Category: Twelve Days of Christmas Novel

Chapter 15:

            Grant struggled to get off the floor.  He couldn’t remember feeling so sore.  “I’m still in this alternate reality,” he sighed.

“It is going to be a beautiful day.” Wilson proclaimed as he rolled up his sleeping bag. “The Second Day of Christmas.”    

            “Two turtledoves?” Grant managed a laughed.

            “Doves are a symbol of peace and joy.” Wilson held.

            “I always see birds as a nuisance, pigeons particularly.”

            “Pigeons are cousins of turtledoves and pigeons are noble birds that were ‘spies’ in World War II.  They are able messengers, with honing capabilities engineers only dream of.  My commanding officer in the Army always talked about the power of something as small as a pigeon and if we could learn to communicate with the joyous heart of a peaceful dove.”

            A bell signaled it was time for breakfast before it was time for the building to be evacuated.  Saint Anthony’s rents out the gym during the day for various intramural leagues, many that cater to street and foster kids.  The 3 on 3 Christmas Championships were scheduled to be held later in the day.

            “May we celebrate the Second Day of Christmas in the feast day of Saint Stephen,” Father Rowan commissioned. “Stephen was a social worker, an early disciple, working to provide food and care for those in need.  He was a man full of the power and grace of the Holy Spirit.  Stephen worked out of love, love from Christ.  He is the first martyr to die standing up in the love of Christ, persecuted and condemned by the world.  Yet in his suffering, even in the face of death itself, Stephen was full of joy.  He was filled with the spirit of love and that gave him the gift of joy even in suffering.  He knew that the persecution of the world is only temporary, and God is just and keeps his eternal promise.  You are going out into a world of hate, but sow love.  You are left in a state of wandering but know that Christ is with you.  Love your enemies and be joyous even in trial and suffering.”

            “How can one talk of joy, when they are disenfranchised, dehumanized by society,” Grant debated. “Love I understand, but to shout joy in adversity and suffering, even in the dark fear of death.  I cannot wrap my mind around that.”

            “Fear paralyzes, joy moves mountains.” Wilson whispered. “Joy in adversity isn’t rose-colored glasses, it is an acknowledgement that love is more powerful than fear and joy is a gift that comes from the peace of love in Christ.  Fear only has power if we let it destroy us.”

            “He was stoned to death.  Death is death?”

            “Death of the flesh is death, only fear and hate can kill a spirit.  His joy came from the Holy Spirit.”

            “One of the men who persecuted and stood by during the stoning of Stephen was a man named Saul.  He was full of hate for the early Christians and was blind to the light of truth.  Stephen prayed for his persecutors, that they might find redemption.  That act of love, even in suffering, was an action of faith and joy that was answered by God. Saul, the persecutor, was later called out of darkness of hate to Christ’s love, transformed by love and joy in the Holy Spirit, out of the persecuting world.  Paul became one of the great evangelizers and theologians in Christianity.  My point?  God works through our brokenness, the flesh might suffer, persecuted by the world, but God is actively at work in our spirit and the joy of his grace and light of love gives us joy.  Joy of trust that we have an advocate, a light out of darkness.”  Rowan continued. “May you be blessed in that joy, the joy to endure and to love…”

            “I still don’t see joy in trial.” Grant sneered.

            “Joy is a gift of the spirit indeed.  The world tries to bring you down, but sorrow is turned to joy when you know love of Christ.” Wilson praised.  “Joy becomes something as simple as a loaf of bread when you’re hungry, a drink of water when you thirst and a knowledge that beyond this scarred flesh, your soul has a chance, a path from sorrow to joy.”

            After a breakfast of muffins, milk and orange juice, Betsy Horton tracked Grant down.

            “I spoke with Marissa Bright.  She will see you tomorrow.  I think Saint Jude’s program is a good fit for your situation, they are adept to deal with even the most desperate situations.  You’ll need to be on site by eight o’clock in the morning. I recommend getting to Saint Jude’s as early as possible, as a line generally forms by six o’clock and I don’t want you to lose your spot at the center.”

            “Thank you, Betsy.”

            “God bless you,” Betsy hugged Grant.

            “Do you know anything about Saint Jude’s Community Center?” Grant asked Wilson.

            “It is a great place.  Marissa, Noelle, and Benny are good people.  They helped me with transitional housing and access to healthcare, it helped me get a leg up while I searched for a job. I’m still floating, but I’m in a much better set of circumstances because of their help. Sadly, they lost a lot of funding the past year, budget cuts at corporations halted several charitable donations.  ‘Real Change,’ reported that they might have to stop several key programs in February, unless the money comes through.”

            “So, you think it is worth it to travel to Capitol Hill to try to get a spot?” Grant still held a slight grudge against Marissa, although he knew the reaction was his stubborn pride.  Marissa is a far better person than him.  If he had relied on her wisdom and advice to begin with, Grant doubted he’d be in this homeless state now.

            “I pray you get in.  If not, Marissa will point you in the next best direction.” Wilson advised.

            “You’ve been a good friend.  Thank you.”

            “No worries.  You just do the same for others when you can.  Now let’s get to Warm Friends.  You need a sleeping bag for these cold Seattle nights.”

            Located in the basement of Elliott Bay Sports, Warm Friends is an outreach center providing coats, gloves, hats, sleeping bags, mats, and blankets to transients. Elliott Bay Sports provides a majority of the donations, including thirty high quality sleeping bags per month, as well as camping mats. 

            “Happy Holidays,” the volunteer manning the mission acknowledged Wilson as a friend.

            “Renee, this is Grant.  He just hit the street after falling on hard times.  He lacks a decent sleeping bag and mat.  Not to mention a warm water-resistant jacket.  Any help would be greatly appreciated.”

            “We’re out of coats, at least for a few more days, when our retail partners clear house after their Christmas sales end.  I do have one sleeping bag left.  It is a mummy style bag that will keep you warm down to temperatures of zero degrees.” Renee pulled down a sturdy bag.  “Here is a mat.  Do you need a tarp?”

            “I have a tarp.” Grant was grateful for the items.  Funny that a few months back he was reviewing NWTC’s camping gear ad campaign.  Ironic that he now was forced to rely on a sleeping bag for a bed, a non-profit for this lifeline of his now homeless existence. “I appreciate your help.  It means a lot.”

            “I hope this keeps you warm until you get into a permanent housing situation,” Renee smiled. “Best of luck to you.”

            “We have three hours until lunch is served at Wayside Fellowship.  We could go to the library.  It is a good place to relax without worrying about the cold temperatures and rain.”

            “Is that where you normally go on the days you’re not working.”

            “It depends.  Some days I’m at the workforce center trying to find additional work.  Other days I go to the DESC Day Shelter, sometimes I walk countless hours, just enjoying the heartbeat of Seattle…often us residentially challenged, look for public spaces to spend the day, coffeehouses, libraries, parks…You are not allowed to sit or lie on sidewalks, unless you want a citation, not to mention the nasty cattle calls society throws your way, you have to stay on the move.”

            “Where do you usually sleep?”

            “Since starting work at St. Nicholas, I have been blessed with the joyous gift of staying in the abbey on most nights.  It is just a bed, but it is safe.  I used to camp in parks, sleeping in bushes.  I got a few citations for being there after hours.  I slept under the Denny Overpass, but there was a lot of drugs and beatings there.  I got beat-up by homeless addicts and some angry souls.  I then found a haven at the DESC shelter.  On nights I couldn’t get in, I slept on Pioneer Place sidewalks, careful to wake up in the morning by six o’clock, so to avoid being fined.  I got beaten up by drunks a few nights, not to mention spat at and degraded.”

            “That’s horrible.” Grant realized he had once been the spiteful passerby, despising the person behind the face of homelessness.

            “I let it roll off my back.  It is ignorance, they don’t understand.  Sometimes you have to see through the eyes of a beggar to serve as king.”

            “You sound like Saint Nicholas,” Grant laughed.

            “What?”

            “Nothing…”

“You had your routines depending on the day.  I have it memorized which days what services are provided and by whom.  You know the time it takes to reach one part of the city to the other.  You live by instinct, never too close, never too comfortable, always on the move.  You put your trust in God.  The anxiety gets to me on some days more than others.  I’m grateful for my job at the Abbey.  I’d really like to get a job as a bagger or stocker at a grocery store.”

            “You don’t find that a menial job?” Grant remembered the FLEX Plan.

            “You live on the street, without a job and all you want is to work.  It is a joy to have a job, even one as simple as being a bagger.  Those are services that need to be done and the pay, though small, is a check with benefits.”

            “With your easy-going personality and positive attitude, I don’t know why they wouldn’t hire you.”

            “I have a criminal record, nothing major, just a night in jail for stealing food when I was first on the streets.  I was angry at the world then and felt entitled to the stolen goods…my record has kept some employers from hiring me, but I have gotten some temp jobs.  Every time you take a step forward, no matter how small it may be, you have joy and gratitude, because you are moving closer to your goal.”

            “Where should I sleep tonight?” Grant feared he’d be wandering the streets listlessly waiting for the dawn of the next day.  He thought about his family.  Did they know who he was or had that been taken from him as well.  Funny how he never cared about his family, until they were gone.  He had forsaken their love, scorned them, when their love pure and life giving. Had he burned his bridges to the point that they would not even give him a bed and food? 

            “I would offer you a spot on my floor at the abbey, but it is very cramped.  I think you should aim to get into the Capitol Hill Shelter.  It is only a few blocks from Saint Jude’s.  The Capitol Hill Shelter has 300 beds.  You must check in by five o’clock.  The line starts to form around three o’clock.”  Wilson informed. “I say we go to the library a few hours; I’ll give you the scoop on services, and then we’ll get lunch at Wayside.”

            The Seattle Central Library is a modern edifice that defies perception of architecture.  It towers 185 feet, a monolith of glass and steel, a castle in the clouds, a sanctuary and gathering places for all people. 

