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Chapter 14:

            The Seattle rain dissipated making room for a wonderful sunset.  “I have seen thousands of sunsets in my life, but never noticed them until now,” Grant pondered. “It took this single sunset to perceive the beauty of something as simple as the fire of the sky.  Even in the chaos of light and dark, beauty pierces with resilience and peace.”

            Accompanied by Wilson, Max, and Tommy, they walked briskly, pounding the pavement from Pioneer Square to Pike’s Place and St. Anthony’s Church. 

            Grant noticed the Christmas lights, twinkling from streetlamps and area shop windows. It provided an odd peace – the Christmas spirit he lacked.

            Saint Anthony’s is an Anglican parish on Pike Street, a block from the Public Market.  It works hand in hand with Seattle’s elderly and homeless.  Pike’s Place is a location where many displaced people roam and work.  The church works hand in hand with the Pike Place Market Foundation to provide services, counseling, food, and healthcare.

Working in conjunction with several area churches and chefs from the Seattle Culinary School, Saint Anthony’s serves 356 at need people with a delicious feast, a banquet in celebration of joy of Christ’s light and hope in grace.  Saint Anthony’s houses 112 of the diners in their community gym, with the neighboring Market Center, housing up to 250 souls.  The Seattle Toy Company provides gifts for children, while and Puget Clothing Rack donates gift sacks with gloves, hats, and other necessary items for life on the edges.

            “This looks like a feast for a king.  Praise Christ,” Wilson joyful as they entered the church parish hall.  The humble space, brought to life with fresh evergreen wreaths, decorated trees, candlelight, and festive music.  A large buffet of hot, mouthwatering food, the aroma of sweet potatoes, ham and turkey, vegetables, and honey cornbread, filled the senses.  Grant had never found a meal to be so rewarding, his steps anxious and eager as he waited in line.

            “Thank you for volunteering.  This food means a lot,” Wilson told each of the servers.

            “Thank you,” Grant followed, with trepidation.  He didn’t deserve this kindness.  It filled his heart with love.  Agape.  It startled his nerves.  It takes time to accept a gift as powerful as this.

            “I cannot believe the amount of families, young children that are here,” Grant’s heart sore with lament.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such empathy.

            “Families are the hardest hit by poverty and homelessness.  Outreach organizations like Family Promise work to keep families together during trying times.  Since 2008, and particularly since NWTC folded in 2010, a lot of people lost their jobs, couldn’t put food on the table, got evicted…some continued to work during the day, but just needed a hand up to get them back on solid ground.  Look at Jepson’s family…they do everything they can to stay together, but many families are torn apart, kids put in foster care…foster care is a blessing and a curse, it is a roll of the dice…the children suffer the most from the trauma…”

            “What about Social Services?”

            “Many families fear going to Social Services because the parents fear that they will lose their children when their parenting isn’t the issue.  Many of these parents are sober, loving caretakers…of course other children, those whose parents are chronic abusers, drug dependent do need, tragically to be put into foster care or special programs.  It is a complex issue, not a cookie cutter recipe, each situation is drastically difficult, bound by the common thread of poverty and often psychological duress, but unique. That is why Family Promise and other organizations that focus on each layer of family homelessness are critical.  There is hope and help, but particularly where children are concerned, services are lacking. Love is so needed to guide them out in their formative years.  They need to know light and love, not darkness and hate.”

            Grant nearly dropped his tray, when he saw Michael Horton across the room, speaking with the rector. “Michael, what is he doing here?” Grant hoped his former employee wasn’t homeless or struggling through labor difficulty.  “I acted harshly towards him.  I see that now.”

            “Teresa, Merry Christmas,” Wilson embraced her as a friend. “My friend Grant here appreciated your help earlier.”

            “Grant, I’m so glad that you decided to come to the dinner.”

            “I’m grateful for the invitation.”

            “I didn’t get the chance to tell you about area services.  St. Nicholas has a community kitchen on Tuesdays from 9-12.  Catholic Charities provides case officers at our location on Fridays…my friend, Betsy Horton, can give you more details.  She is the social outreach coordinator here at Saint Anthony’s.” Teresa motioned for the petite twenty-five-year-old. “Betsy, I’d like to introduce you to Grant Spaulding.  He has fallen on hard times, recently homeless, and it would be a great help to him if you could give him advice.”

            “Merry Christmas.  It is a pleasure to meet you.” Betsy treated Grant with utmost respect. “I work as the social services director at Saint Anthony’s. Our church is a liaison, working with many other King County non-profits.  I can work to help pair you with services.  What is your background story?”

            “I woke up today, homeless…it’s complicated…I guess you can say I lost everything, going from the penthouse to the outhouse so to speak.  I don’t have any drug or alcohol problems.  My mental health is clear, I am just a victim of losing my income and possessions, due to my own selfish greed.”

            “I’ll provide you with our information packet, it has a comprehensive list of services for the residentially challenged in King County, from shelters to soup kitchens, food banks, showers, employment opportunities and other information to help you navigate this daunting process.  Sadly demand, leaves most candidates for services on waiting lists.  It could take several weeks to be evaluated and then another six weeks to enter a program.  You cannot lose heart.  Patience is a virtue; you’ll find gives strength in uncertain times.  And with the use of temporary shelters, churches and other non-profits…you can survive until a spot opens up.”

            “Weeks on the street?” Grant shocked that it could take that long merely to see a case officer or to get evaluated.

            “There is one other option.  The Saint Jude Community Center has a rapid transition program.  They have twenty-five spots per week, Saturday to Saturday. You have to be sober for the program, off drugs and alcohol.”

            “That is not a problem.”

            “You need to arrive on the premises no later than eight o’clock in the morning.  It is first come first serve and a huge demand for services.  Their director of social services, Marissa Bright is a dear friend I think I can arrange for her to at least meet with you on Saturday morning.” Betsy offered.

            “Did you say, Marissa Bright?” Grant dumbfounded. This experience certainly reminded him of past mistakes.  Marissa Bright had single-handedly railed a campaign against the FLEX Plan.  A tinge of anger still raged in Grant, although he now could understand her pleas.  Grant had to accept the fact that the FLEX Plan was no more than an investment in greed, a complete desecration of the company’s values – people over profits.  The likes of Marissa and Michael stood up to his stubborn tyranny. He only hoped that one day he could return the favor, stopping the FLEX Plan and rehiring Marissa and Michael.

            “Are you familiar with Saint Jude’s?”

            “No…”

            “I’ll put the information in the file folder, along with my number.” Betsy smile, full of understanding and mercy.

            “Hi sweetheart,” Michael kissed Betsy on the cheek. “The kids are with grandpa, handing out gifts to the other children.  Katy says that giving the gifts to the underprivileged kids made her happier than getting her dollhouse from Santa.  I couldn’t help but smile.”

            “I’d like to introduce you to Grant Spaulding.”

            “It is good to know you, Grant. Glad that you could join us for the Christmas dinner.” Michael gracious.

            “Thank you for volunteering.  It is a great gift.” Grant wanted to weep.  How could he have been so foolish?

            “My father, Rowan Horton is the minister here at St. Anthony’s.  To our family the greatest gift of Christmas is the receiving guests at the St. Nicholas dinner, meeting new friends and sharing in the abundance of Christ, love, joy, peace…Speaking of which, my dad is about to give his Christmas Blessing.”

            Father Rowan addressed the eclectic group of wayward, lost souls, with a bold love. 

            “Welcome friends.  Christmas is a celebration of love, God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but may have eternal life.  The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness on them light has shined.” Rowan opened. “We all in conflict with the darkness of the temporal world, it wars within, us, do not lose heart for the light and love of Christ pierces through the abyss of life’s dark places, lifting us out of the shadows.  It is easy to feel lost, forsaken and alone, when you are suffering through the path of darkness, wandering in the abyss, the burden of hopelessness on your shoulders.  Look to the light, do not fear for Christ is with you.  He dwells in the love we carry in the gift of the Holy Spirit. 

            Let it be a living hope that Christ suffered, yet his love overcame the world’s oppression.  He suffered fear, persecution, mockery, hunger, thirst, yet in love, God’s love, he remained sustained in faith and died without sin, rising above suffering, so that our suffering on earth is a temporary state, the promise of eternal grace bought out of selfless love.

