn’t funny,” he finally said. “Coming out and doing something like this. Just because I’m on a bridge on Christmas Eve, you think you can come out and do a “It’s a Wonderful Life” on me or something? What, are you going to tell me that you’re an angel? Are you going to tell me that I’m going to be visited by three ghosts tonight?”
Donavan had been smiling but then frowned. “You’re mixing up your Christmas stories there, Joe,” he said, then he laughed. “The guy on the bridge was given a look at what the world would be like if he had never been born.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. He turned from the rail and stared walking. “I’m going home now. Let’s just say you saved me from jumping and I’ll be all happy and… and ‘the end’, okay?”
He took several steps and turned around. Donavan just stood and stared, not following. He smiled and raised his hand in a little wave of: yes, I’m still here. Who sent him? How did this man know his name?
“Why did you come out here?” Joe asked.
“Why did you?” Donavan asked back.
Joe was about to say how he just wanted to come out to think, but he stopped. This stranger was here, who knew if he’d see him again? So he walked back and told him how he had just had a bad month. He had graduated high school a year and a half back and was trying to figure out what to do with his life. He was still living at home. The world seemed to be just going on without him and he felt disconnected. And his birthday had been a disappointment.
“I know it’s selfish and everything,” Joe said. “But I miss being a kid and having a fuss made over me. And Christmas will be the same thing, you know? It’s just not fun anymore. I know it’s wrong to feel this way, but… I don’t know, it’s just getting me down.”
“I hear you,” Donavan said. “This time of year gets people down, Joe. It happens to a lot of us.”
Joe nodded and looked at the water below. Donavan’s reflection stood next to his. “I hate Christmas,” Joe muttered.
“So you’re the type who needs to be visited by the ghosts,” Donavan said. “To find the true meaning of Christmas.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Joe smiled. “What are you going to do? Snap your fingers and take me into Christmas past? Donavan, I know the true meaning of Christmas.” He made finger quotes. “The ‘reason for the season’ right?”
For the first time, Donavan’s face fell. “No you don’t,” he said. Then he turned impish. “Where would you want to go if you could visit somewhere in time Joe? Christmas past?”
“Okay,” Joe said. “If you could do it, send me to December 25th, year zero.”
Donavan opened his mouth, then closed it. He grinned again. “Snap my fingers, right?” he said.
“Go for it,” Joe said. “Oh, and take me to the fields outside of Bethlehem, right? If we traveled in time but not space, you know this bridge would be gone?”
“So would the river,” Donavan said. “Get your coat.”
As soon as Joe grabbed his coat from the ground the air suddenly turned icy. The ground tilted. He fell over backward into tall grass.
Joe barked in surprise and realized that he felt terror as he scrambled to his feet. Everything was out of focus. There was a blurry moon over head. He shook his head and watched his surroundings pull into focus like adjusting a pair of binoculars.
He was standing on an empty hillside. The stars and moon lit around him enough that he could see hills and rocks. There were no buildings in sight. No sheep or shepherds either. The air was colder and dryer here, but there was a cleanness to it. And he had never seen so many stars.
A voice spoke behind him and he fell again.
“Stop that!” Joe shouted. But it wasn’t Donavan. This man was shorter and thinner than him, maybe about his age. He had dark whiskers, not really a beard. He wore a long robe and something like a turban on his head and he was holding what looked like a blanket. He spoke again and Joe realized it wasn’t English.
Joe got to his feet again and looked at the man. He could be a shepherd, or anyone from around here. But where was here? Had he traveled in time and space?
“I fell off the bridge didn’t I?” Joe said out loud.
The man shook his head.
“You understand me?” Joe asked stumbling forward. The ground was uneven and rough.
“I thought you would like to hear Aramaic,” the man said. “For authenticity, you know?”
“Call me Yeshua.”
“Okay, Yeshua. Where am I?”
“Right were you told Donavan to send you. These are the hills outside Bethlehem. The Julian Calendar hasn’t been created yet but it’s four days after the winter solstice, two-thousand, thirteen years earlier than it was before.”
Okay, Joe thought. He had fallen off the bridge. This was a drowning hallucination. He was about to run out of oxygen and the last thing he was seeing was this. He turned to his companion.
“So where are the shepherds?” he asked. “Is the angel about to appear?”
“No,” Yeshua said. “It’s winter here. The shepherds have moved to a warmer climate for now.”
“They weren’t here?” Joe said. “But the angel came and… so wait, did that not really happen?”