Grant rarely stepped foot into libraries, even one as modern and posh as the Seattle Central Library.  In his former life, a library is a space marred by the lesser echelons of society.  He didn’t like to interface with the public.  He had grown accustomed to his executive functions and private clubs.  Grant’s solitary nature, a misanthrope of sorts, shunned interaction, preferring to be alone.  He preferred to judge others from a pedestal of ivory, a glass house. 

Entering the library, he was joyful for shelter from the cold.  Grant looked up at the glass ceiling, his own ego shattering.  The pain of recognizing the malice in his heart, jagged, cutting harsh as shattered glass.  He didn’t like facing down that anger, the fear.  He struggled with the tension of conflict as he worked to come to terms with the ghost of his past lives, the pain he’d inflicted on others, his selfish desire and obstructed vision.  The power of first light, the moment when the sky brightens like a flare of fire, overwhelming the senses, is humbling and painful, blinding, because you are so obstructed and accustomed to darkness.

The futuristic library is known for its unusual, yet functional design.  SCL has 1.5 million books, spread across its 362,987 square feet.  Each of the eleven stories is brims with nooks for reading, over 400 public computers, desks, and workspace as well as a theatre, music and writer’s workshop spaces, coffee stands and a library gift shop. 

“The SCL has worked to coordinate with the area’s residentially challenged and impoverished patrons.  It hasn’t been easy.  In the past sectors of the homeless population got into fights in the library, were doing drug deals in the lobby, sleeping in chairs and harassing patrons.  Some had mental problems, however many of the problems came from anger and bitterness, disrespect.  It is hard to respect the other when you don’t respect yourself.  To love when anger clouds your soul.  Add in drugs and the violence that stems from dependency.  It’s a complex balance, between helping out a neighbor in need and a problem.” Wilson noted. “My point is that libraries are our greatest public resource, a place where we can enjoy a day inside from the cold, lost in the fantasy of a book or bettering our intellect and skill set.  Just because we are residentially challenged doesn’t make us immune from respecting others and this public space.  Abide by the rules and be joyful for this gift.  Don’t get angry and self-entitled even in the simplest of places.  To be respected we must give respect as well.”

“You are a sage man, Wilson.”

“No, I am a stubborn man who learned each of these lessons the hard way, through experience.  Once you realize you don’t know anything and are willing to listen with a heart full of love, you start to learn and understand wisdom.  Every day you are learning and have to listen and grow.”

Wilson led Grant to a nook of the library dedicated to helping those in need of employment or social services.  The computers in this wing have links for area outreach programs, job search engines, resume software, tutorials on word processing and other useful tools for navigating life on the fringes.

Services like this, trivial as they may appear, empower the powerless. Having an email address, offers homeless job seekers a way of communication when applying for jobs, services and staying in touch with family and friends. Search engines provide research portal accessing a wealth of information, from career training, applications for assistance, outreach services and more.  While books, provide an outlet, from training manuals and research, while offering an escape from the drudgery and despair of life consumed by the streets.

“This wing of the library is a lifeblood.  In addition to the use of computers, phones, manuals and fliers about area services, the library hosts lectures and forums on everything from dependency and health to job and career training to coping with homelessness, resources to help you out of poverty…films and documentaries, assistance with applications for outreach, computer and tech training.  It is a core foundational tool for building a bridge out of homelessness.  These tools empower you to rise above the scorn and fear and empower the journey forward.” Wilson gave Grant the tour. 

            “I never realized how vital something as basic as a computer could be,” Grant realized that most job applications are online and without email or a phone number you don’t stand a chance of receiving job consideration.

            “The phone is critical too when you are applying for jobs. I received $50 one time from the generosity of a stranger.  I desperately wanted a meal and warm bed.  I ended up buying a cell phone, not as a luxury, but a lifeline.  It allowed me to apply for jobs and be taken seriously as an employer.  Fortunately, many area non-profits offer free cell-phones for transients.”

            With Grant, the cellphone was always about a status symbol, a powerful tool for keeping his long list of business contacts, and being up to date with the latest and greatest technology.  Of course, it was an essential communication tool, but Grant’s motivation in every call, every email was greed and power.  The thought of a cellphone being a luxury to whether or not someone could get a job.  It revealed a layer of truth, he didn’t not perceive before. 

            “This job force website is the best, because these jobs are geared for low-income and residentially challenged people, as a transition to other jobs.” Wilson logged into one site. “For instance, Luke’s Mission on Denny Way needs a cook for their soup kitchen.  The salary is $300 per week and access to showers and a place to sleep.  The job is for two months, the idea that you use the savings towards getting into long term employment and permanent housing.”

            Grant knew that many of his employees at NWTC averaged similar wages, it seemed hard to eke out an existence on $900 a month.  Still, it was far more money than the $20 in his pocket, money that he had learned to cherish, not in greed, but with gratitude and joy.  $20 was the lifeline for food or a bus fare, things in his former life he had taken for granted.

            “I intend to find a job.”

            “You used to run a major company.  That experience should help in your job search…mind my asking what happened?”

            “I was a bad person, perhaps I still am…I let greed guide my principles.  People were disposable to me, and money was my god.” Grant struggled with words.  “When this experience first started, I cursed heaven and forsook God, because I couldn’t see the joy in a life based on poverty and lack of social standing.  My foundation back then was a house of cards, built on the backs of suffering.  I’m not sure I’m worthy of being a corporate leader again.  I’m selfish by nature.  Funny now, I’d be content to have that menial job I once bashed, working at the checkout counter.”

            “Sometimes you are forced to crash into reality, sore, broken and bruised to look up and see the sky and feel the ground heavy beneath your feet.  My point is that we can all live in castles built on clouds, glass houses, until our veneer is cracked, and we learn the truth we’ve been hiding from.  Your currency was money.  Money it itself isn’t a bad thing, it becomes a problem when you view it as more important than your soul, life itself, worshipping money instead of seeing it as a tool for good, a gift from God. Every dollar I receive, I view as a gift. I praise God with joy, joy for being able to use it to help buy food to feed myself or to give that dollar to a friend or stranger in need.  It is joy because it helps me on the journey, without being the destination.”

Grant wondered how long he would be living this life.  Would he ever return to the wealth and privilege he possessed?  Privilege, he always deemed it his innate right.  Now he understood the true definition and character of privilege, it was a joyous gift, or something earned.  A privilege calls you to a higher standard of acting for the good of others, by your authority.  It is not immunity by exception to use your privilege for greed and inhumane practices.

Grant’s definition of worth was based on wealth of money, power, greed, and things, not the individual inside.  He slowly could see that true worth and wealth have nothing to do with power or money.

Wilson showed Grant the ropes of the computer system, helping him set up an email address and how the search engine and resume builder worked.  Grant caught on quickly, his business savvy apparent. 

Grant searched the internet, hoping to find out anything about his new identity.  What about his parents and siblings?  For the first time in years, he recognized how much he missed them, desiring their loving, joyous company beyond all else.

Search results pulled up precious little, about this new ‘Grant Spaulding.’  A similar search on his parents, left him despondent.  According to an article in the Shuksan Enterprise, said that the Spaulding family had been forced to sell their land after a harsh winter killed 25% of their cattle and ruined their crop.  He couldn’t find a listing of their current address or phone number.

“I doubt they’ll know me.  I’m just a ghost, a burden…I’m sure I screwed up my relationship beyond repair with them in this life too.”

“Nothing is beyond hope, unless you forsake the Holy Spirit to death, redemption is a trying road, full of lessons and tests, but it is a road paved in grace, love, light and joy.” Saint Nicholas sat down at the computer beside Grant, this time the saint dressed in street clothes.

“If I call my family, will they know me, even accept me?  Or am I alone.”

“You are never alone when God is with you.  As for your parents, your history with them in this life is complicated, much the same as your old life, still they love you, and there would be rejoicing, joy to have you return to them.  Just as God rejoices in heaven for those that come to repent.”

“I have already hurt them beyond repair.  I need to straighten out these shadow spaces in my own soul before I return.  I’m not ready to face them.”

“I understand that sometimes it is better to wait, to act on things. To love the other as yourself, you must love yourself, and you still hate yourself.  I’m not talking selfish love, love of ego, but love of life, finding joy in life, even in adversity.  Sometimes the love we find in the grace of another, be it a friend like Wilson or your parents, can work through your shadows and offer a way forward.”

“How long am I going to be in this vortex?  Living life on the fringes, being in this forsaken state?  I know if I do get back, to that other life…I will be a better man.”

“I am not here to prophesy about your future, only to help guide you in truth as you receive the twelve gifts of Christmas.  The first gift is love, and in love you have found the gift of joy.  You are going to have to be patient in receiving, not because the gifts are granted freely, but you are still lost and on a journey home.  Don’t worry about getting back to the life you once were chained too but growing spiritually and in wisdom on this journey you now embark on.”

Before Grant could offer a rebuttal, argue his case, Nicholas had disappeared.

“We have about forty minutes until lunch,” Wilson noticed the time. “I thought we’d browse the book exchange cart.  It is where old paperbacks and magazines are free to take home.  The idea is to take, leave a book.  When I finish one, I drop it back off at the library.  This cart is a great asset for those who cannot get library cards because they lack a permanent address.”

“I’ll admit, except for executive and marketing guides, I haven’t really sat down and read a book in years.”

“I hated to read until I wound up on the street, suddenly I got what reading was about – a learning tool and a form of entertainment.  My only comfort on many days was the ability to delve into the magic of a book, lost in the storytelling, the characters…able to relate to their strife or escape into their hopes.  Some might call it fanciful, but it keeps me occupied, it fuels the spirit.  I’ve learned all sorts of things from books, including how to cook, about art and music, to technical skills like landscape design, which is essential to my job at the abbey,” Wilson spoke with joyous enthusiasm. “Lately I’ve been on a classics kick.  I even read Hugo’s Les Miserables and Charles Dickens ‘A Christmas Carol’ for the holidays.  I even read Pride and Prejudice.  I’m a sucker for romances, even the Harlequin ones.”

