The phone startled her.
“Hello?”
“Hope Jensen?” a voice said.
Hope heard music in the background and instantly put her hand against her forehead. “I am so sorry. Is this 102.5?”
“Yep, and don’t sweat it,” DJ Blake said in a voice that didn’t sound anything like he would in a few seconds on the radio. “You’re a busy lady, I hear. Still a go for this morning?”
“Yes, and again, I’m sorry. I’m never late for these things.”
“No sweat. Hang tight. Back to you and live in two.”
Hope ran for her planner in her bedroom to make sure she hadn’t missed anything else that morning. Then she walked to the bathroom with the cordless phone pressed against her ear. She checked her hair and smiled at her own vanity.
A moment later she heard DJ Blake welcoming her to the air. “We are so excited this morning to be joined by a woman whose mission is to make Christmas something you think about every day of the year. Her name is Hope Jensen and she’s a busy lady, folks, so we’re lucky to get a few minutes of her time. Hope, welcome to the Blake Show.”
“Thanks for having me, Blake. Love your show.”
“And thank you, Hope, for that, and for giving us time this morning. So tell us, what is a Christmas Jar and why should it matter? I keep hearing about these things from my listeners and where better to get the straight scoop than from the inventor herself.”
“Oh, no, I’m not the inventor, Blake. I’m just someone trying to take the Christmas Jars message mainstream. I might have been one of the first to get one and later on to give one, but the tradition predates me.”
“Alright then, so just what is a Christmas Jar?”
“Easy. A Christmas Jar is an empty pickle jar, or mayonnaise jar, or whatever, that you wash out and place on your counter. Then every day, without fail, you drop in your spare change. Mom goes to the store and comes home with change, it goes in the jar. Dad buys a soda at the convenience store, the change goes in the jar. Kids buy ice cream for lunch at school, they run home and first things first, the change goes in the jar. Then on or around Christmas Eve you give the jar away anonymously to someone in need. Some need money, some need love, some need hope.”
“How refreshing in this world, right?”
“Definitely. And I’ve heard hundreds of stories about jars being given away, but I want your listeners to know it doesn’t matter how much money is in the jar. Always remember that the bigger message is that you’re aware of someone’s needs.”
“Great advice, Hope. If you’re just joining us, friends, we’re talking to Hope Jensen, a Christmas Jars pioneer and the woman who’s almost single-handedly taking the Christmas Jars magic from a small-town tradition to mainstream prominence.”
Hope smiled.
“Now my producer tells me you’re doing something slightly different this year. Something more coordinated than in years past. Tell us about it, and specifically how we can get involved.”
“That’s right, Blake, the tradition has been gaining steam for a number of years, but we thought this year we’d shoot even bigger and organize our efforts more to really capture and distribute as many Christmas Jars as possible.”
“Sounds challenging, go on.”
“You may not have heard of it, but we’re blessed with an old-school chicken place up here called Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits. It’s a diner on Highway 4 halfway between not much and nowhere.”
The host laughed. “We can relate, trust me! But I have to tell you, Hope, I’ve been to Chuck’s before while passing through and it’s a wonderful slice of Americana. In fact, that’s where I first heard of the Christmas Jars. The place is practically a poultry theme park as well as a monument to the Christmas Jars movement.”
“So true.” Hope returned the laughter but quickly trailed off to a more somber tone. “The bad news, and this was a real personal loss for me, is that our community lost Chuck last week on Thanksgiving night.”
Blake let the moment settle.
“Now that you mention it, I’d heard that. I’m very sorry. Sounds like you were close. My condolences.”
“Much appreciated. He was a good man.”
“I bet he was.” Blake hesitated again. “Unfortunately we’re running up against a hard newsbreak. Real quick, tell us about your plans for the Christmas Jar project this year.”
Hope had already given so many interviews since the early part of November that her answer was practically memorized word-for-word.
“We understand that not everyone is comfortable giving a jar away on a doorstep or street corner. That’s OK. This year we’re inviting you to drop off your jar at the diner—”
“Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits.”
“That’s right. And we’ll deliver your jar for you to families or individuals in need. Our goal this year is a thousand and one jars. Last year we collected and distributed a hundred and one. Drop yours off or send it in, and we’ll give you a new jar—free, of course—to begin filling for next year. Easy as Chuck’s Three Musketeers pie.”
“A thousand and one? Wow! I bet our listeners are curious, why so many? Is there significance to the number?”
“Excellent question. On Christmas Eve last year, someone came into the diner—”
“Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits.”
“Right. And this man had a jar to contribute to the cause but didn’t know who to give it to or how. He needed our help. As we stood there chatting, we watched a young family of five pile out of a ragged and rusty van and into Chuck’s. They sat and ordered two meals to share among them, not a bit of complaining either. It really touched us both, and though I don’t remember his name, I remember he walked right over to this little family and gave them his jar. Then he walked back over to me and said, ‘If this is how much good a single jar can do, imagine what a thousand jars could do.’”