He saw Yeshua smile in the moonlight. “It happened right here, Joe. Three summers ago. This hillside lit up like it was daytime. Angels brought the message to the shepherds. They went to Bethlehem and saw the child just as they had been told. But it didn’t happen on this day, this year.”
The man pointed off toward the hills. “He’s got the same name as me,” he said. “It’s not an uncommon name. The family stayed there until just a short time ago. Now he’s in Egypt.”
Joe nodded and pulled on his jacket. “Why did you bring me here then?”
“Besides it’s what you asked?” Yeshua said. “You need to know the reason for the season. Let’s start by erasing some things. There are a lot of legends surrounding the story of our Savior’s birth. This would be December 25th, year zero. But it’s not his birthday. And it’s still early in the story. The Good News has barely started to spread.”
It was very quiet then. Even the wind blew almost silently. Joe looked at the hills in the clean white moonlight and tried to imagine sheep and shepherds. Was this really the place? Yeshua sighed and lifted his arms. He let go of the blanket and it dropped to the ground.
“Here is where the news was first told. Tidings of great joy. Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth Peace. Goodwill to all men.”
He lowered his hands and picked up the blanket.
“That’s what Christmas is all about, Joe,” he said.
Joe felt laughter bubbling up inside him. What kind of dying vision was this?
Yeshua held up his hand. “But,” he said. “It’s not the reason for the season.”
“Jesus is the reason for the season,” Joe said.
“That sure sounds right. But no.”
Joe stood and looked at the night sky. Whatever was happening, it seemed real. And he would just let it happen. It was better than standing on a bridge looking at his reflection. He felt like walking to Bethlehem. But the ground was difficult to walk on. He wasn’t dressed right and he didn’t speak the language. Plus it was colder than he had ever remembered feeling. And he knew there was more he wanted to see.
“Can we go now?” he asked.
Yeshua smiled. “To Christmas present?”
Joe nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Take me to the present, and show me what there is there.”
“Someone else will be there to meet you,” Yeshua said.
“Right,” Joe said. “The ghost of Christmas Present. Well let’s go.”
He stumbled and fell again. The ground under him was flat and hard like cement. Light was all around him, out of focus and swimming again.
Then he heard noise. There was a dull turmoil of voices, music and commotion. The smells of people hit him next. He had only been on the clear hillside for a short while, but now the odors were overwhelming. His vision focused. It was a shopping mall. Decorations and lights were everywhere. People seemed to move around and past him, paying no heed to a young man crumpled on the floor. He wondered if they could even see him.
A big beaming man moved through the crowd. He had on a powder blue suit and tie. His hair was a styled blond mop and he was carrying what looked like a Bible.
“Praise the Lord, I say yes!” he trumpeted. His “yes” came out in more than one syllable like a TV preacher. In fact, everything about this man said TV preacher. He stopped at Joe and reached his hand down.
“Merry Christmas my brother!” he shouted. “Hallelujah!”
Joe let the man help him up. No-one else seemed to see him.
“Are you my…”
“I truly am your ghost of Christmas present, praise the Lord,” the man said. “Brother Jed Rich at your service.”
Joe sighed. His mind must be fading fast to cook up an image like this.
“And you’re Joe,” Brother Jed went on. “Hallelujah, it’s good to meet you. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Joe mumbled. He looked around at burdened shoppers rushing past. Children of all ages and all moods were everywhere. Kids were singing and dancing alongside parents, others were wailing and being dragged. Some moody looking teens stood outside a music store and surveyed the scene with dramatic contempt.
“The mall, huh?” he asked. “I’m supposed to find the true meaning of Christmas here?”
Brother Jed leaned back and smiled even wider. “What do you see?” he asked.
“I see the season at its worst,” Joe said. “Sure people are happy, some of them at least. But look at the commercialism. This is totally what Christmas is not about.”
Brother Jed took Joe by the arm and they started to walk. He pointed into shops where clerks looked exhausted. Lines extended out into walkways. A family went by with the mom holding a crying baby and pushing a stroller full of packages.
“Commerce,” Brother Jed said. “Christmas creates a large percentage of business revenue for the whole year. Without the holiday season, merchants couldn’t pay their workers. The economy would collapse.”
Joe walked along and waited for Brother Jed to go on. Any time now, he ought to explain his point. Christmas was not about commerce. But Brother Jed just kept walking.