“I used to be a fantasy fan.” Grant recalled his middle school days, enthralled with Star Wars and reading books like Dune or The Lord of the Rings.

 “You and I are lucky we can read and write.  A lot of people I’ve met on the streets came from abusive situations and were forced to drop out of school.  They can barely write their own names.  Literacy is so important.  This gal, Jade, she couldn’t write, having been forced into trafficking by her drug dealing father.  She finally was saved from that life when she got arrested in a sting.  She couldn’t tell you the alphabet.  Cassie, she took her under her wing and taught her how to read and write.  Now Jade works part-time at this library, shelving books, and earned a scholarship for the community college.  Many are not so lucky.  I’m grateful for her success, it wasn’t easy.”

They meandered the book stacks the next twenty minutes, Wilson picking up a short story collection entitled ‘The Christmas Miracle.’  While Grant picked up C.S. Lewis’s ‘Mere Christianity.’ As they moved about the library, Grant felt the scorn of some, his large backpack and disheveled hair, a sign of his homeless state. 

He could only imagine the sneers those who reek of body odor and are unshaven might experience.  The library usually asks those patrons, respectfully, to go to a nearby shelter to receive a shower before returning.  What is more embarrassing than being in such low esteem that you cannot even maintain a basic degree of sanitation?  Grant remembered Teresa’s grace and mercy.  He suddenly felt joy for being clean. 

Hunger pangs setting in, they walked to a neighborhood soup kitchen,

The Wayside Fellowship.  They provide free lunches, seven days a week from 11:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.  In the afternoon the fellowship hosts activities for up to 80 people, including educational lectures, board games and movies.  The fellowship is in a humble basement in the Friendship Community Center.  The ministry is an ecumenical collaboration of the Methodist Church and a neighboring synagogue.

The line for food wrapped around the entrance, up the narrow stairway.  In his former life, Grant would have impatiently pushed ahead, or rebuked the establishment for making him wait.  Now he waited, just content to have another meal.  Wilson chatted up with many of the people in line, some hadn’t showered in weeks, while others looked clean cut and middle class.  The face of poverty, he found could not be generalized or lumped into stereotypes.  It was a fabric of unique stories and individual identities, bound into a community facing hardship and adversity. 

Grant couldn’t help but observe the smiling faces, the warmth in the eyes of each person as they received the food.  Grant used to be the type who sent back half of his gourmet meals to the restaurant chef, with gripes and complaints.  Today he relished the food on his plate, a bowl of hearty pumpkin soup, a Jell-O salad, chicken breast and broccoli.  Glorified cafeteria food, somehow was more satisfying than the expensive five-start dinners he’d ordered in. 

“Grant, this is my man Big Leroy.  He is a blues musician that toured with all the greats, including Louis Armstrong, he even delved into rock.” Wilson introduced.  Big Leroy lives up to his name.  He weighs 300 pounds, looks like a football player, and has a wide, larger than life grin.

“I used to play the harmonica…back on the farm, music was a big part of my family’s entertainment.” Grant laughed, unsure why he was talking about this with a stranger. So often Grant hated those times, forsaking them as boring, funny now he only saw the joy in the simplicity of those years. 

“You’ll have to show me your skills after lunch.” Leroy pulled out a harmonica. “I’m a fat harmonica player.  I prefer guitar, blues guitar.  I play the Seattle Rainy Night Blues.  Blues isn’t just about sad songs on a desperate lonely street, it is emotion in motion, love against hate, joy out of despair, the layers that we bear, releasing it into music.  Music is the universal language. It is what lifts me up out of my shadows.”

Leroy went on to give his backstory.  He had toured with the greats, hit every club and opera house from here to Boston, from Boston to Europe, Europe to Asia.  Unfortunately, somewhere along the path, drugs got in the way.  He got fired for disorderly behavior and wound up in a mental hospital.  He lived on the street, using all his cash to get drugs, heroin mostly, until he finally got into a rehab program that worked.  Big Leroy still floats, transient with only limited resources, but he has the joy and focus not to be bound to the dependency of his past.  He uses his experiences, weaving stories in song to stir people to action and to understanding. 

In addition to Leroy, Grant met a wide cast of characters, from Miss. Lottie, a seventy-year-old who has a one-bedroom studio, she shares with five other seniors.  The group of ladies is genteel and kind, vibrant and vivacious.  They lived with joy, even though life had left them scrambling financially.  Then there was Rick, a former sailor who talked about his adventures on the high seas.  Grant doubted half of the stories Rick told but got lost in the adventure.

“This meal was delicious.  Thank you, Wilson, for cluing me into this gem.”

“You better get going, if you’re going to get into the Capitol Hill shelter.” Wilson paused. “I really am glad to be your friend Grant.  Don’t be a stranger.  Find me at the abbey or around Pioneer Square anytime you need a person to talk too.  I’m here.”

“I wish I could give you something, you really opened my eyes.”

“Keep them open…keep learning and keep loving with joy!”

Chapter 16:

            Grant struggled to read the bus map, trying to navigate the different lines and routes.  Grant preferred walking in Seattle or having his chauffeur drive him around.  He hadn’t taken public transportation in years.

            Even in this new state of self-awareness, Grant held a prejudice against public transportation.  It reminded him he was poor without a car and the chauffeur he was accustomed too.

            Waiting for the bus on 5^th Avenue, he thought about Earl.  The seventy-year-old chauffeur had served him for four years, yet Grant never bothered to ask about Earl’s family, his interests, his past…Earl was as much as stranger to him as anyone, yet he spent hours in the car with Earl. 

            “My priorities really have been screwed up,” Grant fumed as the bus approached. 

            Stepping on board he paid the fare, other passengers annoyed as he struggled to lug his belongings onto the bus.  He managed to find a seat at the back.  Nervously clutching his things as the bus rumbled down the streets of Seattle.

            Capitol Hill is an eclectic neighborhood in the northern expanse of downtown.  It is a vibrant community of coffeehouses and theatres, book shops and nightlife.  The neighborhood is home to some of the wealthiest of Seattle, homes ranging in the multi-millions on well-manicured boulevards.  Yet there is a shadow side to this community, a stark, jarringly disparity of poverty and wealth.  Capitol Hill’s wealth is reflected also in the impoverished fringe classes of society.  Many homeless live in the corners of this district, hungry, alone, lost and battered.  The face of homelessness in Capitol Hill ranges from drug and dependency to those who are sober but suffered job loss or cannot afford housing in the city.

The neighborhood has fought to strike a balance in this complex issue.  Some want homeless ‘vagrants’ out of the neighborhood, because of the drug culture attached and mental illness that leads to public disturbance.  Others, like the Capitol Hill Shelter and Saint Jude’s Community Center address the issue head on, working to combat homeless by working with transients to gauge their individual situation and address their problems. 

By the time Grant arrived at the Capitol Hill Shelter, a line was already forming outside the building.  The center only has 220 beds, cots in a gym that are sanitized with bleach to ensure bedbugs are contained.  Seeing the dirt on the fellow transients, the aroma of body odor and booze, filling the air, Grant nearly got out of the line.  He ruminated on where else he could sleep. Could he find shelter in a park or just wander the streets until his appointment with Marissa in the morning. 

He struggled to come to terms with the dilemma, sleep inside warm from the cold, on a cot, where he could risk infection of a disease like hepatitis, lice, or scabies, all the while worrying about bed bugs and fearful that the person in the cot next to him wasn’t a mental case.

            He knew that it seemed judgmental, a bed and a warm place is a gift, but after speaking to fellow transients, he learned that shelters, are known for being high-risk places, with the countless turnover of low hygienic people, not to mention problems with drug dealers who work these places to feed poison to addicts, forcing them to remain in a cycle of dependency.  The bitter cold air of the near record low temperature, coupled with the steady pace of rain, forced Grant to accept the shelter bed, risking his hygiene to stay warm.

            It took an hour, standing the damp, nervously twiddling his thumbs, silently raging at this state of begging for a bed before he got vetted by the shelter intake associate.  As a first-time guest, Grant was asked to fill out forms, many about his health history such as lice, scabies, hepatitis, tuberculosis, and other communicable diseases known to plague shelters.  He was then provided with a list of instructions and a bed assignment. 

            Grant reluctantly put his tarp down on the bed, checking for any signs of bed bugs.  The bed was clean enough.  He knew the staff at the shelter go to extreme lengths to ensure the safety and sanitation of guests, working to show respect to those suffering from homelessness.  Sitting on the cot, clutching his belongings, he wrestled with fear and gratitude.  He couldn’t help being lost in the self-pity and humility of this state of rebuke.  He felt lowly and scarce, He had no permanence in the false security of this one-night stay.  What was going to happen to him?  What if he didn’t get in the transitional housing program?  What about the other souls lost around him?

            Fear was slowly replaced by a tepid joy.  Never a man of faith, he found his faith kindled.  Jesus was born in a stable, yet he was God.  What about the Hebrews, who wandered in the desert, they struggled and fought to trust God’s promise, losing faith, but in that loss, God continued to prove his faithfulness and provision, manna and water, a light to guide their way.  The stubborn ghost of Grant, wanted to snicker.  Faith in a place as sordid as this, lowly and unkempt – how could he trust.  Yet Grant did trust God.  He knew that this bed was provision.  Grant realized he lacked trust in his former life and it made him blind to love and joy.  Ironically it took this state of forsakenness to realize God was with him, God is trustworthy and for that he was joyful.

            For dinner, the shelter provided premade sandwiches, snack food, apples and grapes, cartons of milk and bottled water.  Grant saved the bag of chips, in case he got hungry later, while feasting on fruit.  It was a humble dinner, still it keep his stomach full. 

            Grant let his armor down enough to chat with the man on the cot beside him, Rocky.

            “I took a Greyhound up here from San Francisco, hoping to land a shipping job on the docks.  The contact didn’t work out, so I stay here at night and look for work during the day.  It is tough.  My parents are dead so I don’t have any family to stay with until I get a job.  This shelter is a blessing though.  I at least get a meal and a bed each night.  Sure we have some offenders in here, particularly those who have dependency issues…Doc Mac, he used to sleep on your bunk, but he got run over for sleeping in the road, flat on his face drunk.”

