by Glenn Beck
I got down on my stomach and squirmed under the bed skirt and into the darkness. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust, but once they did, everything looked familiar. A few shoe boxes, leaves to extend the dining room table, a sewing kit, and…wait, what was that? There was a box I’d never seen before. It was good sized and shiny. I marked its exact position before pulling it out into the light.
The box was wider than a shoe box and much deeper. A label on the top, written in my mom’s handwriting, said simply, “Christmas Receipts.” Could this really be it? Could it be this easy? My hands shook in anticipation.
I gently pulled the top off and peered inside. There was only one receipt. Don’t be disappointed, I thought to myself. One bike, one receipt. I unfolded the receipt quickly, hoping to read “Richmond’s” printed across the top, but there was no store name. In fact, there wasn’t an item description, a price, or even a date. Instead, there was a handwritten note:
Hi Mister Nosey. You can stop looking. Your present has been right underneath your nose the whole time, but you’ll never find it.
This couldn’t be happening. Mom had not only used reverse psychology on me but she’d also beaten me with it. Grandpa would be so disappointed. Grandpa. A vision of him teaching me proper Scotch tape removal suddenly filled my mind. He would never have been defeated this easily. I felt a renewed energy. I might have lost this battle, but I wouldn’t lose the war.
I refolded Mom’s note along its original crease lines, placed it back into the box, and slid it under the bed and into its original position. If my mother didn’t know I found her note, then I hadn’t technically lost. With just a little luck, my dignity and my grandpa’s honor could still be saved.
Three
It’s funny how life changes so fast. A few years earlier, money had been the last thing on my mind. Now it was all I thought about. A few years earlier, I’d had a father. Now he was gone. A few years earlier, I’d loved going caroling with my mom every Christmas Eve. Now I couldn’t think of anything worse.
It’s hard being a twelve-year-old kid. It’s even harder being a twelve-year-old kid whose mother seems to be on a mission from God to embarrass you. At least that’s how I felt that Christmas Eve.
“Mom, please don’t make me go. I’m really too old for this.” I already knew arguing was a lost cause.
“Come on, Eddie, you always have fun. The ladies love to see you. Besides, how will they update your height on their door frame if you don’t show up?”
Mom was smiling, but I felt like I was walking a tightrope. Too much protesting and she might make me wait past Christmas for my bike.
“Fine. But can we at least keep it short? I want to have enough energy to say all my prayers tonight.” I hadn’t used the “prayers excuse” in years, but I hoped she cared more about my prayers than she did about caroling.
Her smile vanished. Uh-oh. “Eddie, your sudden devotion to God is inspiring, but believe me, God will be more than happy to hear your prayers no matter how much energy you have. Now go get the Wonder Bread bags and get yourself ready to go.”
This was quickly going from bad to worse. I never thought that my father’s bread-bag boots could somehow be made more embarrassing, but after he died my mother found a way: Wonder Bread bag boots. I now not only got to wear cheap plastic bags over my shoes but I got to wear cheap plastic bags with multicolored polka dots over my shoes. It was a complete and total nightmare.
“I don’t need those tonight,” I said firmly. “We’re getting right into the car.”
“It’s not negotiable, Eddie. It’s slushy out there and I can’t have you wearing wet shoes all night. You might get sick for Christmas.”
Someone needed to give my mom a serious lesson on viruses. Even I knew that you couldn’t catch a cold from the cold, but somehow a health lesson didn’t seem like the smartest reply. I made the right decision and held my tongue.
“Okay, I’ll put them on.”
I was looking for the bags under the kitchen sink when I heard the doorbell ring. Our front door swung open and the unintelligible noise that only occurs when two grown women get together reverberated through the house. Aunt Cathryn had arrived.
I was nine before I understood that “Aunt” Cathryn wasn’t really my aunt—she was actually just our next-door neighbor. Her kids were grown and had left home, so she had adopted us as her family. But family or not, she was without a doubt the nicest person I knew, and my mother always seemed happy when she was with her.