Finally Joe stopped. “There’s no sign of anything Christmas here,” he told Jed. “All the signs say ‘happy holidays’ or ‘season’s greetings’. The music is secular. There are no decorations with anything about the real meaning of Christmas.”
“Come along over here Joe,” Brother Jed said. “I want to show you something.”
They walked up to a coffee shop and Brother Jed pointed to a window display, then went into the shop. Joe looked in the window and saw a nativity.
Well that’s nice, Joe thought. Except wait, is that Santa Claus?
The nativity set in the window had painted plastic figurines. There was Mary and Joseph, animals, Shepherds and Wise Men. And by the manger with the Baby Jesus, there was a kneeling figure of Santa Claus, bowing in reverence.
Brother Jed came out of the store with two coffees and his Bible tucked under his arm. He chuckled.
“I’m not sure I know what to think about that,” Joe said. “I don’t know if it makes sense.”
Brother Jed handed Joe a coffee. “It will make sense,” he said and sipped at his own cup.
“How did you get these?” Joe asked.
“That’s not important Joe. Look around. Tell me what you see.”
“Santa Claus at a manger. And look, someone also put in a robot figurine too.”
Brother Jed turned and looked at the display. He pointed and laughed. “It’s him,” he said. “Now turn around Joe. What do you see out there.”
Joe turned and looked at the mall.
“A bunch of people running around, buying stuff.”
“Me too. Is this Christmas to you?”
“No,” Joe said.
Brother Jed took a long drink. Finally he lowered his cup and kept his eyes on Joe. “Really?” he said. “If you saw a picture of that, you would title it: ‘A mall at Christmastime’, right?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “This is what Christmas has become.”
“Exactly!” Brother Jed exclaimed. “Hallelujah! This is what men have created Joe. This is two-thousand, some-odd years from the night where nothing happened on that hillside in Bethlehem, don’t you see? Let them celebrate and spend money and do what they want to the holiday. Do you know what Joe?”
“Praise Jesus!” Brother Jed thrust his arms in the air and coffee splashed on the window behind him. “This isn’t what our Lord created, Brother. It’s a creation of mankind. But no matter what idols they raise up, hallelujah, they can’t ever lose the reason for the season! It’s all around us! It’s everywhere!”
Joe took a drink of his coffee. It was perfect. The shoppers around him had not seen Brother Jed’s shouting. He didn’t even get it himself. The mall had seemed so frantic and miserable. But now, he didn’t know. Brother Jed’s outpouring of joy had made everyone look just a little less depressing. Still, he wasn’t sure what this cheerful man was going on about when he talked about The Reason for the Season. And he felt that it should be obvious.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he said.
“My pleasure brother,” Jed said. “Now where are we off to now?”
“I don’t know. The future? Christmas to come?”
“Why not?” said Jed. He glanced at the nativity behind him, then back to Joe. “Hang on to that coffee, I’ll just snap my fingers, right?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I guess this is goodbye. I’ll have another ghost to show me around the next place?”
“That’s right,” Jed said. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“For me too,” said Joe, surprised to realize he meant it. “I didn’t expect someone like you here.”
“Wait until you meet your next host, or ghost,” said Jed. And he burst out laughing.
Joe gripped his coffee with both hands. If he fell again he wanted to be ready. The mall went out of focus, and he began to sense he was outdoors. Things were flying around.
I’m done falling down, Joe thought. His vision swam and he crouched low to keep from falling. But he didn’t fall. The ground under him eased into focus and he was standing on a bright sidewalk. He heard whooshing sounds, almost like cars on wet pavement, but not quite. He slowly raised his head and looked around.
He was in a city. Gleaming buildings of steel and glass towered into the sky, pyramid shaped, rounded, and other unbelievable shaped that seemed to defy gravity. Between the skyscrapers were lower buildings in the same artistic designs connected by flowing pedestrian bridges.
And there were flying vehicles. Lines of them were all over the sky moving at different speeds, the higher the faster. The vehicles looked to be cars, trucks, busses and even tiny things that might be motorcycles.
Close to Joe was what appeared to be a landing area where flying cars touched down to creep away. Across the road from him was an expanse of flat green grass with people walking or sitting on benches or under trees.
“Fascinating,” said a voice next to him. “Is it not?”
Joe had felt too dazzled by what he saw to feel surprised by his host-ghost sneaking up next to him. But when he turned and looked, he was astounded.
Standing next to him was a full sized version of the robot he had seen in the nativity display. It was a human shape, but made of some shining slivery metal. The robot stood almost a foot taller than Joe with luminous eyes that flashed red and green.