            “Is he okay?”

            “He’s in the hospital, broke half a dozen bones.  I visited him the other day.  I hope he can come out of this sober and able to rise above his past.  I used to bash the alcoholics, I still get frustrated by their selfish behavior, but I have come to realize they are in a battle.  It is a disease that many don’t survive.” Rocky’s voice drifted off…lost for a moment in his own tragic past. “It is our turn for the showers.”

            The shelter has twenty showers, each person is given a towel, soap, and shampoo, and allotted five minutes to rinse off.  Grant scrubbed intensely, joyful for the gift of another shower.  He felt icky after walking miles around town, lugging his belongings.  It gave him a fresh perspective on life.

            After cleaning up, Grant played cards with fellow transients for half an hour before he opened up the journal in his backpack.  On the second page, the word Joy in red ink.

            Joy breaks out of sorrow like a flame in the dark, it doesn’t obliterate the night, but lights the way to dawn.  Joy comes from a knowledge of the grace of God and the spirit that this life’s breath, fills your lungs and hope remains with every beating heart.  Joy is finding hope, lessons in adversity and it will yield peace even in the conflict of life, peace of spirit, the gift to come.

            “Joy isn’t based on circumstances, it goes beyond material,” Grant dwelled on the message as he fell into a contentious sleep, peace finally overcoming the fear of his surroundings.

Chapter 10:

            The first light of Christmas broke through the dark clouds hovering over Seattle. Grant woke up shivering, his body aching.

 In a state of delirium, he tried to make sense of his surroundings.  His head hurt. The stench of rotting trash, and the rumble of cars screeching over the pavement, pushed Grant to the jarring realization he wasn’t at home in the comfort of his penthouse.  He found himself lying on the rough frigid concrete sidewalk, using trash bags to cushion the stark austere ground.

Somehow, perhaps in a drunken stupor, he’d wound up in the grime and filth of the city streets.  Lost and confused, Grant struggled to remember the events leading up to this moment.  It struck him like lightning.  Christmas Eve, the visit from Saint Nicholas.

“It isn’t possible.” Grant dismissed. “I must have gone out drinking, gotten so hammered that I fell asleep in the street…not one of my finer moments, but my ego will survive.”

As he stood up, it quickly became apparent that the shoes on his feet were worn, rife with holes, the rubber soles peeling off.

“These aren’t my shoes?”  Grant infuriated, fearing in his stupor he had been robbed.  His expensive leather loafers replaced by crude hobo boots blistering his feet. He searched for his wallet.  “This isn’t my jacket!”

His overcoat a ragged wool blazer devoid of insulation, with holes in the pockets, paired with a flannel shirt covered in mud. His pants tattered jeans, held up with a makeshift belt of coarse rope.  His head warmed by a stocking watch-cap.

“I’ve been robbed, accosted!” Grant shouted, desperate for help. The sound of distant church bells, reminding him of the strange dream. He buried his head into his hands, shocked to find his clean shaven face covered in a thick bristled beard.  He wreaked of body odor, as if he hadn’t showered in a week; a putrid overwhelming smell causing him keel over, vomiting on the street. 

 “Are you okay sir,?” Another passerby, a middle-aged man, approached with caution.

“I woke up in this alley, my wallet and possessions stolen, dressed in vagrant’s clothes…” Grant spoke in gibberish, still vexed by the situation.

“What a terrible ordeal, especially on Christmas.” The man compassionate. “I’ll phone the police.”

“Thank you,” Grant let out a sigh of relief.

“The police are on the way,” The stranger informed. “I’m Vincent Paul.”

“The name’s Grant Spaulding.” He remained on edge. “I’ll pay handsomely for your assistance once this is sorted out.”

 “Not necessary.  I am concerned about you.  You are pretty beat up.  It is no way to spend Christmas.”

“Christmas is a dark door to me,” Grant shrugged.

“I know that getting robbed, left for dead on a lonely, cold Seattle streetsuffocates hope, but Christ is a light that surpasses the darkness, giving rest to the weary and guiding the footsteps of the lost.” Vincent encouraged. “Good always outlasts evil.  Better days will come.”

“Where exactly am I?” Grant trying to get a bearing on his surroundings.

“Just off Wall Street, on Nicholas Street near the Overpass,” Vincent noted.

“I don’t understand how I got here.  Last night I went to sleep in my penthouse in Belltown, this morning, I’m on the street, sleeping by a dumpster, wearing these disgusting clothes, my wallet missing.  I drank before bed and took a few sleeping pills, but blackout to the point I wind up lost on Wall Street, a mile from my apartment.  It doesn’t make sense.” Grant rambled on.

“You should see a doctor.  You might have hit your head to the point you blacked out.” Vincent advised.

“My priority is to report this theft to the police, then get home to the comfort and luxury of my apartment; take a hot shower, then have a huge breakfast.  I’m starving.” Grant’s stomach growling, demanding nourishment.  “I feel as if I haven’t eaten for a week.”

“I am on the way to spend Christmas at my parent’s house in Fremont.  Every year we volunteer at the Fremont Toy Drive, then serve a holiday meal to senior citizens at the Nightingale Nursing Home.  Most of the patients have no family, little money and are bound to wheelchairs, suffering from chronic diseases such as Alzheimer’s, Dementia, arthritis, and poor eyesight.  I’m a songwriter by trade, doing jingles for ads, so I entertain them with carols on the piano.  Even in their lost state of mind, you see a flicker of light, a fire in their soul igniting as they hear ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing,’ and the colorful bulbs and tinsel glistening on the tree.”

“Sounds like a stressful Christmas, surrounded around people who don’t even know their own names?” Grant scoffed.

“It is the only way to spend Christmas, giving selfless love and receiving the gift of love in return.” Vincent smiled. “My point, roundabout as it may be is that if you’re hungry, I have dozens of cinnamon buns in these shopping bags.  Can I interest you in one?”

“You don’t mind sharing?”

“Of course not,” Vincent handed him a gooey red-velvet cinnamon delight with honey drizzle.

“This is delicious.” Grant didn’t realize how hungry he was until he broke the bread.  “You are a songwriter?  Jingles?”

“Jingles pay the bills, but my passion is musical theatre.  I run an inner-city music and theatre camp for kids.  Music is an outlet for them, a hope to persevere through drugs and alcohol, abuse, gangs and homelessness.”

“Charitable guy.” Grant didn’t see the appeal in helping troublemaking kids on the street.  He’d often cursed the wayward teenagers for being born.  Half of their parents shouldn’t have had them in the first place.  Their purpose in society seemed a waste of space.  To Grant people like that lacked value. 

“It is not charity to me.  It is giving back with what I’ve been given.  A lot of these kids are lost, they don’t know love, they feel worthless, and society treats them as such.  I think you can solve a lot of the world’s problems by spreading love and compassion.  Inner-City Arts is a program bringing hope to forsaken.  It gives them courage to take positive life changing steps out of the darkness into a new light.  We all have the power to change when we let go of anger and fear and embrace love and trust redemption.  In the end, they bring me joy.  They are the heroes for having faith and trust to endure the hardships, knowing life is worth living and against all odds they persist climbing that dream.”

“I run a company, a big box chain.  I’d be willing to consider your jingles for our advertising campaign.”

“I’d be honored.” Vincent lit up. “What is the name of your company?”

“Northwest Trading Company.  We’ve gotten some negative publicity as of late, perhaps your jingle can turn that around?”

“Northwest Trading Company, the grocery chain?” Vincent perplexed. “NWTC went out of business in 2010.  A corporate raider restructured the company, sold his interest to a conglomerate in China, who ended up doing a fire sale, selling all the remaining inventory, and laying off thousands of employees in the process.  It hit the local economy hard.”

Before they could continue their conversation, Officer Raymond Santos of the Seattle P.D., arrived at the scene.  

“I’ve got to run,” Vincent noticed the time. “Merry Christmas. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

“Thank you for everything.” Grant surprised by the warmth he felt from the simplest act of compassion.

“We received a report of a robbery and possible assault?” Officer Santos approached, inquiring about the nature of the complaint.

“I woke up here, surrounded by trash, dressed in a beggars’ clothes, my wallet stolen and cash missing,” Grant explained the entire ordeal.

“It is a rather strange set of circumstances?” Officer Santos skeptical as he surveyed the dirty, disheveled man standing before him.  Grant looked like one of the 9,000 other homeless people wandering Seattle’s streets, ghosts on the margins, persons with lost identities forgotten and scorned by the rest of society.  Many left begging, strangers passing them by, stereotyped as scum, not as people. “Have you taken any drugs or medications that might have altered your state of mind?”

“As I told you earlier, I did drink a bottle of scotch and foolishly mixed it with a few sleeping pills while I was in my penthouse in Belltown.” Grant paused. “I fell asleep in my four-poster bed only to wake up in this squalid corner.”

“Do you have a history of mental health issues?” Officer Santos continued, scribbling down notes.

“Of course not,” Grant irritated. “I don’t like this game of twenty questions.  I am Grant Spaulding, CEO of Northwest Trading Company and a multi-millionaire for goodness sakes!”

“I understand that you are upset.  I am merely trying to get answers.  I cannot rule out an assault, possibly resulting in injuries, causing you to blackout.  I also have to examine the fact that you look as though you have been living on the street for some time.”

“I’m not a street urchin.” Grant grievously offended. “I’m a CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company.”

“Sir, I don’t judge anyone, homeless or executive as an urchin.  You are a person that is suffering,” Santos carefully phrased his statement. “You claim that you are the CEO of Northwest Trading Company.  NWTC is out of business, it no longer exists.  They were bought out years ago, reengineered into a cheap dollar store before a Chinese company swept up the shares and had a fire sale.”