“And here we are today. With one really big goal and only a few weeks to get there.”
Hope could hear Blake smiling through the phone. “I love it,” he said. “What a great idea. Where can 102.5 listeners go for more information?”
“Come by the diner anytime, it’s the source of all things Christmas Jars, or visit us at Chuck’s web site, designed by Chuck himself, at www.ChucksChickenAndBiscuits.com.” She repeated the web address, then Blake did, too, just to be sure.
“Thank you again, Hope, you’re a real inspiration. Come back after Christmas and let us know how you did. God bless. And now the news.”
The line crackled and popped and Hope hung up the phone. There aren’t many things I enjoy more than that, she thought, except TV interviews.
~~~
I’ve often wondered how a person repays kindness. I know now . . . with a Christmas Jar. As if a year full of blessings wasn’t already enough, God blessed me again tonight. And tomorrow? A new jar begins.
—Patricia
Nine
~~~
Al lay on his couch with his left leg propped up on three pillows. His leg still hurt enough to gripe about, but his armpits hurt even more from the crutches.
Cowboy Craig was happy to drive him home that morning from the hospital, but his motives were mixed. On the one hand, he said, he was terribly sorry for Al’s troubles and wished him a speedy recovery. But he also needed to tell him face-to-face that he was being let go.
“I just can’t afford to keep you, Al. I’m sorry. Sales are down, costs are up, and now you’re unable to drive for a while.”
“It’s my left leg,” Al offered. “I can drive as soon as I’m off the pills.”
“Maybe so, but we’ve been thinking of combining yours and Scrubb’s areas anyway.” He looked down at his cowboy boots. “You’ve been in Idaho Falls for a while, and let’s be honest, you’re always complaining. So maybe a change would do you good. You know, a fresh start. Maybe earn some real money somewhere. Al, this might be a blessing in disguise.”
“For who?”
Cowboy Craig apologized again and assured Al his health insurance would be good for another month. They shook hands a final time and he handed Al an envelope. “I wish it were more,” he said and showed himself out the door.
Al opened the envelope and found a full month’s pay. He wanted to be angry, but even he recognized it was much more than his former boss needed to do for him.
He picked up a stack of drawings he’d found under the door when he arrived home that morning. Flowers. Waterfalls. Little girls wearing pink dresses and crowns. He actually grinned at one drawing depicting a stick figure child with giant muscles carrying a man with only one and a half legs.
He looked at the pile of belongings Cowboy Craig had helped him cart home from the hospital. A pill bottle and a prescription for more. A folder full of insurance paperwork he’d probably never read. His Christmas Jar. He bent down and picked up the heavy jar, admiring it once more. Al had never done something quite so noble as fill a jar for a stranger, but he reminded himself he hadn’t always been so jaded. He’d donated money for causes before, even been to a corporate service project or two through the years. Bought Girl Scout cookies. Put money in the offering plate at church, though he didn’t remember ever doing that without a woman sitting beside him looking very impressed.
Al saw a crumpled bill at the very bottom of the jar and held it up to see if he could tell the denomination without dumping the change out. A twenty, he thought. Not bad. He also noticed a sticky label on the bottom.
~~~
Someone loves you!
You’re holding a Christmas Jar!
The miracle starts with you!
www.ChucksChickenAndBiscuits.com
~~~
He set the jar down and stretched to reach under the couch. He felt his laptop, hidden right where he had left it on his way to work the day his leg played toothpick. The battery was nearly dead, but he fired it up anyway and punched in the address. A clean and organized, but obviously homemade, web site slowly loaded. Al wondered if it was finally time for faster service. He also wondered who had designed the amateurish web site.
A Christmas Jars banner caught his eye: Got Jars? He clicked on it and was taken to a page with the words Christmas Jars Ministry splashed atop the menu bar.
~~~
min-is-try: a person or thing through which something is accomplished; ministration; service.
We are not preachers or pastors, but we preach charity.
We are not a legally organized entity, but we are organized.
We are here for you!
~~~
The page featured ideas for collecting change, tips on giving jars away, and stories of people claiming to be miraculously affected by jars both given or received. In the left menu bar was a picture of an average-looking man and a very attractive woman. He sure married up, Al thought.
The caption below the photo read Chuck and Gayle Quillon: In love to the end. Further below were the words In Memory of Chuck and a link to his obituary in what appeared to be the web site for a local paper.
Al drilled deeper into the site and found a photo library. He clicked one by one through pictures of children holding jars, jars on counters, a toddler putting a quarter in a jar, jars that were carefully painted, glass jars, plastic jars, jars on a table in a restaurant, another attractive woman standing at a lunch counter in front of a long row of jars—thirty or more—each filled to the brim with money.