“Greetings Joe,” the robot said. “I am Roger, the Christmas Robot.”
Joe stared. He tried to think of something, anything to say. His idea that this was some dying hallucination was harder to believe. Maybe this was heaven now?
“Where am I?” he was able to say in a small voice.
“You are in Alpha City,” the robot said, not quite in a monotone. “The Anchor City of the West Coast of what was once called North America.”
Joe watched a group of kids go by on flying skateboards. Each wore a helmet with antennae.
“When is this?” Joe asked. “How far in the future is this?”
“Let us say that this is the twenty-third century.”
Joe kept looking around. The air felt almost as clean as it had on the ancient hillside. People walked past him, in and out of nearby buildings. No-one seemed frantic or stressed.
“Roger,” Joe said. “Is it Christmas?”
“Negative,” the robot said. “The holiday is no longer observed.”
Joe felt his heart sink. “Why?” he asked.
“Hunger and disease have been eradicated,” Roger explained. “The human population has all of their needs met. They no longer have the need for the belief in a higher power.”
“Oh no,” Joe said. Then he looked at the robot. “So wait, why are you a Christmas Robot?”
Roger’s head spun completely around and looked back at Joe. “I am to greet you here,” he said. “I am your host, do you not remember?”
“So,” Joe said. “There isn’t any Christmas in the future?”
Roger didn’t say anything. Joe kept looking at the robot, but it was quiet and still.
“Roger?” Joe said.
“Do you like the future?” the robot asked.
Joe looked up and for the first time, noticed that there were people flying in jet-packs. Four people flew low overhead and one of them, a little girl, waved. Joe raised his hand in a feeble wave.
“It’s pretty cool,” Joe said. “With no diseases or hunger. But no Christmas?”
“Do you not feel that is an adequate trade-off?” the robot said. “No more pain and suffering, people are happy and content.”
Joe walked to a bench and stood looking at it. It looked like it was made of bubble wrap.
“I don’t know,” he said. “No-one believes in God anymore? What kind of future is that?” He turned to sit on the bench and whooped in surprise as he found himself sitting on the ground.
“Joe,” the robot said. “Can you not be taken anywhere without falling to the ground?”
“I was just,” Joe said. “What happened to the bench?”
“It is not there.”
“I can see that now,” Joe said. “What kind of future has disappearing seats?”
Roger moved to Joe and extended a metal hand. “Nothing here is real,” he said.
Joe reached for the robot’s hand and missed. His hand passed through the metal hand. He looked up at the robot, and then at everything around him.
“Nothing here is real? But back at the mall I drank coffee.”
“The present is real Joe,” said Roger. “But the future does not exist.”
Joe got to his feet. “So what’s all this?” he asked, gesturing around.
The robot followed Joe’s pointing. “It is but a vision of what you think the future might be like,” he said. “But no-one knows what might happen years from now. Humans can only speculate what the future may be like. But no-one truly knows. Whether or not there will be jet-packs and flying cars in a shining future or global Armageddon, we do not know.”
Joe looked at the flying cars. This had been what he thought the future might look like. But it wasn’t definite.
“So this might not happen?” he asked.
“Difficult to see,” the robot said and its eyes flashed bright green. “Always in motion is the future.”
Joe blinked at Roger. “But what does this have to do with the meaning of Christmas?” he said.
“The reason for the season Joe,” Roger said and pointed with both hands. “It is still here.”
The reason for the season. Joe nodded. “They can refuse to believe, but Jesus is still here?”
“Joe, stop saying that Jesus is the reason for the season.”
Joe took in a gasp of air. He was back on the bridge. The future city was gone and it was night again. His nose started running with the cold air. He looked around for who had spoken. He had recognized the voice.
Joe looked around. The bridge was much darker than it had been however long ago he had stood here. The sky was darker too and the clouds were low. Still, someone was close by.
“Donavan?” Joe called.
“At your service,” the figure called and stepped closer. Now Joe saw that he was dressed differently.
“Donavan,” he said. “You’re dressed as…”
“Only dressed as,” Donavan said. “Not him.”
Donavan stood next to Joe dressed as Santa Claus. All at but the Santa hat that he held in his hand. He still had the aviator cap and goggles on his head.
“Santa Claus is like the vision of the future you created,” Donavan said. “Only as real as people’s imaginations and hopes.”
Joe looked around the bridge. It had warmed up since had stood here awhile ago. And now he noticed that the lights on the bridge were out. He looked at Donavan and shrugged.