“NWTC will be laying off a huge percentage of their workforce in the New Year in a restructuring of the brand.  Despite the pending layoffs, NWTC is still open for business…”

 “Look, Northwest Trading Company, the grocery chain, went out of business in 2010.  I know full well, because my wife, Sandra, lost her job as the assistant manager of the Westlake Store.  We struggled for months financially after she was laid off.  Kelly’s income from NWTC was funding our daughter’s education at the University of Washington.  The shutdown caused Seattle’s unemployment rate to tick up nearly two percentage points.  The employees were effected, not to mention the regional vendors that relied on NWTC to sell their produce and goods.   Fifteen percent of the homeless population used to be NWTC employees.  They just couldn’t find alternate employment during The Great Recession.  Sandy’s meat packer, committed suicide, after he lost his house, and his kids were put in foster care.”  Santos wanted to be helpful to the stranger on the street, but the issue of NWTC hit close to home.

 “Northwest Trading Company is a Fortune 500 company, the largest big box chain on the West Coast, employing 2 million workers at over 8,000 locations in North America.”  Grant assumed the officer confused his company with another grocery chain.

“Mr. Spaulding, I think it is best if I take you a hospital for evaluation.  The doctors can examine you to ensure that you sustained no injuries as well as conduct a thorough psychological analysis.”

 “I am the victim of a fiendish attack, leaving me to rot in the filth of our city streets, my wallet and cloths stolen, and you have the audacity to treat me, the Grant Spaulding, as a mentally ill vagrant?  You’ll lose your badge for this.”

“I insist we get you to a hospital.”

“I know how I can prove my identity.  The Seattle Times.  They call me the ‘Grinch of Seattle,’ a man who intends to lay off one million workers.  All the major news networks were covering the protest at NWTC corporate offices all day yesterday.”

“Mr. Spaulding…”

 “There is a newspaper stand on the corner,” Grant persisted.

“No need,” the officer let out a heavy sigh. “I have the latest edition of the Times in my patrol car.”

Santos’s instinct told him that Grant is a mentally ill, possibly drug addicted homeless man, who created an alternate reality, a way to separate himself from the burden of his homelessness.  Officer Santos has encountered it numerous times, people living on the street, who lash out, in denial.  They create a mental barrier, a life in which they are not transients, but have money, a home, family…often the stories are tied to their past lives, before homelessness, dependency, addiction, financial turmoil forced them into a life on the fringes, hanging on by a thread.

It breaks his heart, day in and out to witness the plight of so many mentally ill and confused people left alone, to scrap out a life on the streets.  Most of the city’s homeless population should be in mental health homes, treated with dignity and care for diseases from schizophrenia to clinical depression.  Many of the mental issues facing the homeless population are only exacerbated by dependency issues related to drugs and alcohol. It is easy to judge them as junkies, the vermin of society through glass houses. He’d learned the hard way that many were trapped and came from broken places, shattered souls in need of grace and patient compassion. 

Santos is aware that the journey out of homeless can be a paralyzing road, rife with obstacles.  Homelessness comes is the root of a diverse mix of circumstances, a combination of personal fault and society’s cruel nature.  They are imprisoned by desperate situations, unable to rise above the grips of their demons, lost in a complex maze of misunderstanding.  Many retained an iron faith – trusting fully in God’s mercy. Even on their dark road, they could recognize light and find hope in the simple joys of life, against the shattering of dreams and constant heartache.

Officer Santos handed Grant the December 25^th, Christmas edition of The Seattle Times.  As Grant read the headline his stomach sunk.

“Twelve Gifts of the Christmas Spirit.”

Grant, this isn’t a dream, you haven’t been robbed.  Your former life as a CEO and multi-millionaire is no more.  You are a homeless man, without family or friends.  You will rely in faith on God’s mercy, and the love of others who share their love of compassion through Christ, without expectation.  By the dumpster is a backpack.  It includes the bare necessities for your journey as you receive these spiritual gifts of Christmastide.

“I must be hallucinating,” Grant whispered, trembling as he turned to Officer Santos. “What does this headline say?”

“The Twelve Gifts of the Christmas Spirit, followed by the caption: Saint Nicholas successfully delivers gifts to those in need.”

“This is not happening.  I must be in a waking nightmare or dead…I am not homeless.  I’m a multi-millionaire.” Grant railed, like a lunatic.

“You’re not dead and this is no dream.” Officer Santos unsuccessfully tried to reassure him.

“It has to be a dream otherwise, I’m in hell.”

“I think you should go to the hospital.  We can sort out the details of your situation from there.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Grant shouted.

“Grant, I understand the desolation you feel.  It is okay to be afraid and confused.  I am here to help.” Officer Santos tried to calm him down. “For your own safety, either you go to the hospital, or I can drop you off with a friend or relative.”

“I want to go home,” Grant pleaded. “I live in The Bell Tower in Belltown, penthouse suite.  Call the front desk, Brennan will confirm my identity.”

Officer Santos released a hard sigh as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number to poshest apartment complex in the urban chic neighborhood of Belltown.  After several rings he was able to get in touch with the operator, whom he put on speaker phone, allowing Grant to overhear the conversation.

“There is no man by the name of Grant Spaulding that lives in this building.  The Penthouse has always been owned by Myra Nicholas, CEO of the Seattle Toy Company.”

“He’s lying!  Brennan I’ll have you fired for this,” Grant shouted into the phone. “Bruce Tompkins, he’ll know me…”

“Bruce moved out a year ago, lives in San Francisco, to start a new outreach non-profit to train Bay area homeless how to use computers so they can reenter the workforce.  Bruce always was a friend of the oppressed and disenfranchised.  Volunteered at several area homeless shelters.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brennan.” Santos hung up the phone. “I’m sorry Grant, but I fear you have created an alternate reality to cope with your status as a homeless man.  I am willing to do what I can to assist you.”

“I’m not crazy.  I’m Grant Spaulding, a multi-millionaire.” He cried out, distressed, full of rage and fear.  Was the prophecy true?  Had St. Nicholas somehow transported him into another sphere, a place in which, he was resigned as a homeless beggar, a man without worth, a pauper?  The reckoning of such a fate was too much to bear.  It left him bitter and angry.

 “I think I found your wallet,” Santos noticed the leather pouch falling out from a large army backpack, resting adjacent to the nearby dumpster. “It looks as if your social security card is here.”

Grant sifted through the wallet.  “The social security number is correct,” admitted aloud. “Though this isn’t my wallet.  Where is my driver’s license, all my credit cards, the $500 I keep in the billfold?  The only items in here are my Social Security number and a card listing the address for St. Nicholas Abbey on Marillac Street near Pioneer Square.”

“St. Nicholas does a lot of outreach,” Santos advised. “Did you go there this week?”

“I don’t believe in any religion and I certainly don’t go to church.  They lecture you on flawed moral code and kick you with judgment.”

“Faith is a choice, a journey only your soul can discover.  Human nature is flawed, but the grace of Christ’s love, ‘agape’, fills the spirit and gives strength to the weak.  There are many churches, synagogues and civic organization in this city ready to give love without expectation, ready to help with merciful heart, love for neighbor in action.” Santos’ words strangely comforted Grant, as he came to the inconceivable revelation that in some twisted dream or miraculous curse he’d wound up in an alternate reality; a deplorable treacherous life where he was forced to live as a disenfranchised pauper.

“I’m stuck in a horrible nightmare.” Grant inconsolable – lost in fear. He had to figure a way out of this mess. “Can you give me a ride to Saint Nicholas Abbey?”

“I still think you need to see a doctor.” Santos hesitated. “If you are worried about insurance, there is a clinic not far from here that waives fees…”

“My situation cannot be fixed by a doctor.”

 “If you refuse to seek medical attention, I suppose Saint Nicholas is the next best place.  I’ll give you ride.”

            Grant grabbed the backpack and got into the patrol car.  He hoped Saint Nicholas would offer clues to this Christmas mystery.

Chapter 12:

            Pioneer Square is in the southwestern core of Downtown Seattle. It serves as a hub, arts and culture, food, nightlife, and business.  Imbued with a rich, and notorious history, Pioneer Place is the oldest neighborhood in the city, a place where in 1852 Seattle’s founders first laid out their ambitious plans for a city on the Puget Sound. 

            The founding of Seattle is known for its seedy underhanded manipulation from greed and lust, brothels, and parlors to murders and thieves, and the formation of the Skid Row.  The district’s early buildings were built mostly of wood, and most burned to the ground during the Great Seattle Fire of 1889.  Grand brick and stone Romanesque style buildings erected in their place, weaving a tapestry of character, histories of tragedy and redemption left as distant reminders in each brick and stone facing. 

            By the 1960s the majority of Pioneer Square had become a hub of treachery so pervasive no one dared bother to hide their sins in the light, let alone the dark.  It took an urbanization and historical campaign to restore this neighborhood, to a lively city center, without of erasing its eccentric charm.  Underground tours of Pioneer Square still tell the history of the center’s seedy past and hopeful future.  

            Saint Nicholas Abbey stands on the corner of Marillac and Klondike Streets, just off Yesler Way. The church was founded in 1901as a small mission church.  The stone building has gothic and Romanesque influences coupled with Pacific Northwest touches including its Native American carvings.  The church grounds include Prefontaine Community Park.

            “Here we are,” Santos pointed to the church gates. “Best of luck to you Grant.  My prayers are with you.  Merry Christmas.”

            Grant didn’t say a word as he got out of the vehicle, his mind too wrapped up in trying to pull the pieces of this crazy experience together.  It seemed fitting to come to Saint Nicholas Abbey, seeing as the spirit of Saint Nicholas had visited him, condemning him to this tortuous fate.

            Hesitating before he stepped inside the church’s cast iron gates, Grant looked up at the church sign, a banner pinned up, LOVE, followed by a quote.        “Christ is love, love that gives with no expectation.  When we are filled with this love, we are full, well fed, our weary hearts rested in love.  It is in Christ’s love we are called to love unselfishly.” – Sisters of Saint Nicholas Abbey.