            We gather tonight, people without homes, wandering souls, lost and confused, under this humble roof, blessed by the food we receive.  Take comfort that the Messiah was born in uncertain circumstances.  Mary and Joseph could not find a play to lay their head, even when she was about to give birth.  Jesus was born in a stable, in a troth, a manger for the animals.  That is low, a forsaken place by worldly standards, yet God lifts the low and sends the poor with a strong spirit, meek with good things.  Like many of you Christ was born in a ‘homeless’ situation, Mary and Joseph forced to rely on the care of strangers.  Who were the first to here of Christ’s birth?  A swarthy class of shepherds.  This is how the king; the savior came into the world.  God loves all creatures and does not forget your plight.  He refines you in trial and strengthens our spirit.  His love calls us to give without expectation.  For was it not a lack of love and compassion that barred the Holy Family a bed, yet the compassion of the use of the stable, provided a safe haven for them.  God knows are sufferings because he first suffered.  The world hated him, yet love defeats the world.  Even in these lonely times know that the Holy Trinity is with you.  Christ is your advocate.

            This church is named after Saint Anthony, a patron saint of the lost, poor, oppressed…Christ gathers the lost and bears our burdens.  Trust in his love and be moved to action by love, not bitterness and hate.  Love is a fire that spreads joy, not death. It sustains and leads the lost out of the darkness into light.  See the stranger as a friend, love your neighbor as yourself.  Go in love.”

            Rowan concluded his invocation with a prayer of ‘hospitality.’

            “Loving God, your Son Jesus said: your Kingdom is like a banquet, a festive gathering for all people of every race and color – a table at which the lonely find company, the hungry savor rich foods and fine wine, and strangers enjoy warm family ties.  Jesus calls us to build this Kingdom here on earth.  Teach us, Lord, the ways of hospitality.  Give us the spirit of joyful welcome and to grant us the sensitivity to help people on the move, feel like they belong.”

            Grant could not remember a night as fine as the Christmas Feast. The community of love, vagrants, beggars, wanderers had found an eternal home in the promise of love.  Grant still struggling with his fate, shied from admitting fully his mistakes, but he felt the spirit of love alive within him.  It shocked him that this ‘curse’ was becoming a gift.  A presence of joy stirred in his soul.

            After the meal, Grant slept on the floor of the gym.  It was a crude setting, but the gym was warm and the security of being in a safe place, devoid of rain and frost, left him with peace of mind.   

Chapter 13:

Stepping out into the frigid air, Grant was greeted by a steady hard rain.  He sought temporary shelter on a bench, protected by a tree in Prefontaine Park. The jacket from the Bargain Box, was much warmer than the blazer.  Still the cold pierced his skin, rattling his bones.  

He lugged the backpack onto the bench.  The zipper stuck as he tried to unearth the contents.  Inside the pack was an extra set of clothes, a pair of underwear and wool socks, a tarp and poncho, one blanket, toothpaste and toothbrush, deodorant, a bible with highlighted verses and a red notebook, the pages blank, except for one word: Agape.

“What is this ‘love thy neighbor selflessly’ day?  Lesson learned.  Now can you please lift this curse so I can go home?” Grant shouted to the sky.  Silence. “This whole ordeal is pointless.”

            The rain palpitated as an offbeat symphony of the elements.  Some would hear the music in nature’s chaos, but to Grant it was a nuisance, torture that irritated his nerves and tested his patience.  He didn’t like the cold damp state of this world.  Even the tree’s branches could only shelter him from the rain for so long.

            He gazed a statue at the far side of the park, memorializing Father Prefontaine, the first Catholic priest to set up ministry in Seattle.  At the time the town was a seedy lumber town with 600 residents.  He counted only ten Catholics at his first mass.  His superiors back east thought his mission to evangelize the area was futile, how much good can a priest in a haven of greed, corruption, the foul-mouthed pioneer drinking class.  Still Prefontaine persisted, working to light the way to Christ, building a foundation.  By 1867, he’d raised enough funds to build a church in Pioneer Square.  Even then many scorned it as futile, pointless waste, yet his persistence opened the door of faith to many living in the abyss of doubt. Perseverance to do what is right, even if it is difficult, to trust in the love as a bridge to light, even in the grips of uncertainty and darkness. 

            Grant’s stomach growled, the morning’s cinnamon bun a distant memory.  His gut felt empty, his mood dejected. Listless, he rattled his brain seeking some way to get out of this mess. 

“This can’t be a nightmare, otherwise I could just wake up, returning to the comfort of my penthouse.”

Grant was beyond frustrated. Why would God send him on this mission with so little guidance, let alone basic information? 

            “Saint Nicholas, I could use some help,” Grant pleaded. “I’ll do anything at this point to break this curse.”

            “You think this is a curse,” The ethereal saint, appeared, jovial with his laugh. “This experience is a blessing.  Sing praises to God for the opportunity to reclaim your soul.”

            “I have a hard time being grateful for waking up, covered in feces, without money, hungry and homeless.” Grant frustrated. “If this is a blessing, I doubt I’ll ever embrace faith, let alone the understanding to trust in a god that has forsaken me, left me on the streets.  How can I trust?  How can I love my neighbor when I hate myself?  I abhor living this way.”

            “God is love, he is all good and merciful.  Tests and trials from God are meant to refine the spirit to grow in faith. It takes humility to break the chains of pride.  When pride comes, acting as your shield, guard, foundation then you will be led to disgrace.  God is supreme judge, and he will judge with fire, he works through our flaws and fallen state to bring us to grace.”

            “God’s arbitrary moral codes.  Grace is supposed to be a gift, yet I have to endure judgment to the extreme, walking a thin narrow, path, left to beg and plead. In my book that is being bound to unforgiving chains.  It is a game.”

            “You have to prepare room in your heart and soul for the light of Christ.  You are so consumed by pride, hate, self-loathing, anger… it took bringing you to this extreme to open your eyes to the light. Humility.”

            “I’m not humbled, I’m disgusted.”

“You were investing all your worth in worldly authority, not the eternal spirit which calls for love, joy, peace…You are so accustomed to the dark, resting in the authority of monetary wealth, pride and selfish desire, that light of love and gifts of the spirit you will receive in Christ is a blinding force right now.  Your eyes are burning, adjusting your perception.  It is a journey that will take time.  This is a hard lesson, but it will prepare your heart and give you a full life. Today’s lesson, you are relying on love, agape, the selfless love of God that is at work in those full of the spirit of agape love.  God isn’t punishing, causing you to suffer. He is refining you.”

            “Refining?” Grant rolled his eyes. “Suffering only puts me in a foul mood.  I’ll take the chance with my wayward soul.  Please send me back.”

            “Suffering is your former life.  You were in a constant battle, your soul tattered, your mind set on a thirst for consumption and hungry for money that only left you empty.  You were lonely and afraid.  Suffering on a temporal level, a building of spirit is better than the black hole you lived in before.”

            “This is about what? Humility.”

            “Yes, as well as other lessons.  As an intercessory saint, I can pray for you and give you guidance, but you alone must come to understanding of these spiritual lessons.  The twelve gifts of Christmas are available to you, but it is something you must accept with full conviction and trust in order to receive.  It is a journey.  I can offer advice periodically, but it is your task to choose love and embrace the Holy Trinity, listen to the Holy Spirit for guidance.  You are so confused and lost, having relied on such castles built on sand that you will have to peel back the layers.  You can mentally accept something, but to truly change your destiny, your life path it must be a choice of the spirit within.  That takes time, but time working on your soul is well spent.”

            “I don’t want this journey, these gifts.” Grant protested as if he could manipulate his circumstances like he was negotiating a contract.

            “In time that will be your choice, but God doesn’t give up that easily.  He works through our brokenness to heal and to comfort.  Take heart, Romans 5:3-5, “we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

            “How am I supposed to learn these lessons?  Don’t you have a playbook or itinerary I can use?”

            “You’ll find your way.  I suggest you cast your pride aside and go to the dinner at St. Anthony’s.   It is where the lost can be filled with good things.”

            “You keep talking about pride, but frankly I am not proud, I’m confident.  I was focused on my business and work.  I see that I should have been more concerned with other people, perhaps not as ruthless with my layoff policy, but if I’m proud then it is an asset rather than a flaw.”