I reluctantly carried my Wonder Bread bags into the family room and sat on the couch, awaiting the inevitable sequence of events that was about to transpire.
“Eddddddddie, how are you?” Aunt Cathryn violently pinched my cheeks. I hated that. “Merry Christmas!” No one had ever accused her of being shy.
“I’m great, Aunt Cathryn, how are you?”
“I’m always great, Eddie, but thanks for asking. I just can’t believe it’s time for Christmas caroling again. I feel like we just did it!”
That’s the understatement of the century, I thought to myself. For the second time that evening I held my tongue.
“Oh, and look at your tree. It’s beautiful!”
Aunt Cathryn had more energy than anyone else I’d ever met. If you measured the importance of a sentence by how enthusiastically it was said, Aunt Cathryn might as well have been president. But her voice suddenly became uncharacteristically soft. “But where’s the star?”
While there were decorations everywhere else on the tree, the top was bare. The star that usually resided there was missing because no one was tall enough to put it in place—a constant reminder that something, or rather someone, was also missing.
“I’ll take care of it,” I offered, not wanting to get into a discussion about my dad on Christmas Eve. I removed our stepladder from the hall closet and unfolded it next to the tree. Then I went back to the closet and retrieved a simple white star from its box. I returned to the ladder, climbed to the top step, steadied myself, and clipped the star into place. Aunt Cathryn smiled.
“Well, Eddie,” my mother said, “I guess that officially makes you the man of the house.”
It was obvious that she regretted the words before they’d even escaped her mouth. Aunt Cathryn and I both stared at the floor in awkward silence, but we were thinking the same thing: There was nothing we wanted less.
After I put on my Wonder Bread bags and looked sufficiently ridiculous, the three of us piled into our car for the drive to the nursing home. We had caroled there every Christmas Eve for the last five or six years.
The one saving grace was that we caroled inside, out of view. It would have been bad enough to be seen by my friends singing Christmas carols with my mother, but throw in Wonder Bread bags and Aunt Cathryn, and “Breaddie Eddie” would have seemed like a dream compared to the torment that would’ve come my way.
My mother drove mind-numbingly slowly as Aunt Cathryn wore out the tuner knob on the car radio. After five straight minutes of static intermingled with ten-second song clips, I finally had enough.
“Any chance we could stick to one station?” I asked. When it came to keeping my mouth shut, the third time wasn’t the charm.
“Sure. Sorry, Eddie,” Aunt Cathryn replied. “I was just looking for a Christmas song so that we could all practice our harmony.”
I let out an involuntary laugh. “Harmony? If you think we have any harmony, then you must be as deaf as our audience.”
Strike two.
I looked up and locked eyes with my mother, who was now glaring at me in the rearview mirror. She could give a full lecture by just using her eyes, that’s how intense they were. And right now they were telling me to sit back and keep quiet.
“MOM!” Traffic up ahead was at a dead stop. She turned her attention back to the road and slammed on the brakes. We screeched to a stop just inches from the rear bumper of the car in front of us. Mom’s eyes once again met mine in the mirror, but this time there was no anger, only concern
.
“Eddie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I felt responsible. My stupid joke had distracted her.
“It looks like there’s an accident up ahead. I’m really glad we’re not part of it.”
We were at a near standstill, just barely creeping along. A cacophony of car horns blared intermittently, drowning out the Christmas song that was playing on the radio.
About twenty minutes later we finally saw police flares and flashing lights pass. The cars had been cleared from the scene, but broken glass still littered the road. I looked into the mirror and saw my mother’s head bow as she quietly whispered a prayer.
Once we got past the crash site, traffic flowed freely, but by then we were in danger of missing the caroling.
“What do you think, Eddie, should we just head home?” Mom asked.