            Grant heaved begrudgingly as he walked into the church premise.  Nine bells began to ring with intense joy, as a choir of what he could only describe as angels were heard singing: ‘The Good Shepherd, Christ is born, whose love is a gift eternal, may we be born anew to love as Christ first loved us, without expectation or selfish concern, a love for all the ages, Rejoice Christ is born.’”

            “This whole thing is preposterous.” Grant still doubted, unable to make sense of something so unexpected, it surpassed his comprehension. He took heavy, belligerent steps into the church.  God knows he hasn’t darkened the door to a chapel as a man of faith since he was confirmed at age thirteen.  The last time he’d stepped foot into a church at all was for his brother’s wedding ten years ago, back when he and George still got along.    

            The church entryway is defined three distinct stone arches, each inscribed with quotes:

            “Accustom yourself continually to make acts of love for they enkindle and melt the soul – Teresa of Avila.”

            “Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13.”

            “The giver of every good and perfect gift has called upon us to mimic God’s giving, by grace, through faith and this is not of ourselves – St. Nicholas of Myra.”

            “Merry Christmas.” Grant was shocked to find Teresa Martin; his secretary lighting candles in the sanctuary. “Welcome to our parish.”

            “Teresa? What are you doing here?”

            “Have we met?” She gave a kind, albeit blank stare, indicating she did not recognize her employer.

            “Grant Spaulding,” he reached out to shake her hand, pulling back when he saw the ash and dirt on his tired hands.

            “Pleasure to meet you. Our Christmas Day service starts at 10:30.” Teresa could tell the soul was homeless and wanted to provide him with mercy.  Mercy she had learned is an act of selfless love, love greater for the other, in which you meet the needs of the other, be it food, shelter and agape love itself.

            “I’m not a believer…just a seeker of St. Nicholas I guess.” Grant careful with his words.  He wished he’d find St. Nicholas in church to confront him for this whole nightmare.

            “If you’re hungry we have ham sandwiches and coffee in the Parish Hall?”

            “I’m not hungry.  It seems I’m lost, trying to make sense of my life.” Grant wanted to share the details of his strange supernatural experience with Teresa but didn’t dare.  She would no doubt deem him demented.

            “Are you homeless?” Teresa was respectful, careful not to be too forward.  She knew poverty, addiction, loss, left people clutching to what little dignity they have.  Pride makes it difficult for people to take help, even when they so desperately need and want the help. “I know it is a dark place, a road that people arrive at through various trials.  It is easy to lose heart, but I promise you have a friend and advocate in Christ.  In celebrating his birth, we celebrate second chances.  Saint Nicholas Abbey doesn’t have a shelter, but we do have showers in the basement, and I can get you some fresh clothes from our Bargain Closet.”

            “I hate to impose.” Grant desired a shower, to be made clean more than anything, but his pride made him uncomfortable in asking for something as trivial as a shower.  He is a multi-millionaire; he shouldn’t be reduced to bathing in a church basement.  The notion was demeaning to his ego.

            “It’s not an imposition.” Teresa insisted, her voice full of consideration for Grant. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then if you’re willing we can talk over hot cocoa before mass starts.”

            Grant, exposed to a whiff of his fetid smell, succumbed to the offer.  “Teresa works for me,” He rationalized, still bound to an unhealthy sense of entitlement. “I pay her wages.  The least she can do is help me get out of this sordid Christmas nightmare.”

            The church basement’s lone bathroom is a far cry from the penthouse’s state of the art rain shower and spa. He cautiously stepped into the confines of the modest space.  Undressing, he gagged as he realized the feces and dried urine on his pants, imprinted on his skin.  He was aware that the homeless often defecate on themselves, little options of going to the bathroom, especially when businesses and public restrooms are closed.  Grant once mocked their unclean existence as repulsive, going so far as to having one ‘contaminated’ homeless man arrested for sitting on a NWTC bench just outside corporate headquarters.  Now, left in the same foul condition, Grant was disgusted with himself.  His dignity stolen.  He was angry at his circumstances, in a state of self-pity.

Turning on the faucet, the rickety showerhead expelled low pressure lukewarm water.  The tile and grout, a sterile, dated set-up, marred by lime scale from the hardness of water.  It was adequate by sanitation standards, still Grant felt dirty standing on the crude tile.

            The water rushed over his body, purging the dirt and grunge tarring his body.  Grant lost himself in the water’s cleansing power.  A shower never felt so satisfying.  He scrubbed incessantly trying to ensure every bit of muck was erased.  The water cleansed his body, making him feel a new man, still his soul clung to a cold bitter shame.  He despised this circumstance of fate.  Why should he be forced to grovel for something as essential as hygiene, a shower?

            Using the shaving kit, Teresa provided, he shaved the disgusting beard, bristled and unruly.   His clean-shaven face revealed another layer of this character, a man of doubt, anger, fear, and desperation.  Grant still could barely recognize himself.  His frame gangly, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot. 

            “Thank you for your kindness.” The act of saying thank you has never come easy for Grant. 

            “No need for gratitude.  You look sharp,” Teresa’s warm smile, pierced his ego.

            “Why are you being so nice to me?” Grant asked with a severe bluntness. “Who am I but a stranger, a man who doesn’t deserve to live, condemned to the shadows.  Why are you helping me?”

            “There is no greater gift or calling than to help a neighbor in need.  God is love, his love doesn’t judge by human standards.  It is filled with glorious hope, building a path out of darkness into light, second chances and the ability to rise, through that selfless love to meet obstacles with resiliency.  I cannot turn a blind eye to someone who is lost.  I’ve been lost. Who am I, but a sinner myself, a sojourner?  We are all called to give love selflessly, without expectation, not for personal reward or lauded glory, but because by forsaking the other, we forsake ourselves.  Ignoring the need of mankind, we ignore the truth of love and the capability of action in it.”

            “Love is all cupid and arrows to me.  Fleeting if anything.” Grant thought about his past romances.  Love had left him broken.

            “Love isn’t about fleeting passion.  It goes deeper than that.” Teresa could hear the tension of doubt, the anxious resentment and antagonism in Grant’s voice.

            “Heartache, pain, bitterness,” Grant rolled his eyes.

“Let me put it this way, in Greek there are four different definitions of love, each a form of love.  Physical love is Eros, desire of physical attraction.  Philia love is mental love, which is consideration of the other, but is a love of give and take, it has expectation; a dispassionate virtuous love, that you might have for an activity you enjoy or the general love of friends or family. Storge love is affection for family.   The type of love I’m referring to is Agape.  It is a spiritual gift from the Holy Spirit, it is an undefeatable benevolence and unconquerable goodwill.  It seeks the highest of the other, no matter what the other does.  It is self-giving love without asking or expecting anything in return, a love by choice, one’s own volition – love without considering the worth of the object.”

“I don’t think that agape love is possible.” Grant pondered.

“Today is Christmas, the memorial of Christ’s birth.  Christmas is about agape love.  Christ’s birth comes from God’s everlasting and insufferable love for his creation.  Christ loved us as his Father in heaven, love despite our flaws, love that is selfless and kind, compassionate and active.  Christ’s death on the cross is a sacrifice rooted in agape love.  Grace comes from Agape love.”

            “I’m an atheist and I frankly have a hard time comprehending a love that you invest in without getting a definite return.  A selfless love seems ridiculous to me.” Grant spoke honestly, still trying to grasp why people would bother to help the lost find their way. “I am nothing, in this tale anyway.  Still, you offer me shower and clothes, food and an ear to my trouble.  It seems foolish, wasting your time on me.  Yet your selflessness has offered me an open door.”

            “I have learned to give up a part of myself for the other, at first it was a chore, an irritant.  It took God’s work in me, the gift of the Holy Spirit and knowing that God loves me despite my flaws and selfishness.  When you experience the peace and joy of that love, you yearn to share it.  It is in the giving that you receive what matters most.”

            “It is in giving that you lose everything.” Grant disagreed.

            “Sometimes you have to lose everything, to find yourself.” Teresa held.

            “Seeing through the eyes of a beggar to serve as king,” the quote now imprinted on his mind, though his heart still refused the logic.  In losing everything, he felt desperate frustration – a rage against ‘God’ not a selfless love.  This test was cruel and harsh.  It didn’t feel like love, but punishment.

            “We are stubborn creatures, unable to perceive beyond our peripheral vision.  Even in that scope we get caught up in our own selfish desires and busy lives.  Daily we pass strangers on the street, nameless faces, with no consideration for them.  They each carry burdens of the world.  We forsake the other, not always by intent, but because we are lost in our own internal conflict – fears and hesitations, misconceptions, and pride.  You can see the most gut-wrenching scene on the street, a beggar, covered in dirt, with nothing but boxes and trash bags of belongings and in selfishness not take notice, or worse rebuke and forsake them.  One simple act of love can fuel the change for that person to act.”

            “Like offering me a shower and a fresh set of clothes,” Grant peeled by a layer of the truth, a ray of light piercing through his dark spirit.  Still, he struggled to accept that truth.

“Human kindness, respecting the other, gives a part of yourself to help the other. In turn you not only give but receive in the act of giving. That gift of compassion and respect stirs a kindling fire in the other soul, the lost, helping them to break through walls of doubt and despair so that they might be reawakened to the joys of life.  I know for every act of love, random acts of kindness, that mercy has filled my spirit.  I am renewed, not in regret and anger, but hope and trust in love.  That gift calls me to act.  Agape love, love for the other, least to greatest with not expectation.  The irony is that when giving love selflessly you are full, receiving gifts that nourish the soul, without the desire of a return on the investment.”

“You’re a better person than me,” Grant felt his pride crack.

“I don’t want to press you for life details if you are unwilling to share.  I know each person, particularly those who feel forsaken don’t always want to speak of the pain of their situation.  Still if you need a friend, a compassionate ear, I’m here to help.”