            “There is a stark difference between confidence and the sin of pride.  Humility can lead to bold confidence and faith of action.  Pride in one’s work can be a good thing if you mean it that you respect your work and want to do it well.  You are poisoned by conceit, arrogance, self-satisfaction and vanity, self-importance, and desire for power for the sake of selfish authority.  Love is the first lesson, because it is the antidote for all vices, it opens the door to other gifts of Christmas.  It is a healing force.”

            “I can love.  I just don’t have time…?” Grant reasoned, conflicted about the core of love.  Even in his thoughts he wanted to use love as a tool to manipulate a way out of this nightmare, instead of receiving its gift whole-heartedly.

            “1 Corinthians 12:31-13:8…”

            “Not another set of Bible verses.” Grant sighed.

            “You requested a roadmap.  What better direction will you find than in the scripture?” Nicholas’ jolly disposition was infectious, even Grant was affected by that spirit of love and want of love. “Strive eagerly for the greatest spiritual gifts…. Love is patient, love is kind.  It is not jealous, is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never fails…”

            “I’m brooding over injury now,” Grant admitted. “I’m not patient, I’m notoriously jealous and pompous, with an inflated ego and I always seek after my own interests.”

            “And you do have that quick-temper,” Nicholas pointed out with a compassionate smile. “At least you are finally realizing these flaws that trap you in darkness.  Trust in God’s love and you’ll be brought into a place where all those mortal burdens are stifled, and you’ll understand the true meaning of life.  It isn’t money, but love of all creatures, great and small.”

            Before Grant could utter another word, Saint Nicholas disappeared. 

            “Merry Christmas,” a husky man with a gray beard and blue eyes, wearing a bob-cap approached. “Mind if I sit down?”

            “It is a free country,” Grant realized the harshness of his tone.

            “This rain won’t let up.  Then again we do live in the Emerald City.” The man had a vibrant personality. “I’m Wilson.  I help the church out with miscellaneous tasks, from mowing the lawn to vacuuming for twenty hours each week.  It’s not much, but the cash keeps me fed, while I look for housing.  I had today off but didn’t want to miss Christmas services.  I was here last night too, hearing the bells at midnight, singing Joy to the World, it filled my heart with good things.  All the junk in life is so small when you’ve got the peace and joy, the love of Christ.  Life is beautiful.”

            “You are homeless?”

            “I prefer residentially challenged,” Wilson’s smile revealed cracked and missing teeth. “I had a hard bout, after I got back from the military. Three tours in Iraq.  PTSD led to drug abuse and my wife left me.  I was in a bad place.  For a long time, I was just angry.  I let that bitterness drive my life, I blamed the world for all my problems.  I realized the world, culpable as it, that

 I had to take accountability, to let go. Not conform to the brokenness of the world but be transformed by love and hope.  Love from the kindness of strangers showed me life in a new light.  It was hard to accept it at first, but eventually I understood that peace and yeah, I’m struggling, but I have hope and I’m sober.  It is a Merry Christmas indeed.”

            “What about the VA, government programs?” Grant started to judge Wilson, but he bit his lip.  Grant realized in his current pitiful state he was in no place to judge anyone.

            “They help but it doesn’t fill all the gaps,” Wilson sighed. “God has my back though. You start seeing this rain, not as depressing annoyance, but as a life giving force.  You see life in a new light, not rosy, but able to discern, the gift of love gives you the perseverance to take on the challenge.”

            “I’m new at this…You could say I’m being punished for being conceited and greedy.”

            “It isn’t punishment as much as a lesson.  It is a trial, but you’ve got to see tests as a beautiful second chance, a learning period, otherwise you’ll be sick of people, angry with the world, entitled.  Trust me, it took me years to even start to let go of my anger, guilt, and betrayal.  I was carrying a ton of bricks on my shoulders – but every day I lay down that burden, chip away at the anger and it saved my life.”

            “Letting go and moving on is important.”

“You know life is a gift, no matter how bleak and it has been pretty low for me, but that humility that loss of dignity, I found the courage in that to turn to Christ and I knew in Him I have worth, and that push led me to get sober and work on going from life support, guided by anger, to remission and grace.”

            “It’s not easy to embrace a trial such as this.  My world has been flipped upside down.  I’m used to valuing my worth with my bank account.”

            “Learn, love, live,” Wilson proclaimed. “How long have you been living on the street.”

            “It is hard to say…not long.  I don’t know where to go, what to do.  I’m supposed to be on a journey, but how can you travel when you don’t know the way?” Grant spoke evasively as he tried to understand the purpose of his fate.

            “Love is the way.  I’m talking pure love, not selfish love, but love that elevates.”

            “Agape?”

            “Look why don’t you spend Christmas Day with me and the boys at Pioneer Place Park.  It isn’t much, but we have some soup and crackers, good times with good people.  Tonight, come with us to the big dinner at St. Anthony’s.  They are putting out the red carpet, I’m talking a feast of turkey, sweet potato casserole, asparagus…good eating.”

            “I don’t know…”

            “Come on, we’re a safe, kind group of people.  You are welcome to our community.  It’d be better than spending Christmas alone.”

            “I suppose I could go to your, um, hangout for a bit.” Grant gulped.

            “Grab your pack and let’s go!”

            Pioneer Place Park is in the heart of the historic square.  The green space is a haven for many homeless people who live on the fringes of the neighborhood, a public space where they can spend the day on park benches or under picnic shelters, waiting for the doors for the nearby shelter to open up.  Pioneer Square has a problem with homelessness, some even setting up tents on city sidewalks in front of businesses.  It is a constant tug of war between respecting the homeless and the conflict that emerges from homelessness in the area, including public disturbance, such as public urination, pestering of pedestrians and cursing out business owners. 

Many of the homeless populace are mentally ill, disabled and drug dependent.  They are human souls – children of God, just going through a difficult time.

“The majority of homeless are not violent, however mental illness can cause them to be confused and belligerent at times.  It is easy to lash out at the homeless, judging them all as problems, trash to destroy, in truth the root of the problem is a need of respect and mercy for their individual needs.  Be it mental health treatment, drug rehab, career counseling, a warm bed and meal…each case is different, all tied to the common plight of being in forsaken midst of society, in need of compassion.” Grant recalled a conversation with Teresa earlier that day.

            Entering the city park, a diverse of twenty residentially challenged men and women, greeted Wilson and Grant.  They had set up a temporary camp with tents and a spread of canned food and crackers, water, and juice. 

            “Old Man Wilson, good to see you bro.” A tall man, clean-cut, in jeans and a Seattle Hawks sweatshirt approached.

“Jepson, Merry Christmas!” Wilson hugged his friend. “Where is Cassie and the girls?”

“In the van, trying to stay warm.  They cannot wait until tonight’s gift exchange at Saint Anthony’s.  The Salvation Army’s Angel Tree folks were kind enough to provide them with a gift from ‘Saint Nick’ last night.  Kyla got the doll she wanted, and Pepper got a gift certificate to Elliott Bay Book Company.  She cannot wait to pick out a few books tomorrow when they open.  God knows I am grateful for such generosity.  The gifts really brought hope to the kids.”

“It has been hard on them, with your losing the house, moving from transitional housing to sleeping in the truck.”

“I feel guilty, dragging them around this way.  I just cannot bear for our family to be torn apart.  Kyla and Pepper in foster care…maybe I’m being selfish.  At least then they’d have a roof over their head.” Jepson wiped away stray tears.

“Those kids need you.  Cassie has her job, so at least you can put food on the table.  Things will turn around.  You’ll get a job.”

“It has been a year and things keep getting bleaker.  If not for the kindness of strangers, Cassie, the kids…I’d lost them long ago.  Still, we’re better off than many on the streets.  At least we have the van and Cassie has a job.  Love keeps us together.’

“Jepson, I’d like to introduce you to Grant.  He is new around these parts.  Fell on some tough luck.  He is down on the spirit of Christmas, hopeless, wanted to cheer him up.”

“Pleasure to know you, Grant.”

“You lost your job?” Grant curious about Jepson’s backstory.

“I owned a construction company.  Things got difficult after the housing crisis in 2008.  It took three mortgages and a handful of debt to stay afloat.  I finally had to declare bankruptcy.  Our house was foreclosed on.  We were able to keep the van because it was in Cassie’s name.  We sleep in it, cook in it…live in it.  Problem is where to park it at night, as it is against the law in some areas to sleep in your car. She’s my wife of twenty years.  We have two beautiful daughters.  Cassie is a librarian.  It isn’t a ton of money, but we are blessed to have it.” Jepson spoke about his history with a certain disconnect.  He couldn’t dwell on the past.  Every breath and step was a survival towards a brighter future. “What about you man?”