“So, is this the end?” he asked. “Am I supposed to wake up now and dance for joy because I know the true meaning of Christmas?”
“You’re not supposed to do that Joe,” Donavan said. “And you’re not done yet.”
“But we’re back, right?”
“Not quite,” Donavan said. “This is the present, in the way that it’s just 20 years back from where we first started.”
Joe looked around the bridge again. The lights weren’t out, they just weren’t there.
“Okay then,” he said. “What now?”
“What have we learned so far, Joe?”
“Well,” Joe said. “Jesus wasn’t born on Christmas, the malls are still crowded and there might be no Christmas in the future.”
“Okay,” Donavan said. “We erased some misconceptions. We saw that man has created what most of us know as Christmas, and you were shown that even if Christmas didn’t exist, the Reason for the Season still would.”
“Ah,” Joe said. “That’s what we’ve learned today. And is there still more to learn?”
Donavan smiled. He sighed and wrung the Santa hat in his hands. “Let me tell you a story, Joe. Let’s walk.”
The turned away from the railing and started off toward town.
“Twenty years back,” Donavan began. “I was playing the part of Santa Claus for Christmas party. It was in the town about 10 miles that way.” He pointed behind them. Joe knew the town.
“Kids were lined up and each would come up to me. They asked for popular toys and for timeless things like dolls and cars and building blocks, the usual. Then a little boy climbed up on my lap. He was smiling and almost panting for joy, like he had waited all year for this. He threw his arms around me. Joe, that’s why I took that job, for those kinds of moments.”
They reached the end of the bridge and Donavan stopped and looked back over as if seeing the town he’d been in 20 years ago.
“I asked the little boy what he wanted for Christmas,” he said. “And he told me that he wanted his brother Brian to come back from Iraq. I asked him why his brother was there and… And the boy told me his brother had gone there two years ago, and didn’t come home.”
Donavan stood and looked at the hat twisted in his hands. “Mamma and Daddy had told him his brother wasn’t coming back,” he said. “But he was asking Santa Claus for his brother back. I didn’t know what to say. They train you for things like this, tell the child that this is something he needs to talk to a grownup they love about it. But they don’t train you for the shock and the heartache. I almost started to cry right there Joe.”
Donavan dabbed his eyes with the hat and nodded. Then he continued. “I told him that if Mamma and Daddy said Brian wasn’t coming back then he needed to talk to them about it. And then the little boy told me that he had. He said ‘that’s what you told me last year.’ I didn’t get it at first. But then I realized that the boy had asked Santa the year before. And the year before that. Desert Storm had been two years back. Joe, this little boy asked Santa Claus each year for his brother back. And each year it didn’t happen. And then the boy would faithfully ask again. His faith wasn’t shaken, he believed that he could just keep asking…”
Donavan’s voice broke. “And maybe this would be the year Brian came back,” he said.
Joe watched the old Santa Claus bow his head and take a long, ragged breath. Then Donavan looked back up.
“I took the boy off my lap,” he said. “And walked out. I left the building and just started walking. All I could think about was how I didn’t want to be the one who finally destroyed this little boy’s faith. The boy had been so full of hope and joy. Sooner or later he would get that his brother really wasn’t ever coming back and that his faith didn’t mean anything. I didn’t want a part of it. So I just walked away.”
Donavan looked over Joe’s shoulder in the direction of the bridge. Then he moved his hand in a beckoning gesture and started walking again. Joe caught up and walked next to him.
“I walked out of town,” Donavan said. “Just trudged along in my Santa suit, across the bridge and into the next town.”
They walked for a few minutes until they passed the gas station at the edge of downtown. And there was the church. Donavan stopped and Joe stood next to him.
“I got this far,” Donavan said. Then he started off toward the front of the churchyard. Joe followed him.
There was a small crowd of people around in a circle with a soft light shining. A few men were taking pictures. Donavan led Joe up to the crowd and they found a gap and looked through. It was a live nativity. Children were dressed as Christmas characters and gathered in a small open set that looked like a stable. The scene seemed to have everything. There was Mary and Joseph, shepherds, wise men and even children dressed as animals. A small choir of angels stood nearby singing “What Child is this?”
Donavan spoke quietly. “I stood looking at the nativity, knowing that somehow it had to make sense. That the meaning of Christmas was there somewhere. And then a young man came up and told me. He shared his heart with me, and that’s all it took. I was so broken, Joe. But the power of someone’s personal testimony is not to be taken lightly. God’s love became real to me again. I got down on my knees right there and thanked The Lord.”