“I have a past that I cannot reconcile with the present.” Grant chose his words with restraint.  “I was on top of the world.  CEO of a leading big box chain on the west coast. I woke up and had nothing, not a penny to my name…I lived in a penthouse and had chauffeurs, people doing things for me.  I took everyone for granted, especially my secretary.  I thought that my stature deserved authority and entitlement.  Now living on the street, I can see that you should respect the other, but not expect their help as an entitlement, but grace of sorts.  In turn it is my responsibility to care about the person behind the job, not seeing them as disposable cash or a robot…”

“I lost my job several years ago.  I was a secretary to Horace Shelton of Northwest Trading Company.  He was a wonderful boss, with an understanding of the intricate dynamic of people and business.  He never sacrificed people for profits and business was strong.  Then The Great Recession hit, stockholders pulled out and Horace’s brother, Ryder made a few ill-advised business decisions and the company collapsed.  The company was sold to Zane Tyson, a tyrant who destroyed the value of Northwest Trading, draining its assets and then selling out to Chinese businessmen who laid off all employees and bought out the stocks and ran off with a small profit.  A small profit in dismantling the company was more than investing in the company’s quality product and workforce.”

“Zane Tyson purchased NWTC?” The statement stung.

“I landed on my feet after the layoffs.  Others weren’t so lucky.” Teresa bit her lip. “Sometimes we have to experience something to understand how our actions and their consequences affect other people.  I’m sorry you lost your livelihood, but hopefully you can grow from this experience and work in faith to pull yourself back up.  This time more concerned about loving people instead of money.  God sometimes uses harsh, seemingly unforgiving experiences to open our eyes to his love.  It seems counterintuitive, but like I said, humans are stubborn, and we don’t yield to truth easily, especially inconvenient truths.”

“I appreciate your help.  I better get going.”

“You don’t want to stay for Mass?”

“No, I don’t feel comfortable. Like I said, I’m not religious.”

“Listen, tonight we are co-hosting an ecumenical dinner for those in need at Saint Anthony’s Church near Pike’s Place.  There will be food, music, community – we’d be honored to break bread with you.”

“I don’t know.”  Grant didn’t like the idea of spending the night surrounded by homeless people desperate for a meal. It made him uncomfortable.

“Here’s the information.  If you need a ride, give me a call.” Teresa handed him the flyer, her card and twenty dollars in cash.

“I cannot take your money.”

“You need it more than I do. Use it for some lunch, or bus fare…I do hope you’ll come to tonight’s dinner.  No one should spend Christmas alone, especially torn apart by regret and bitterness.  Let Christmas begin a new chapter, a fresh start.”

“I’ll think about it, thanks.” Grant stalled, not sure where to go. He grabbed his backpack, a heavy load on his weak bones. 

Please excuse typos

Copyright 2021 (Adele Lassiter)

To learn more about Pioneer Square

Chapter 8:

             “Do not be afraid.  I am an angel of the Lord, bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.” Sarah enthusiastically rehearsed her lines, as Marissa pinned on the angel wings to the flowing white gown. “How did that sound mom?”

            “Wonderful.” Marissa encouraged. Seeing her daughter so radiant, filled with the joy of Christmas kindled the soul’s spark.

It had been a stressful forty-eight hours.  The temporary respite of the board’s decision to delay the FLEX Plan vote until January 6, was a welcome relief, but Marissa knew it didn’t solve the problem.  Grant Spaulding was more determined than ever to sacrifice the heart and soul of Northwest Trading Company.  The fight had only begun.

Marissa thought of Mary and Joseph and the darkness they faced in the shadow of Christmas joy.  Joy is something we often wrestle with, but the light of Christmas does cut into the dark.  Marissa had to stay strong, even if

deep down she worried about the future.

 As a single mom with no job, she’d be living off her savings and a prayer, hitting the pavement and busting down doors to net another job. Perhaps it was that fear, the anxiety of not being able to provide for her children that drove her quest to actively protest the FLEX Plan.  What about the thousands of other families, living paycheck to paycheck, who didn’t have the luxury of owning a home and having a car that is paid for?  They need their jobs at NWTC to put food on the table and to barely pay their bills. 

“I come from the orient, afar, a Magi seeking the star of the king, a savior of all nations.  I bring frankincense.” Joel came into the room, dressed as a Wise Man. The Saint Jude’s Christmas Pageant and Live Nativity occurs every Christmas Eve from 5 to 7, followed by a meal in the parish hall.  Midnight Mass follows at neighboring St. Thomas the Apostle Church. 

“Greetings, wise man.” Sarah shouted gleefully at her brother.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get home in time to take you to the zoo,” Marissa told Joel. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s okay, mom.  I had a blast making cookies with Aunt Noelle and Sarah.  We have our cookies all laid out for Santa.  We decorated Christmas cards for Mr. & Mrs. Claus too.”

“We made you an ornament mom,” Sarah added in. “We put it on the tree, right underneath the star.  That way daddy is sure to see it from heaven.”

“That is the best Christmas gift ever.” Marissa held back tears. “Did you leave carrots for the reindeer?”

“Carrots and celery.”

“After we get home from the pageant you each get to open one gift,” Marissa loved seeing Joel and Sarah’s eyes light up.  She remembered the days when the magic of a small Christmas gift under the tree, made her heart leap with anticipation.  In her adult years, she’d let go of the physical joy of receiving to the gift of giving to those around her and receiving the gift of Christ’s love as an example.  It had taken her faith, the ability to forgive, let go and accept grace to emotionally survive the turmoil of Trevor’s death.  She saw hope even in the deepest darkness, in the light shining from her kids.  They gave her faith to endure.

Zeke stumbled in, disheveled, wearing baggy jeans and a hoodie.

“Zeke, where have you been?  And why aren’t you dressed?  The Nativity starts in an hour, we’re leaving the house in twenty minutes.” Marissa exasperated.

“I don’t want to dress up and play a fictional character in some stupid Christmas play.”

“Zeke, Christmas is the heart of love, family and peace.  Christ’s birth is a new hope, second chances and hope beyond hope.  The nativity symbolizes that living gift with have in the Holy Trinity, the sacrifice of Christ gives life to all the world.”

“It’s all a fable.  The Magi weren’t even there with Jesus the night he was supposedly born.”

“Yes, they arrived on Epiphany.  That doesn’t make it less real.  The magi saw a miraculous star, the light of hope and redeeming grace for all the nations.  They trusted the miracle of that star, following it to Christ.  Having the magi in the nativity might not be historical, but it has spiritual truth, a recognition that the humble babe born in a manger is God, and has come as a king and savior, not for the greedy, but for the disenfranchised.  They saw the wonder in the unexpected.” Marissa hated that Zeke was losing his faith. She too had wrestled with doubt and understood you can minister to doubt, but it takes a person’s own volition to trust the Holy Spirit, to accept the persistent validity of faith even if it seems impossible.

“Whatever, I’d rather not go,” Zeke shrugged.

“The Nativity is counting on you!”

“They have six other wise men.  I think they can survive without me.”

“Fine, don’t participate in the nativity, but you are going to church.  Get your suit on.”

“You can’t make me,” Zeke argued.

“Yes, I can.” Marissa used to hate when her parents said that.  It took being a parent to understand when you need to set boundaries, even if they seem nonsensical to the teenager. “Get dressed.”

“I cannot stand you! You are ruining my life.”

“I love you and whether or not you can see that, I’m doing what’s best for you Zeke.” Marissa firm, even though his words pierced her like a knife to the heart.

“Don’t yell at mom,” Joel defended. “Christmas is the best holiday ever.  It was dad’s favorite holiday.”

“Don’t lecture me about dad.”

“We all miss dad.  You are being selfish.”

“I’m a realist,” Zeke shot back at his brother. “I won’t apologize to mom, not after she’s ruined my life.”

“Way to be overdramatic,” Joel rolled his eyes.

“Stop arguing.  It is Christmas and for the next twenty-four hours there will be love, joy and peace under this roof,” Marissa instructed, wiping away a lone tear.  She silently said a prayer, ‘God be with Zeke, allow the Holy Spirit to work through him and guide him away from his hate and anger.  Help him realize the measure of your love.’

~

            Grant Spaulding stared out at the Puget Sound from his Belltown Penthouse window, the lights flickering through the fog as orbs, floating like ghosts in the night.  He paced the floor, anger welling up inside, work a ceaseless burden racking his brain, demanding, and exacting.  He would not rest until he had sought revenge on all that opposed him, forcing the FLEX Plan through in the way he saw fit. 

Grant realized on a superficial mental level that he was being reckless and unreasonable; this agenda was more about his wounded ego and greed versus the good of the company.  Still, he grew mad with power and the determination to stay the course, even if it meant losing everything.  Intellectually, Grant questioned his sanity; his emotions manipulating reason and analysis to fuel his own misguided ambition.

The CEO remained a prisoner, trapped in his penthouse, as the media were camped outside his door, reporting on ‘The Grinch of Seattle.’  He figured the publicity would die down by Christmas morning.  In the interim, he remained in the dark, meticulously spinning his next scheme. 

His driver had offered to take him out of town, to the company’s remote luxury cabin near Mount Rainier, a perfect place to evade the media blitz. 

The thought of snow and ice, loneliness and self-examination at the Rainier was a tempting invitation.  Still tonight, he preferred a bottle of scotch, locked in the silence of his own darkness. 

Opening the window, feeling the bitter air rush in as the wind howled, he could hear distant carols from Belltown Methodist Church.  The choirs voice a haunting serenade, plaguing him with Christmas.  The season pestered him with unyielding compassion.

“Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars goes by; yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light.”  The voices drifted in and out.  He cursed the tune.  The bleak winter a discontent raging within.  He cursed the season and all its gifts. 

The clock on the wall read 11:00.  Grant put down his shot glass.  Tired and restless, he took a sleeping pill and fell onto his four-poster bed.  Within a few minutes, the executive passed out, deep into a dreamless sleep.

~

            Saint Jude’s Community Center lies in the downtown Seattle’s Capitol Hill district.  It is a hub for the neighborhood, offering services including classes to childcare, outreach, and a small homeless shelter.  Capitol Hill has struggled with its homeless population, from orphans to those facing addiction, hard-working families who live on the streets due to lack of affordable housing.  Each survivor’s story is different, tragic, and full of hope in its own way.  Saint Jude’s and other outreach programs in King County help build a bridge between poverty and security, homelessness to shelter, working to show integrity and dignity to societies marginalized.