“It is hard to explain.  I woke up in an alley, suddenly I’m homeless.”

“That’s tough.  I hope things get better for you.”

“I don’t know how the system works, where to sleep, just wandering around.” It suddenly hit Grant that he was only living minute to minute.  What if this curse, ‘blessing,’ lasted through Christmas?  He felt the despair testing him.  Would he ever regain his life? 

“Don’t worry, we’ll bring you up to speed.  The streets are harsh, but you can survive.  The city has services, outreach to give us a hand up, and you just need to know what areas to avoid.  Most of us are trying to stay clean, get our lives together, be peaceful citizens, living in extreme circumstances.  There is a seedier side to the street, drug dealers, gangs, and prostitution.  Those who have dependency issues, often fall prey to these street urchins, thugs who use them, putting profit and manipulation over people.  I had a friend, Charlie, good fellow.  He had a heroin addiction, started dealing for them just to keep the habit going.  They found his body, dead from being beaten to death, in an area part.  He screwed up a drug deal and paid the price.  I have another friend, Willow, she was a troubled teen.  Ran away from home.  A big thug, promised her a job and housing, turns out he was in the trafficking business.  He got Willow addicted to drugs and used that to keep her getting raped by johns.  Willow was arrested for prostitution, finally able to get some help.  Still why should she be arrested when the trafficking lords and johns go free.  You learn quickly, to stay out of their way and do you best to live day to day as safely as possible.”

“It ain’t easy though,” a twenty something, entered the conversation. “Between places like the Youth Day Center closing down and the sit/lie ordinance.  Where are we supposed to go?  I wake up every morning from my curb under the overpass before sunrise.  If you’re not cleared out by six a.m. on the street and at many of the shelters, you risk being ticketed, cursed out by businessmen and at worst beaten up.”

“It is a complex issue.  The businesses do like having open sidewalks and there are some among us that get violent and aggressive with passerby.  We don’t want to be sitting or sleeping on the sidewalk – it is demoralizing.  There is just nowhere else to go.” Wilson sighed.

“Where do you sleep?”

“It varies, from night to night, park benches, sidewalks, in bushes, and if you’re lucky a shelter or transitional housing.  There are nearly 9,000 residentially challenged people in Seattle.  The city and non-profits try to fill the void, but there are only around 3,000 temporary shelter beds and 2,500 transitional housing beds in the city.  That leaves 1,000-3,000 on any given place wandering the streets.”

“You try to get into shelters, but for those of us that work, it can be hard to make it there in time to get a bed.”

“Homeless people work?” Grant found the statement shocking. He always assumed that all homeless people were lazy, crazy bums who didn’t work and felt entitled to life.  He was finding nothing could be further from the truth, a new layer of love, revealed to him.

“Yeah, a lot of us have full time jobs, we just cannot afford rents due to lack of affordable housing.  I work at the Westlake Center forty hours a week.  Thank God I have health insurance from my coffee house job.  I just don’t have a place to spend the night.  I had to drop out of school and my parents – that’s a difficult relationship.” The twenty something named Max reflected.  “Those that don’t have jobs spend their days waiting in line at unemployment and workforce centers, at the library doing research and drafting resumes, or with social service directors at area outreach centers.  Social services has limited resources, so to get into a long-term housing situation, even for a few weeks, there is a waiting lists.  For medical care, you can get Medicaid, but many people have their identity cards stolen on the street or are fearful of going to the doctor.  Free clinics do operate, still the lines are long…”

“I read an article in Real Change that over half of persons on the street are severely disabled.  They have chronic heart conditions, crippling injuries, diabetes as well as mental health issues.  Many receive disability income, but it just isn’t enough to pay for housing.  So, they have money for food, bus fare, and clothes…just not a place to rest their heads.”  Real Change is a Seattle based periodical that low-income and residentially challenged people can sell on the streets to help make money for food or essential needs.  The paper is the source for information about social issues affecting King County.

“Shouldn’t the state provide care, in hospitals or low-income housing for the disabled and seniors?” Grant found the issue alarming. He noticed among the crowd in Pioneer Place Park was a lady in her eighties, bound to a wheelchair.  He remembered the beggar face of Saint Nicholas, an elderly man on the streets, desperate and alone.  He forsook him. “I deserve to suffer for being so blind to the plight of another,” Grant realized.

“They try, but there aren’t enough beds and lack of funding keeps things tight.  A lot of the disabled and elderly are kind people, who spent most of their lives working, raising families, many volunteering in soup kitchens, thinking they’d never wind up in this shape.  Recessions occur, layoffs, bills don’t get paid, and people get sick and bound to medical bills…many people live paycheck to paycheck…savings dries up.  It can happen to anyone.”

“It isn’t so bad sleeping on the streets, the main dilemma is keeping clean.  It steals a person’s dignity when you are forced to urinate in the bushes and go days, sometimes weeks without showers,” Tommy Dorset, a retired teacher who lost his retirement in 2008’s economic downturn.  A debilitating neurological injury eats up his income, forcing him to live on and off the street going from shelter to shelter. “Thank God for the Urban Rest Stop.  They have showers open every day as well as laundry facilities for free. Services like that are a lifeline, giving us back our dignity, suddenly we aren’t a stereotyped faceless vagrant on the street, but a human, a person.  Being clean allows your personal confidence to apply for jobs, go in public places without the scorn of judgment.”

“One time I had $50 of money I had earned from mowing lawns.  I went into a restaurant, and they called the police, saying I was loitering, when in truth I had been there fifteen minutes, paid for the meal and planned to leave shortly thereafter.  I understand fear, I used to treat people the same way, as a nuisance.  All life has value, not trash to be carted off.” Wilson held.

“What about food?” Grant questioned.

“Food is available at shelters, day centers, soup kitchens, the food bank…I have been hungry on the street, but God shines his light and feeds us.  Blessed by every meal.  You enjoy every bite as if it is your last meal.  Gratitude.”

“You will need a better jacket and an extra set of clothes for this winter blast of air coming up,” Wilson observed Grant’s outfit.  Teresa had provided him with good clothes, but the Bargain Box didn’t have many jackets left after their Christmas Eve Coats distribution. “No worries, The Salvation Army and Goodwill offer warm clothing …a sleeping bag and mat will be essential if you’ll be living on the street more than a night or two.  There is an outreach agency ‘Warm Friends’ that provides sleeping bags, blankets and mats for free, based on availability.”

            “Where is Warm Friends?”

            “I’ll take you there in the morning,” Wilson promised. “We’ll be able to sleep in St. Anthony’s Gym tonight.”

            For the next five hours, the odd group of friends, dined on canned cranberries, stale bread, and sparkling cider.  The food filled Grant’s stomach, lifting his hunger. Many of the residentially challenged in Pioneer Place are musicians, who spend their nights playing gigs at area clubs, crashing with friends and relatives when they can.   The musicians broke out into a Christmas Carol jam session.  A homeless acapella quartet of classically trained teens broke out in the ‘Once in Royal David’s City.’

            “He came down to earth from Heaven. Who is God and Lord of all, and his shelter was a stable, and his cradle was a stall?  With the poor and mean and lowly, lived on earth our Savior Holy…”

            “These guys are so talented.  It is hard to believe that live on the street.  They deserve to perform at the Benaroya Hall.” Grant amazed by their heavenly voices.

            “They call themselves ‘Desert Rain,’ a symbol of the fire and peace of life, the struggle and beauty of existence.  The group are classically trained and perform at city functions, but music is a hard way to make a living.  They work odd jobs and sing on the street to fuel the dream.  They live in their van, sharing expenses, using music to bring a voice to the homeless, to kindle hope and spread love.”

            “Desert Rain.” Grant though about the statement.  No greater desert is there in a soul, than the fear and desolation of not having a home, yet somehow, in his displaced state, Grant could see with more perception and understanding that ever before.  It scared him, that fire of understanding.  He dreaded humility, yet found it to be a cleansing force, rain in the desert of life.

*Note – I originally wrote this story in 2012. A lot of my research was based on social services sites from official Seattle and King Country stats and outreach forums.

To help donate those in need I recommend the following charities:

Catholic Community Services -Seattle

Catholic Charities USA

I’ll post additional resources in a future blog post.