I liked the fact that she thought I was old enough to have a vote. My first instinct was to say, “Yeah, let’s just go home.” But then I realized this was an opportunity to help my mom forget about my two-strike count.
“Nah, let’s keep going,” I replied confidently. “Even if we miss caroling, we can still say hello to everyone.”
Impressed, my mother glanced back at me. Her eyes once again said it all: I’d answered correctly.
A few minutes later we pulled into the parking lot at the nursing home. Though I knew no one would see me during the forty-second walk to the front door, I still felt uneasy.
The nursing home was uncomfortably warm, and there was a rather “distinctive” smell. As we walked down the hallway to the lounge, I could hear the other carolers singing. At first it was just muted tones, but as we got closer I began to make out the words to “God Be with You Till We Meet Again.”
It was about as far from a Christmas song as you could get, but my dad had always insisted that it be the last song we sang each year. He said that mentions of Santa Claus and snow were great, but leaving people with the spirit of Christmas was what really mattered—and that song never failed to do it. I tried to protest the first year, but when I looked up and saw the tears in the eyes of our audience as we sang, I knew Dad was right.
God be with you ’til we meet again;
By His counsels guide, uphold you;
With His sheep securely fold you;
God be with you ’til we meet again.
We stopped singing that song after Dad died—everyone knew it would be too hard for Mom and me to hear it. But our late arrival this year had given the others a window of opportunity to sing it without us there. Now, as the familiar words took on a new and unfamiliar meaning, a series of uninvited memories rushed into my mind.
I was six. Dad lifted me up so I could put the star on top of our Christmas tree.
I was seven. Dad set up my new train set and played with me all day—and he never complained when I asked him to say “choo choo.”
I was eight. Dad bought me my first Nerf football. We played in our snow-covered backyard until he got too tired to run. He was getting tired a lot lately.
I was nine. We opened presents in Dad’s hospital room. Mom said the chemo made him too weak to come home. He squeezed my hand and told me that we would play catch again soon. I didn’t let him see me cry.
Months flashed by in an instant and I was at my father’s funeral. He looked peaceful and healthier than he had been in over a year. It didn’t seem fair. The choir sang his favorite song.
God be with you ’til we meet again;
’Neath His wings protecting hide you;
Daily manna still provide you;
God be with you ’til we meet again.
“Eddie? Are you coming in?”
I was standing in the hallway by myself.
“Everyone wants to see you.”
The carolers were still singing inside.
The lounge looked and smelled exactly like it did every year. Snowflakes cut out of construction paper hung on the walls, and an overly decorated and undersized Christmas tree inhabited the far left corner. On a folding card table, a full bowl of red punch sat untouched.
“Eddie!”
I’d barely gotten through the doorway. “Hi, Mrs. Benson.”
Mrs. Benson was charging toward me, the wheels on her walker spinning over the linoleum, with several other familiar faces not far behind. I knew that more cheek pinching was inevitable. I wondered at what age a boy outgrew this humiliation.
A few minutes later the hugs, handshakes, and “Look how big Eddie has gotten!” comments had finally subsided. My cheeks were sore, but it felt good to be around so many people who wanted to be around me.
“So, Eddie, what do you want for Christmas this year?” Mrs. Benson seemed to pride herself on being the first to ask me that question every year. Usually I told her I wasn’t sure, but with Mom sitting just a few feet away, I took it as my final opportunity to make sure my message had been heard loud and clear.
“A red Huffy bike with a black banana seat,” I answered, a little louder than necessary.
“What a nice idea,” Mrs. Benson replied, clearly surprised that after so many years I finally had a specific answer. “It’s about time you got a bike. You deserve one after all you’ve been through.”
She has no idea, I thought to myself. Not only do I deserve a bike, I’ve earned it.