Donavan had the warmest smile Joe had seen yet. He turned and pointed to Mary and the baby she held.
“Of course Mary didn’t wear blue, the Magi didn’t appear at the birth, but what does that matter. Look at the joy those kids have.”
Joe saw a girl dressed as an angel smiling with utter joy.
And there Joe,” Donavan whispered. He pointed to the baby. “That is the reason for the season.”
“Baby Jesus,” Joe whispered back. “That’s what I’ve been saying…”
There was a commotion in the crowd and people moved back. Joe looked to see a man in a Santa suit stepping up to the crowd. It was Donavan, looking the same as the other Donavan next to him except for the aviator cap.
“That’s you,” Joe whispered.
Donavan nodded. “Twenty years ago,” he said. “You need to go talk to me.”
“He’s hurting. I’m hurting. It’s that time of year that people hurt and forget the reason for the season. Everyone here can see you, Joe. But not me, not this time. The me of twenty years ago needs someone to talk to him. I need someone to tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Donavan, I can’t do that,” Joe said. “I don’t have the magic that you have. I can’t travel through time with him.”
“Just talk,” Donavan said. “Tell me the reason for the season.”
Joe stood with his feet planted on the cold ground and looked from one Santa to the other. No. He was standing on a bridge contemplating his life. This man showed up and then what? Had he really traveled through time? Or was he at the bottom of the cold river right now hallucinating this whole thing?
“The reason for the season,” Joe said. “That baby Jesus Mary’s holding over there? Donavan, I don’t get it.”
Donavan was shaking his head. He looked at the baby and back to Joe. Then Joe saw it was a real baby.
“That’s a real baby,” he whispered. “Baby Jesus is real, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
Donavan kept smiling. “Look at the smallest shepherd,” he said.
Joe looked and he recognized his brother.
“That’s Shaun,” he said. “Shaun at about 6 years old.”
Then Joe looked back at the baby in Mary’s arms.
“Donavan,” he said. “Is that me?”
Donavan nodded. “You were just three weeks old, but still a big healthy baby. They bundled you up good and let you be in an outdoor live nativity, mostly for the photographers. But you were so good they let you stay here for a bit.
Joe looked at the girl playing Mary. She held him, the baby Joe, with smiling adoration.
“And there,” Donavan said. “Is the reason for the season Joe.”
Joe nodded. He thought maybe he was getting it.
Donavan turned and looked at him. “Joe, God sent his son for us. Jesus was born here on Earth to save us. Us, Joe. In the heart of God, we are the reason for the season.”
Joe felt a warmth shiver up through him as he looked at the baby in Mary’s arms.
“He came for you Joe,” Donavan said. “You are the reason for the season.”
Joe watched the children try to ignore the photographers. And he looked at the baby in Mary’s arms. That was him.
“You are the reason for the season, Joe.” Donavan said. “So am I. Just share the truth. Then you will be leaning on the railing again and no time will have passed.”
Joe looked at Donavan. “Did this really happen?” he asked. “Are you an angel? How did this all…”
Donavan waved his hand in dismissal.
“I’m a man like you,” he said. “And some things, we are just to take in faith and believe. You’ve been shown a lot. You’re a changed man. Don’t ever forget what you’ve seen and learned.”
Donavan stepped away from the crowd and began to walk toward the street. He held up a hand to stop Joe from following.
“Every person in that mall, every person in the past and future, they are all His children. They are all why God sent His son.” He pointed to the other Santa with the anguished expression. “Him too,” he said. “Now step out and share the good news.”
He smiled and waved. Then Donavan turned and walked away, not turning back.
Joe watched, then turned toward the nativity. Through the crowd he could just see the baby. The reason for the season. He was the reason for the season. God loved him that much.
Joe took a few steps through the crowd and they indeed parted for him. They all seemed to be trying to ignore the Santa Claus who looked about to cry. Joe put an arm around the man and pulled him into an embrace.
“Hey brother,” Joe said. “Do you know the Reason for the Season?”
Not long after, the man dressed as Santa knelt at the manger with the children surrounding him. Joe stepped back and looked at him and every person around. They were all the reason for the season. Every child of God was.
He saw the bridge, lit up this time, begin to fade into focus in front of him and finally he stood alone with his coat in his arms. Smiling, he turned and headed home with good news to share.