Chapter 6:

            On the way to work on Christmas Eve, Teresa Martin stopped by St. Nicholas Abbey, a Catholic parish in the heart of downtown. 

            Teresa has been a member of the parish for over fifty years.  She and her husband, physician Dr. Louis Martin, were married at St. Nick’s thirty years ago.

            “Time flies,” she thought with a bittersweet smile.  Her two daughters are grown now.  Kelly is and emergency room doctor at Bellevue Hospital, volunteering on weekends at low-income clinics.  Harper works as an attorney for an area non-profit.

            Saint Nicholas Abbey is a humble parish, with a glorious sanctuary of hand-painted stained-glass windows, designed by a Duwamish tribe member who served the church for fifty years.  The stained-glass windows tell the story of Christ’s birth to Epiphany in the annex, with the Stations of the Cross in the main sanctuary.  Local attributes including Mt. Rainer and the Puget Sound are added into the landscape to bring home the message, though the testament of Christ occurred 2000 years ago in a land half a world away it is ever-present, a living testimony and truth in our own lives.

            To celebrate the transition from Advent to Christmastide, Saint Nicholas Abbey hosts the ‘St. Nick Candle’ lighting ceremony all day on Christmas Eve until Silent Night is sung at Midnight Mass.  The lit candles represent intercessory prayers, for the lost, departed, afflicted, desperate and for joy and peace in the season.  It costs a dollar to light the candle, all money going to homeless outreach for the ecumenical Stable Feast on Christmas Night.

            As grateful as Teresa is for the celebration of Christ’s birth, a deep sadness gripped her spirit.  In six hours, the NWTC Board would be voting on a business proposal, implementing the layoffs of thousands of employees.  She lit the St. Nicholas Candle with humble boldness.  Faithfully giving her concerns and crying out for mercy.

            “Christ, you are the Good Shepherd, promising to search out the lost sheep, searching the wilderness until the lost are brought into your fold.  You are merciful and patient with those that have gone astray.  Those who wander in the abyss of darkness, desperate, bound to the void of separation from your spirit, kindle their hearts this Christmas Eve night with your light.  Darkness is not dark to you O’ Lord.  Let the Star of your Wonder stir the souls of the lost to repent, seeking your all-encompassing love.  Let you love, a love born on the cross, resurrected above worldly trial and tribulation bring life to those who live in death of despair.  Help your servant Grant to be humbled in your wisdom.  Give him compassion and mercy.  Show him through your love, the power of love as a resource that burns bright for all eternity.  Kindle his spirit in the manner of your servant Saint Nicholas who tended beggars and the poor, in the manner of your teaching.  Endow Grant with the spirit of grace, move within him, as you called Saul to become Paul out of anger and oppression of darkness to the light that pierces the abyss.  Help Grant to be moved on his own Damascus Journey this Christmas.  Help him to understand.”

            As she ended her prayer, the sound of harp music could be heard in the distance, the carol of ‘Angels we have Heard on High,’ sung in the choir loft.

~

            “Fired?” Noelle in shock as her sister Marissa recounted the explosive events of the past evening.

            “I quit.” Marissa corrected. “He is a heartless bully, probably a sub-humanoid race of extraterrestrial parasites.  I don’t regret telling him off.  Someone had to.”

            “I agree that Mr. Spaulding is a Grinch, who bears no concern for his fellow human,” Noelle bit her lip. “I just wish you’d figured out a more diplomatic way to get out of the NWTC business.  Maybe keep your yap shut a few more weeks until you had another job lined up.”

            “Noelle, you are a social worker who runs a community center.  You are of all people should support my actions.  Grant Spaulding is personally responsible for revoking a promise of grant money to St. Jude’s CC.  Because of his egregious behavior, hundreds will lose access to vital services come February.  He may think he is a demigod, but he cannot get away with treating people like dirt.”

            “I know,” Noelle buried her head. She’d spent the past two weeks desperately searching to fill the donation gap left by Spaulding’s broken promise. The problem is most corporations’ deadlines for application had passed, while families in King County have less and less money each year to spare.  Add in the fact that their kettle campaign was down fifteen percent due to economic uncertainty. “You did the right thing.  I just pray you’ll land on your feet and not fall flat on your face.”

            “Fortunately, my emergency savings fund will tide us over until March, barely…I’m sure I can find a job by then…” Marissa feigned certainty.  “I’m due at the KSEA studios for a spot on their ‘Talk of Seattle’ program. KSEA is hammering the ‘Grant, Grinch of Seattle’ story hard.  Hopefully the negative press will thwart the board’s yay vote, or at least postpone it until the New Year, giving them adequate time to review Michael’s proposal.”

            “Mommy, mommy,” Sarah danced into the kitchen. “Don’t I look ravishing in my ballet dress?”

            “You are a princess,” Marissa kissed her daughter on the cheek.

            “Will you play Nutcracker Ballet with me?” Sarah spinning.

            “I would sweetie, but mom has to go to work.  I will be front row and center for your stage debut as the Angel on High tonight.”

            “Work – you lost your job?” Zeke in a foul mood as he dug into the cereal. “You got fired?”

            “No, I quit.  Time to for a career shift.”

            “Mom, how stupid can you be, confronting your spineless boss.  Now we’re poor for Christmas.  You’ll have to return our gifs.  We’ll wind up as beggars on the street.”

            “Zeke don’t lose faith.  Things are not that dire.  You’ll still get your presents.  The North Pole has not shut down for Christmas and God is full of miracles.”

            “Stop the hogwash, Santa isn’t real,” Zeke red-faced.

            “What!  Zeke how can you say that? Santa is real.” Sarah on the brink of tears.

            “Of course, Santa is real.  He’s coming down our chimney tonight.” Zeke didn’t mean to make his sister cry.

            “We don’t have a chimney,” Sarah realized.

            “He’s coming through our front door.  In fact, your Aunt Noelle, and dozens of kids like you are going to make cookies for Santa at the community center his money.  Who knows St. Nick might pop by the center?”

            “Cookies!” Sarah danced, twirling like a ballerina.

            “If dad were here…” Zeke regretted.

            “He is in spirit,” Marissa stammered, desperate to communicate with her son past trite ‘whatever’ statements he made at the dinner table. “I thought I’d take you and Joel ice-skating this afternoon, or possibly the Holiday Zoo at Woodland Park.”

            “Really mom?  That’d be awesome!” Joel entered the kitchen.

            “No thanks,” Zeke rolled his eyes.  “I’m meeting friends at the Westlake Center.”

            “If by friends you are referring to Tony and Jax, then over my dead body.” Marissa put her foot down.  Tony and Jax are two troublemaking kids that had gotten arrested for drugs and stealing on numerous occasions.  Marissa didn’t like the negative influence they had on her son.

            “You are so judgmental.  So, they’ve had a tough bout, but they’re cool,” Zeke shrugged. “Besides you cannot tell me what to do.”

            “Until you turn eighteen, I’m the boss.”

            “Whatever,” Zeke muttered heading up to his room.

            “I wish I could figure out how to get through to him.  The mentoring program is a start, but…”

            “I know this is a touchy subject, but have you considered dating again?” Noelle broached the topic.  “I know a really great guy and…”

            “Considering my unemployment, now is the worst conceivable time to start dating.”

~

            Grant brewed a pot of NWTC coffee, feeling as if he’d been hit by a twenty-ton brick.  He turned on the eight o’clock news before leaving for work.  Much to his chagrin, perky pest Marissa Bright was on his television set.

            “It is unpardonable the way that NWTC owner and CEO, Grant Spaulding is manipulating the company board to sign off onto a horrid business proposal that lays off nearly one million employees nationwide, halts all charitable donations including the $100,000 grant promised to St. Jude’s CC and other area nonprofits, it exports all manufacturing to China…” Marissa carried the torch of company employees with zeal and compassion.

            As annoyed as Grant was with Marissa’s PR bonanza, he couldn’t help but admire the way her cheeks flushed in the cold, her green eyes full of fire and determination. 

            “If Marissa Bright thinks this charade of negative PR blitzkrieg will undermine my plans to move forward with the FLEX Plan, she is dead wrong.” Grant cursed her under his breath.  Swigging one last sip of coffee he grabbed his waterproof thermally insulated state of the art overcoat and headed outside.