            The community center’s annual Live Nativity and Christmas Pageant brings the community together in the spirit of love and kindness, strengthening bonds and spreading good cheer.  Over 500 people gathered in the alley to watch the outdoor nativity before moving instead to the center’s humble chapel.  The influx of attendees running from homeless wanders in need of a guiding light to affluent businessman, all would live and work in the shadow and light of Capitol Hill.

            The rain and frigid temps did not keep the Nativity from being an overwhelming success.  Volunteers served hot cocoa and served gingerbread star of Bethlehem cookies, while the Agatha Bell Ringers performed ‘We Three Kings,’ ‘What Child is this,’ and other Christmas favorites.  The Live Nativity included three camels, a donkey, cow, and sheep from a local organic farm just outside of the city limits.  A large star rose above the nativity, courtesy of Capitol Hardware. 

            With the Star lit, the group burst into song, “O star of wonder, star of night, Star with royal beauty bright, westward leading, still proceeding, Guide us to thy perfect Light.” They migrated inside to the warmth of the chapel.

            “Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way.  When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.  An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream,” the narrator, twelve-year-old Amy Pryce, spoke with clarity as the angel ‘Gabriel,’ spoke his lines.

            “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.  She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

            “All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet Isaiah. ‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,’ which means God is with us.”

            “In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. Joseph and Mary went to the town of Bethlehem, but there was not a bed available for them, so they stayed in a stable.  The time had come for Jesus’ birth.”  The children began to sing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’

            “Mary gave birth to the baby Jesus, and wrapped him bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger.” The choir continued to sing with ‘Away in a Manger,’ as the scene shifted to the shepherds tending their flock.

            “In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.  Then an angel of the Lord shone around them.”

            “Do not be afraid; for see I am bringing you good news of great joy for all people: to you is born this day in the city of David a savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.  A light that will enlighten the nations.  For a child is born to us, upon his shoulder dominion rests.  He will be a redeemer for the all the world, a wonderful counselor, prince of peace and authority rests on his shoulders.” Sarah proclaimed. “This will be a sign for you that you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.”

            “Suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying…”

“Glory to God in the highest heaven.”

            Overcome by emotion, Marissa wept with bittersweet hope.  For some inexplicable reason her soul was stirred to pray among the voices of the angels for Grant Spaulding.

            “I pray that the light that shines from heaven, may pierce the darkness maligning Grant Spaulding.  I pray for his soul this night.”

Chapter 9:

            The resounding dingdong of twelve distinct church bells jolted Grant awake.  His restless soul shuttered at the noise, his brain trying to make sense of the vibrations, each clang so strong it shook the walls like an earthquake.  He trembled in the brief silence of midnight, drenched in a cold sweat. 

Clearing his head, he reasoned that the carol of the bells came from an area church signifying the first stroke of Christmas Day.  Still the science of physics couldn’t not justify how the noise was so explosive, a beckoning call in the night, even he could not ignore.

After several minutes of quiet, Grant pulled the covers back over his head.  As soon as he began to drift into sleep, there arose a boisterous clatter. 

“What in the world?” Grant startled as the gas fireplace on the opposite side of his bedroom burst to life, the flames crackling and blazing at full force. 

            Begrudgingly, Grant rolled out of bed to investigate the incident.  He rarely uses the fireplace and could only assume that the on switch got triggered by the vibration of the bells, or worst case scenario, by a mouse hiding in the chimney, accidentally turning on the heat.

            As Grant stepped closer, the fire flared with an insurmountable brightness, blotting out all darkness and shadow, intense as the noonday sun.  Grant’s logic told him that the gas was malfunctioning, igniting the flames, a fire that could destroy.  The air did not smell of smoke.  It was full of the clear, crisp scent of Evergreen, with a hint of sweet lilies.  He reached for the phone to call security, not sure if he was hallucinating.  Had the mix of alcohol and pills affected the lucidity of his mind?

            Grant stumbled to turn off the fire, only for his bedroom balcony window to blow open with hurricane force.  He was pushed to the ground as the air rushed in.  Strangely the air was not cold.  It lacked temperature, yet was tinged with emotions, memories of his past and present, Christmases long ago to this somber evening.  The sound of heavenly harp music whispered joy in the wind. 

            “I am going crazy,” Grant sunk his head into his hands, in desperation. “Surely this is a nightmare, a dream in a winter’s sleep.  In the morning I will wake up, this but an ethereal memory.”

            Out the window, amidst the blackness of the cloudy night sky, Grant was confounded as a star appeared, brilliantly shining forth, surpassing the luminous crest of the moon.  The star began to speed, crashing towards his apartment like a comet, the intensity blinding his sight with an all radiant, encompassing light. 

            As the light split open the night, revealing its power, Grant fears forced him to collapse.  The awesome sight, a phenomenon he deemed as lunacy, death of mind, loss of his wits, a nightmare that he longed to arise from.  His heart on the other hand felt the burden of worry lifted in the light, his soul complete by that fiery gaze. 

            “What is this if not death?” Grant shouted, angry and confusion.  “If this is but a dream, I command myself to wake up.”

            “Do not fear, for this is no dream,” the light of the star turned into a man. “I am Saint Nicholas, sent down from heaven.”

            “You’re the homeless vagrant from the street.  You are a thief,” Grant accused, seeing the familiar face, only this time the elderly man was clothed in majesty, wearing white and red robes, and carrying a staff and scroll.  His face glowing with a radiance that can only be described as otherworldly.

            “I am not a thief, but a saint sent on a mission to intercede on God’s behalf.  I have come to bestow you with the Twelve Gifts of Christmas.  To call you out of the wilderness, the abyss of night, to light the way to Christ, the advocate and redeemer of the world.  For you are living in the shadow of death, a rotten core that festers in desolation, Christ is the light to lift you out of the shadows to new life.”

            “This is a hoax.  I’m not fooled,” Grant still confounded by the incident, unable to believe his eyes and listen to the truth he was hearing. “You are but a beggar, a homeless vagrant living on the street, devoid of warmth and food, hygiene and clothes.  Who are you?”

            “A servant of the king.  A saint who intercedes for humankind through prayer in heaven, a messenger sent on behalf of Christ, God the Father and the Holy Spirit to show you the path to redemption.” Saint Nicholas spoke with an all-knowing voice that nearly convinced the cynic in Grant to believe his words.

            “If you are in fact Saint Nicholas, shouldn’t you be riding around in a sleigh with reindeer and putting gifts and coal into stockings?” Grant mocked.

            “The gift I bring to you is salvation, Christ Jesus, born this night to save all the world from sin.”

            “I don’t feel guilty about my sin,” Grant scoffed. “I live the high life and would rather bank my investment in cold hard cash than what you are offering.  I don’t need saving.  The whole concept of a God that makes us feel guilty for living is insane.”

            “Sin isn’t an arbitrary fallibility; it is a poison that darkens the soul.  It is the hate that binds you into chains of revenge that disconnects you from life.  It is death, not because you disobeyed the law, but because sin is hurting the flesh and the soul.  Christ cleanses us, frees us from the destroying burden of sin.  It is the sacrifice of grace, love without expectation.  It heals and opens your eyes.  You are blind, lost in your steps, wandering in the darkness.  This spiritual blindness is killing you, rotting the humanness inside, you rely on animosity instead of forgives, hate and anger over love, selfishness over compassion.  You think that you are fine, a rock of isolation that can withstand all storms.  Instead, you are a fragmented soul that is pulled apart by the darkness inside you.  The light of Christ can heal you, but you first must learn to accept the gift of that grace.”

            “So, you have come, a ghostly visitor, to incite me to repent?”

            “You are too stubborn and confused to repent now.” Saint Nicholas sighed. “Christ knows that your soul has grown dependent on the poison of wickedness cast in doubt’s shadow, lost in lust of the world, a desire for money and power that only consumes your darkness.  You have lost understanding and compassion.  Yet deep in the darkest recesses of your soul the light burns, so faint I fear without this divine intervention the wind of the next storm would dissolve your integrity completely.  As long as that light shines, the Holy Spirit remains within you, and there is hope of redemption.  This road isn’t paved in gold.  It is a choice.  You must relearn the lessons of Christmas, seeing life through the eyes of a beggar, becoming dependent on God and the kindness of strangers, instead of the selfishness of your greed.”

            “This is pointless…you are just a figment of my imagination.”

            “I am an intercessor serving Christ to help you on your path to redemption,” Saint Nicholas unfazed by Grant’s doubt. “In the morning you will wake, on Christmas Day a new man.  Your life will be that of a beggar, poor and wretched, alone and without a penny to your name.”

            “You expect me to believe that in the morning I’m going to suddenly go from millionaire to street urchin?”

            “Help is always provided in the name of God.  You must learn to rely on the kingdom of heaven for help and not the selfish tendency of your misguided ego.  Servants of Christ, from the lowly to the rich will help you on this journey, as there are fueled with the sustaining spirit of Christmas. For as the words are spoken: ‘and I will lead the blind in a way that they do not know, in paths that they have not known I will guide them.  I will turn the darkness before them into light, the rough places into level ground.  These are the things I do, and I do not forsake them.’”

            “This is lunacy!”

            “Twelve gifts you will receive to bridge the chasm of death to life, doubt to faith.  Open your heart and you will find understand, wisdom and grace.”

            Before Grant could offer a reply, the nightly visitor disappeared and the light of the star with him.  The fire extinguished as the cold hard silence of winter’s desolation proved bitter.  Grant pinched his skin, burning his nerves.  Surely it was a dream, though every sensation in his body told him that he was awake.  Desperate to wake up from this surreal set of circumstances he fell back asleep, convinced that in the morning, that everything would be set right.

Please excuse typos

Copyright 2021 (Adele Lassiter)