After about two hours of warm smiles and off-key singing, we pulled out of the nursing home’s parking lot and drove home. I could lie and say that the night had seemed to last an eternity, but the truth is that it had actually gone by too fast. I had forgotten how much I liked being with the people there. They helped me feel the Christmas spirit and forget how much I missed my father, not to mention our struggle with money and my bread-bag boots. It’s funny how it felt best to be a kid around a group of really old people.
My mother had a sixth sense about “I told you so” stuff, and she wasted no time confirming her suspicions. “Not as bad as you thought, right, honey?”
“I guess not.” I wasn’t about to cave.
“Life is what you make of it. There’s always fun and laughs right under your nose if you’re willing to open your eyes to see it.”
Mom and I locked eyes again. I had a hard time reading her this time. I didn’t know if she was simply trying to reinforce her life lesson or if she was trying to bait me into admitting that I’d seen her note under the bed. I stayed silent and looked away.
“Most times we’re so focused on what we think we want that we can’t appreciate how happy we already are,” she continued. “It’s only when we forget about our problems and help others forget theirs that we realize how good we really have it.”
I knew she was right, but I was far more interested in getting ready for bed than I was in having a deep conversation. It was Christmas Eve, and I was just hours away from getting the bike that would change my life.
I slipped upstairs, brushed my teeth as quickly as possible, and put on my homemade Christmas pajamas. They were periwrinkle. Even though I wouldn’t want anyone to see me in them, it made me a little sad to think that this would probably be the last time I would get to wear them. Every Christmas my grandmother gave me a new set, and while pajamas couldn’t compete with a bike, they were the one present that I could count on loving every year. Better still, whenever I put my pajamas on, I thought of her. She was like a redwood tree—strong and quiet, and I always felt safe in the shade of her love.
“Mom,” I began carefully as I slid under the covers, “I’m twelve. Do you still have to tuck me in?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“But I’m almost a man.” I suppose the words would have had more impact if I hadn’t been saying them from under a Star Wars bedspread.
“I imagine the day will come when we both know it’s time for a change. I don’t ‘tuck you in’ anymore, by the way, young man. I just sit with you for a few minutes and say goodnight. There’s a difference.”
“Okay.”
“Besides, I want to talk to you ab
out the nursing home tonight. I know you heard the song.”
Sleep and Christmas morning were so close. The last thing I wanted was another one of my mom’s life lessons. “What song?”
She ignored my halfhearted attempt at pleading ignorance. “Your father first sang that song to me at the end of our first date. ‘’Til we meet, ’til we meet, God be with you ’til we meet again.’” She laughed. “He had a horrible voice. The sound of it made me cringe, but I thought it was the sweetest thing ever. Of course, when I told Grandma what he’d done, she melted. ‘He’s a keeper,’ she told me, as if singing one church hymn could somehow make a man perfect. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Dad had probably heard that song on the radio, not at church.”
I did my best to show absolutely no emotion. I figured that if Mom was good at speaking with her eyes, then she was probably pretty good at reading them too, and I didn’t want to give her any encouragement to keep talking. But it didn’t work; she kept talking.
“I watched you out in the hallway as you listened to the song. I know it made you miss Dad. I miss him too. More and more every single day. But he’s not really gone. He’s here right now watching over you. His arms are around you.”
As usual, my mother was right. I did miss Dad. I missed him a lot. Maybe I had been too young to realize what I’d had when he was alive, or maybe he’d just worked too much, but now, in hindsight, what I had lost was perfectly clear. And it really hurt.
“But honey,” my mother continued, “you’re missing what that song is really all about. You’re missing the most important part and the whole reason Dad loved to sing it so much.” She began to quietly hum the words. “‘When life’s perils thick confound you, put His arms unfailing round you.’” She paused for a few moments. “His arms are always around you, Eddie. And they were always around Dad too. Whenever he had a tough day at work, I sang those words to him and all would be well.”
By that point my attempts to remain emotionless failed. A tear escaped my left eye and rolled down my cheek. I hoped my mother wouldn’t see it, but that was unlikely.