            He phoned his driver, Earl, who was tied up at SEA-TAC picking up several board members flying in for the meeting from New York and Dallas. Too impatient to wait twenty-five minutes, Grant hit the pavement, hell bent on a mission to pull all stops to convince his board to back his plan.

            His mind on adrenaline rush, Grant lost sight of his footsteps, tripping over a homeless man of advanced age, curled up in the shadow of a tall brick building. 

The man, at least seventy had a cane and walker.  His only belongings were a crude sleeping bag, well-worn tarp, several trash bags, and a backpack.  The man had no coat, his clothes were wet from the Seattle rain, and his face covered of dirt.  He smelled of rotting food, the stench of his body odor enough to make anyone vomit. 

It was a sad sight that, even the least concerned of society’s upper echelon would at least be moved to a second of pity, even if they were too selfish to place a dollar in the poor man’s coffer.

            The man, shivering, his teeth clattering in the damp cold, held a cardboard sign, with barely legible writing scribbled in permanent marker.

            “I am a poor old man, hungry and alone, disabled, but willing to work.  Please spare a dollar or donate food.  ‘Proverbs 19:17: Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will repay his deed’ Matthew 25:40 ‘And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are a member of my family, you did it to me.’”

            “You are vermin who should be drowned in the Puget Sound, thrown in a shallow grave, instead of leeching off society,” Grant harassed the man. “How dare you block my ability to walk on this sidewalk?  At least have the decency to get to that forsaken crack-shoot shelter on Denny Way.”

            “I apologize sir.  God bless you on Christmas and kindle your heart with grace, mercy and thanksgiving.” The man kind, even in the hostility of persecution. “I was once like you, wealthy and powerful, I lost sight of what mattered.  It took losing everything to understand the beauty and meaning of life.  It took losing to understand that the wealth of the world will never satisfy a soul.  It builds walls with no foundation.”

            “Living on the street, a pest, a cockroach of society, allowing working men to pay your way.”

            “God granted me humility and grace of spirit.  In my abyss, I realized how lost I was, it took losing everything to find the light, to understand the value of people over things, hope against adversity, love is the profit of the faithful, a gift that we receive by giving.”  The man spoke with a certain sanguinity, versus the blustering, cursing drug addict, mentally deranged homeless he generally encountered on the streets.  The man’s coherence only agitated Grant more.

            “I suppose you are a king?” He mocked.

            “It takes seeing through the eyes of the humble beggar to understand what it means to serve as king,” The man spoke with an ethereal knowledge, that unsettled Grant’s soul.

“You boast with advice, yet you crawl in the underbelly of society.  I have no need for your lectures.  I intend to get you removed from this sidewalk by day’s end.”

            “Twelve bells will ring for your salvation, second chances that come in a winter’s night, the gift of Christ, a new birth.  Even in the darkness comes a new day, a light to pierce your heart and pull you out of the abyss.” the man spoke with a fervor, foretelling a vision like a street corner prophet.  Grant turned his back on the man, who continued to proclaim his message. “Proverbs 14:16-17, ‘The wise are cautious and turn away from evil, but the fool throws off restraint and is careless.  One who is quick-tempered acts foolishly, and the schemer is hated.’  Christ’s works to conquer hate with love, angry and resentment with forgiving grace, wisdom not by worldly standards, but a simple understanding of love and compassion, wealth of Christ, people over things.  Remember this as you work today.  People’s lives are at stake.  Redemption isn’t always an easy road, but it is one that yields life eternal.  Choose wisely.”

            “I’ll have you arrested for harassment,” Grant turned around, shouting, shocked to find that the beggar and all his belongings had vanished into thin air. “Old coot must be quick on his feet. Daft old fool.”

Chapter 7:

            When Grant arrived at corporate headquarters just after nine o’clock, the street was filled with protestors and news cameras.  Before he had a chance to escape the hordes of people, through the company’s back entrance, KSEA’s Browder Anderson bombarded Grant with questions.

            “Mr. Spaulding, in a few hours you plan to lay off

thousands of NWTC employees, exporting company manufacturing overseas while simultaneously eliminating The Shelton Foundation, which gives millions annually to non-profits in desperate need.” Browder shoved a microphone into Grant’s face. “Around the nation you are known simply as ‘The Grinch,’ a real-life Ebenezer Scrooge.”

            “I’m a businessman, not a charitable institution.  The FLEX Plan uses high-end technology to service the needs of our customers without the red tape of cashiers, baggers, and greeters.  Exporting manufacturing will reduce costs, giving customers the savings, they demand.”

            “Our polls, show that Northwest Trading Customers oppose to the FLEX Plan.  They rely on your well-trained and friendly staff to service their shopping needs.  An anonymous source at the company leaked a copy of the FLEX proposal to KSEA.  The proposal it is all about corporate greed with no concern for consumer needs or the welfare of your employees.  You embody what Americans despise about corporate corruption.”

            “People live in a fantasy world,” Grant bashed.

            “Is your heart so frozen that even on Christmas Eve you cannot show enough compassion to reconsider this train wreck approach?”

            “Christmas is a medieval holiday invented to make people feel better by belief in a God, a savior.  At NWTC I am god, but as a businessman it isn’t my duty to save the world, let alone the million useless employees we are laying off.  Christmas is about profit, money in our coffer.  Does that make me an evil man?  Perhaps, but at least I’m blunt enough to straight shoot what business is about.  Christmas is about profit.”

            “The profit of generosity and grace in Christ Jesus,” a demonstrator shouted out, getting the crowd behind her.

            “Love your neighbor!”

            “A stingy man hastens after wealth and does not know that poverty will come upon him.”

            “Those who follow greed and self-indulgence will fall, their souls rotten because they poisoned their blood with selfishness.” The crowds shouted.

            “I don’t care about the spirit of Christmas.  I care about cold-hard cash, keeping this company financially viable.  Compassion is not my job.” Grant shouted, NWTC security escorting him inside.

            “There you have it, the word straight from the Grinch’s mouth.”

~

            “I want them off our property now!” Grant seethed with exacting expectation. “Launch a counteroffensive that will make Marissa Bright, Danny Boyne and the likes of them regret the day they were born.”

            “At the risk of sounding dense, would it not be best if we postpone the vote?” Public Relations director Anne Dyson pleaded. “We can issue a statement that after thoughtful consideration you have decided to appoint a group of unbiased analysts to review the FLEX plan, before taking the vote to the board.  This will buy us some time and help implement our positive PR approach for selling the FLEX plan long term?”

            “I don’t kowtow to these minions of society.  I set the rules, I am CEO of this company, and my word is the law of the land.”

            “The board runs this company Grant,” Horace Shelton inserted himself into the debate.  “Yes, you own the majority share of company, but as NWTC is a publicly traded company, all be it on a limited scope, you are answerable to stockholders.  The board is the advising body and by all intents and purposes the Supreme Court, if you will, of all NWTC business decisions.  Your tirade is hurting our stock price, which is dropping dramatically by the second as all the major networks running the ‘Grant the Grinch’ news spin.”

            “The numbers will bounce back up in the New Year.”

            “Perhaps, but I’ve spoken with our fellow board members. Many are already in a foul mood for being forced to halt their family vacations, to come in and vote on a highly unpopular measure on Christmas Eve. Seventeen members of the board say they want a postponement, or they will vote nay.  Frankly I’m all for a ‘nay’ vote, ending this debacle once and for all.  It’d save the company’s skin.  Being a fair man, I’ll advise you to postpone the vote until January – use that time to carefully consider Michael Horton’s proposal, shadow employees at stores to gauge their value as employees, have public forums with our consumer base…”

            “The vote goes through.  I won’t be intimidated!”

            “Mr. Spaulding this is ill-advised on every level of business and PR protocol,” Anne contended.

            “GET OUT and get to work!  I pay you scoundrels to make things happen.  Do as I say or consider yourselves fired.”

            “That man is a tyrant.  Who does he think he is King Herod the Great?” Anne didn’t care if Grant heard her. “I’m through with this job.  I quit.”

            “Can’t the board enact a coup d’état?” Business associate Kyle Smith asked Horace, as they exited Grant’s office suite.

            “That is on the table, although no one likes to cross Grant.  At least we can hope for a postponement until his head cools and the board has time to vote their conscience without his threats looming over our heads.” Horace grimaced.  “I keep thinking deep in the recesses of his soul, there is a good man, the hardworking and compassionate executive I sold the company to six years ago.   I fear greed, like a cancer has rotten his core.  He may be beyond hope.”

            “Is it true, is Grant is going to postpone the vote?” Michael hopeful.

            “Dream on, that tyrant has had a nervous breakdown.  He could be struck down with reason and still speak gibberish,” Kyle rolled his eyes. “Under no uncertain terms, he insists on going forward with the vote.”

            “The good news is that the majority of the board is expected to vote ‘nay,’ or at the very least enact a motion for a postponement until January 6,” Horace informed.

            “I doubt that he will have a Christmas epiphany by then,” Michael distressed. “Nevertheless at least it buys us time to argue our case to other members of the board and work the press.”

            “Jordan is researching our options as we speak.” Horace followed.  “Marissa Bright’s tenacity might just be the spark we needed to launch our attack.”

            “Even the all-powerful Grant Spaulding cannot argue with the thousands of customers calling corporate with complaints about his greedy tirade, millions signing petitions online to stop the FLEX plan, pledging to boycott NWTC.  Eventually his business brain will kick in.  Greed can only go so far.” Michael assumed. “Although when it comes to the code of Grant Spaulding, he’ll no doubt fight this to near death.”

            “I hope he comes to his senses before irrevocable damage is done.”

~

            “Mr. Spaulding, your sister Elsie is on line two,” Teresa cautiously approached her boss. “She is concerned about you.”

            “I have more pressing matters to deal with than my self-righteous sister who feels it is her place to lecture me about ‘Spaulding Moral Law.’  I disowned my family years ago.”

            “She’s only trying to help.”

            “Her help is useless.” Grant retorted. “What’s the status of removing the 3,000 bozo protestors from company property?”

            “Apparently Marissa filed the proper paperwork to hold the protest.  Although the legal team argues that the demonstration violates numerous city codes and that NWTC wasn’t given proper notice to take security measures. Marissa Bright and Danny Boyne have agreed to move the protest to Puget Park one block south of here.” Teresa informed. “The police did report that the protests have been peaceful, no damage to property, which is a relief given how quickly riots can erupt, especially over an issue as charged as this.”

             “PR?”

            “They tweaked your statement, releasing it to all major news media.  This in conjunction with social media blasts.  Our board has been advised to refrain from making any public comments.  Wally Dermott is acting as our ‘media face’, hitting the news cycle, rehashing the major benefits of the FLEX plan and deflecting all negative line of questioning.” Teresa did little to hide her irritation, incensed by Grants rash behavior. “I have been fielding calls from members of the board all day.  They are incensed with your scorched earth battle plan.  I understand that you are the majority holder of NWTC, serving as company CEO, but that doesn’t make you immune from liability.  You are answerable to the board.  You are blatantly ignoring their concerns, refusing to return phone calls…Mr. Spaulding they think you have gone crazy.  As we speak, The Executive Board is drafting a proposal requesting that you delay today’s vote until January 6 or risk Article 12.”

            “How dare the board scheme to cut me out of my own company?” Grant’s anger boiling over.  “I refuse to let my plan fall apart, not when we are standing on the precipice of history.”

            “Rome wasn’t built in a day, yet it burned to the ground in a few hours while Nero fiddled.  Postpone the board vote.” Teresa advised. “Compromise doesn’t equal failure; it means building a bridge over impossible odds.”

            “It seems I don’t have a choice,” Grant incessantly tapping his fingers on his desk. “I cannot risk a board retaliation.  Draft a statement, telling the board that I’ll postpone the vote until January 6^th.  I’ll surrender to fight another day and mark my words it will be a fight.  Any board member that crosses me on January 6 will live to regret it.”

Teresa clattering hands typed the notice at lightning speed, in turn forwarding it via email and text message to all board members.  She followed up with a call to the PR team, who promptly notified the press of their decision.

~

            “I just got word. Grant has agreed to postpone the vote until the New Year.” Imbued with energy, Jordan shared the news with her grandfather and Michael Horton.

            “Thank God.” Michael let out a sigh of relief.

            “Sadly, this fight has only begun.  Grant is notorious for holding a grudge, machinating his revenge like a subtle, yet lethal poison.  He’ll be cleaning house by January 6.” Horace feared. “The postponement buys us time, though the battle has just begun.”

            “Sorry to interrupt,” Teresa knocked on Horace’s office door. “Mr. Spaulding is requesting to see Michael in his office immediately.”

            “Of course,” Michael sensed the ominous nature of the call. 

~

            “Mr. Horton.” Grant stalked the young executive, his eyes haunted with rage. “Please come in.”

            “Mr. Spaulding,” Michael gulped.  Grant uncorked the bottle of Cayuse he’d received from Marissa the night prior.

            “To Marissa Bright. The crusader of the oppressed.”

            “You postponed the board vote,” Michael treading cautiously.

            “The board threatened me with Article 12.  Bad PR and all.  I decided to re-strategize.” Grant poured another glass of wine. “You deserve a drink, Michael.”

            “By re-strategizing, do you mean that you are considering my proposal?”

            “I mean that are heads are going to roll, starting with yours.” Grant threw his tumbler across the room.  The shattering of the glass fractured the tepid calm, like a serrated knife, sharp and jarring as it crashed to the floor. “Michael Horton, you are fired.  I’ll see that you never work in this town again.”

            “Mr. Spaulding, please…I beg you.  Be reasonable.” Michael entreated his boss. “I love my job.  I’m invested in the future of this company.  You have no grounds to fire me.”

            “Grounds?  You undermined my authority.”

            “I did my job.  The FLEX plan is reckless.” Michael maintained. “I respect your intellect and leadership enough to point out the flaws in the plan.  I didn’t think you hired me to be a lackey.  I stood up against the FLEX plan, putting the company’s interest above my own job security.”

            “You defied me and therefore are paying the price.”

            “Fire me, obstruct the board, but in the end, wrongs don’t make a right.  If you continue down this foolhardy path, you’ll lose everything you sought to gain, ruining millions of lives in the process.   If you insist on derailing your own life, fine, but don’t have the audacity to drag this company’s reputation and fiscal viability down with you.”

            “Security will escort you off the premises.”

            “At least give me the courtesy to clear out my office.”

            “Get OUT!” Grant physically pushed Michael out the door.  The young executive stumbled to the ground.

            “Michael, are you okay?” Teresa rushed to his aid.

            “Fine, I was just leaving,” Michael wiped the blood off his chin. “Merry Christmas Teresa.”

            “What happened?” Teresa turned to Grant, demanding an explanation.

            “It is not your concern.” Grant unmoved by the incident. “Go home Teresa, it is nearly six o’clock, and there is no use in your fluttering about the office.”

            “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you in this state.” Teresa concerned. “It is Christmas Eve, come home with me.  Enjoy dinner with my family, come with us to Midnight Mass at St. Nicholas Abbey.”

            “Christmas Eve is a conspiracy, a light that blinds the masses into the idiotic joy of faith.  What do you have to be faithful for, the imprudent world?” Grant cursed under his breath. “So go make merry this Christmas. I’d rather dwell in the stark darkness of the mortal corporeality of this decaying world.”

            “Darkness is not dark to the Lord,” Teresa smiled, her heart full of compassion. “Faith is a choice, I pray if you don’t choose belief, that the spirit of Christmas, love, ‘idiotic joy’, peace…will fill the void inside you.  Mr. Spaulding you are a decent man, who is lost and afraid.  Let go of your hate, embrace hope in this season.  Wonder is discovered in the humblest and often unexpected of places.  Peace can emerge triumphant out of conflict.”

            “I prefer to live by my reputation, ‘The Grinch of Seattle.’”

*forgive any typos*

copyright 2021

Chapter 5:

            “Mr. Grant, glad you could join us,” several employees offered the CEO a toast.  He played the part of charismatic corporate titan, but the jolly merrymaking made him physically sick.  Not to mention he couldn’t get Marissa Bright out of his head.

As much as he loathed her audacity, he couldn’t help admiring her tenacity.  He kept thinking about the way her lips twisted up when she was angry, that fiery stare of undaunted determination.  It is a shame she couldn’t have put her savvy to better use than confronting him.

“She’d make an excellent corporate raider if she didn’t have a heart,” Grant managed a laugh as he downed another shot of whiskey.

For forty intolerable minutes, Grant feigned mingling as he coaxed board members to buy into his FLEX deal. In the background employees and their families were able to visit ‘Saint Nicholas’ in a makeshift Santa’s Village. 

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays,” Teresa rang Christmas bells loudly. “Thanks for all your help in supporting the toy drive.  We had hundreds of donations.  We have a special visitor…St. Nicholas is here to pick up all the toys to deliver them to kids throughout the city.”

“Ho-Ho-Ho,” the deep rich laugh of St. Nicholas full of joy, as each believer in the magic of Christmas made their wish. “Merry Christmas!” 

Teresa had hoped Grant would be on hand for the toy distribution, but the CEO was holed up in a corner schmoozing with a board member. Volunteer ‘elves’ helped load Santa’s sleigh (in this case a U-Haul), to prep for gift distribution.

Teresa and the other volunteers held their breath -recognizing Grant would most likely cancel the toy drive next year.  Teresa knew it was foolish but sparked by the magic of Christmas she pulled ‘St. Nick’ aside.

“St. Nicholas, I know you are a busy man at Christmas, but we could use a big miracle,” Teresa explained. “Grant Spaulding is a lost soul, in need of love and light.  Can you spark the spirit of Christmas in his soul?”

“I promise I’ll do my best to fill him with Christmas cheer, but I am afraid he is lost, an unbeliever who will wind up with a stocking of coal,” Santa, played by none other than Horace Shelton, began to weep. “I’ll pray to the man upstairs; North Pole magic only goes so far.”

            Grant closed the evening out with a trite toast, thanking his employees with an insincere smile, hammering the year end theme: “Out with the old, in with the new.”

~

            Tired of the ho-ho-hos and jolly merrymaking, Grant exited the party at nine-thirty. No one noticed he was gone, and Grant was grateful to be alone.  He needed time to think.

            “I’ll walk home,” he motioned his driver. “I need some fresh air.”

Grant thinks best when he is walking alone, underneath the ambient glow of foggy streetlamps, the ambient noise of the city and odd sounds of silence you encounter on side streets.

The CEO wandered restlessly; his heart heavy as an inexplicable loneliness came over him.  The emotion angered his rational mind. He couldn’t give into his feelings.  It made him weak and vulnerable.  

“Loneliness is just an illusion,” Grant rationalized.  His mind pondered his feelings, realizing despite all the money in the world he had no real friends.  No one who cared about him – except maybe his family and he had written them off. “I prefer the desolation.  The world is not a joyful place. At least I am a realist.”

Grant’s stomach started grumbling.  He hadn’t eaten at the party – too many employees were jamming the buffet line and the holiday music made him ill. 

“If I hurry, I can stop by the Pike Place location before they close at ten to grab some take out,” Grant checked his watch as he approached Northwest Trading’s flagship store.

Pike’s Place Market used to be a place of peace for Grant, where he could escape into a world of artisan vendors and eclectic crafts, homegrown Washington goodness and the entertainment of the fish throwers. Pike Place originally inspired him to focus on a local market feel for Northwest Trading -well at least when he first bought the company.  Things change.

Now Pike’s Place is a sore spot for Grant that is overrun with tourists and the unruly masses – from homeless buskers playing out of tune harmonicas to the dirty clobbered hands of small-scale farmers who toiled for very little profit. They lived such pointless lives.  Some would say Grant had turned bitter, he saw bitterness as an awakening of progress.

“Bitterness just ensures you don’t lose sight of your goals.” Grant mused. “You are a realist and realism drives the world forward.”

Still as he stepped into the flagship store, Grant’s mind hearkened back to his early days as CEO.  Back then, Grant hated the title CEO -he wanted to be in the field -working registers and improving processes with his employees. 

He led training monthly training sessions at the flagship store.  He was the employee’s CEO then.  For a second, Grant almost missed those days, the hope and excitement of entrepreneurship and making a difference…almost.

            “Mr. Spaulding.  Merry Christmas,” Lucy veiled her dread behind a friendly smile. She wondered if Marissa’s scheme had worked.  What other reason would Grant Spaulding be visiting the flagship store right before closing. 

            “I’d prefer that you not throw ‘Merry Christmas’ about.”

            “I apologize,” Lucy gritted her teeth. It sounded like venom ran through his veins. “How may I help you?”

            “I don’t need your help.  I’m the boss here and would rather you not gawk at me,” Grant barked, grabbing a premade chicken salad, bakery loaf, a bag of high-processed junk food to whet his whistle.

            “Good evening Mr. Spaulding,” Mary Jo pleasantly greeted the CEO as she rang up his order. Grant noticed her wheelchair.

            “You can charge everything to my company account.” Grant handed her his card.  It fell on the floor and Lucy helped Mary Jo pick it up.

            “Can I interest you in a beautiful handmade ornament?  The proceeds go to St. Joseph’s Group Home.”

            “This is unacceptable,” Grant frustrated by the ornaments. “We have a strict policy of not upselling products in which we make zero profit.  What sort of shoot is this hell hole?”

            “Sir, it is the season of good tidings to all, love, peace and compassion.  The customers love the ornaments and have driven our sales this month.  The ornaments help a good cause, and we get an economic benefit as well.” Mary Jo remained calm and helpful in the face of the ‘Death Eater of Seattle.’

            “Everything okay, Mr. Spaulding,” Lucy also working to diffuse the situation.

            “Is this ‘charity’ your idea?” Grant railed. “Because every request of this nature goes through corporate.  We have a strict policy…”

            “Corporate approved it.  Michael Horton gave the okay.” Lucy pressed her lips together.

            “Of course, he did,” Grant spit out the words. “Enjoy your jobs while you can.  I doubt any of you will be working for NWTC come January.”

~

            Grant cut his feet into the pavement, splintering across alleyways, up 1^st Street for half a mile, going two blocks east towards The Bell Tower, high rise luxury condos, housed in a historic brick and mortar building. 

            “Evening Mr. Spaulding,” The doorman Brennan, acknowledged the executive as he passed through security.  Grant grunted a reply, as she headed to the mail room.

            “Merry Christmas neighbor,” the affable Bruce Tompkins bumping into Grant in the hallway. Bruce is a multi-millionaire bachelor who runs a tech start-up.  He gives half of his money to the poor, oppressed, downtrodden in the name of God’s will. Grant never liked Bruce’s incorrigible kindness. “Any holiday plans?”

            “Work.”

            “I read the report on your FLEX plan,” Bruce’s brow furrowed. “I’m not one to step on toes, but as a fellow CEO with years of experience in this sort of thing, I think you are making a serious error in firing sixty percent of your workforce.”

            “Laying off – not firing.  Severance will be paid.” Grant was tired of lectures. “You of all people should understand the value of technology in business.  It’s how you made your fortune.”

            Grant did not wait to hear Bruce’s rebuttal reply.  He grabbed his mail and rushed to his penthouse.  Stepping inside, he was greeted by stunning views of the Puget Sound.  He stared out into the darkness, noticing the harbor lights dancing like ghosts in the night. 

            Sifting through the mail, he opened the Spaulding family Christmas card. It included usual ‘Family Photo,’ his brother George and his wife and kids, Elsie, Mom and Dad were standing in front of the ranch, inconsolably happy. With a hard sigh he threw the card away.

Also in the stack, was a Christmas letter from Carly Newman, nee Ryan. 

“The one that got away,” Grant had to admit, it stings to think about his lost love.  Carly had been his high school sweetheart.   They’d dated ten years, but Grant couldn’t commit.  He kept finding excuses to put off their marriage: ‘money,’ ‘work,’ ‘marriage is a draconian institution.’   It ended badly.  He cheated on her without so much as an apology.   

Carly had moved on with Mike Newman, a farmer from Shuksan.  Their Christmas letter informed Grant, that Carly and Mike were expecting their first child.  He tore up the letter, burning it to ashes.  What did he care about Carly?

Checking his voicemail, Grant deleting the ten or so voicemails from his mother and sister, begging him to come home for Christmas.  The other two voicemails were from KSEA and Danny Boyne respectively.

“Mr. Spaulding we would like a comment about your decision to fire thousands of workers at Christmas?” KSEA investigative reporter Browder Anderson in his typical foreboding breaking news voice.

He deleted the messages, unconcerned about a negative PR spin from KSEA or flimsy lawsuit from the union.  He fell into a sullen sleep.  In the distance the sound of church bells ringing – midnight. 

please excuse typos

copyright 2021 (Adele Lassiter)

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