“This is really something,” Al mumbled to the screen.
He lingered on another photo of Chuck’s widow, Gayle, holding a stuffed chicken and standing next to a boy named Andrew in a wheelchair. He held a huge Christmas Jar in his lap and wore the broadest smile. So did she.
On another page he found a paragraph about the restaurant’s goal of collecting 1,001 jars to redistribute that year on Christmas Eve and a counter showing how many they’d collected as of December third. Only 269.
“They’ll never make it without more exposure,” he scoffed.
There was also a plea on the site for volunteers to help coordinate activities from the diner.
He spotted a link to a collection of media appearances by a woman named Hope Jensen, the same woman pictured standing proudly at the lunch counter with an array of jars. She’d been on several morning TV shows and radio programs, though none he’d ever heard of. The articulate young woman was on a mission, she said in every interview, to spread the tradition to every kitchen counter in the world.
He briefly touched the jar on the floor and then covered himself up with the blanket Cowboy Craig had retrieved from the bedroom. He closed his eyes and considered his new reality.
No job. No leads. No woman to cook for him. No end to the stack of credit card bills that reflected his long-honed gift of spending more than he made. No reason to stay in Idaho Falls.
He wondered how big the Christmas Jars tradition could become if it had the right person pushing from behind. Maybe I’m the one who could put a jar on every counter in America, he thought. Could this be more than just goodwill, could it also be profitable goodwill?
Eventually he drifted into the peaceful space between worry and sleep and dreamed of pretty widows, Mason jars, and fried chicken.
The next morning he wrote checks for his rent and utilities and mailed them all a few days early. Then he stumbled on his crutches to Queen and Laura’s apartment, thanked them for the drawings, returned the Christmas Jar in a shopping bag he’d slung over his shoulder, and asked for a ride to the train station.
It was awkward for everyone, but he even let Queen hug him when they said good-bye at the ticket counter.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Just on a short trip for the holidays.”
“Are you coming back?”
“I hope so.”
“But we just became friends.”
Queen’s mother watched from a short distance.
Al’s comfort zone was rapidly shrinking.
“I know. I’ll be back. I just need a break. Adults need breaks sometimes.”
Queen whispered, “That’s what Mom says when she watches Oprah.”
Laura stepped closer. “What was that?”
Queen grinned at Al.
Laura wagged her finger playfully at her daughter. “Mr. Allred,” she said, “is your leg well enough for this? It’s only been a few days.”
“Well enough.” He paused. “Pain pills and crutches—I’m good.”
Queen motioned for Al to bend down again. “Why did you give back our Christmas Jar?”
Al looked up at Laura. “I just thought there might be someone who needs it more. My leg’s broken, that’s all. I’m not suffering.”
“Mom says some people don’t like to be helped, even when they need it,” Queen said.
It wasn’t clear who Queen had embarrassed more, Al or her mother, but both shifted uncomfortably as their eyes seemed to suddenly find something interesting in the distance.
Laura broke the silence. “Queen, would you mind waiting in the car, darling? It’s just right there. I can see you.”
Queen agreed and hugged Al a final time. “Bye, my new friend.” She looked through him. “Get better.” Both Laura and Al watched as she looked both ways four or five times before scurrying across the parking lot to the car.
“Mr. Allred—”
“Al.”
“Al,” she said and her eyes brightened. “Queen is different. She latches on to people, you probably noticed.”
“Ya think?” He didn’t intend for it to sound so sarcastic.
“She worries about other people. A lot. It takes her mind off her own problems.”
Al glanced at his watch. “What problems does Queen have? Other than being a talker and asking more questions than most of us have answers.”
“She’s dying.” Laura uttered the words softly, but they still rang through the train station platform.
“Dying?”
“Her heart. She was bor
n with congenital heart disease and even as she’s grown, her heart has deteriorated. She’s been on the transplant list for a long time, but it should go without saying . . . it’s an uphill battle. . . . Such hard odds . . . but you probably know this.”
“Not really,” he mumbled. Al had struggled through divorce, legal battles, broken relationships at home and work, bad business decisions, and even bankruptcy, but he’d never had to watch anyone die.
“Well, it’s a challenge each day, I can tell you that. And it’s not likely the transplant will come before she says good-bye.”
“I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “She’s a great girl. But why are you telling me this?” Al hadn’t felt so emotionally disheveled in years.
“Would you please take the Christmas Jar? Take it for her? It’s probably the last one she’ll ever give.” Laura began to tear up in both eyes and the sight made Al feel even more out of place. He’d made women cry before, but never quite like this. The moment had a foreign feeling he’d dwell on days and weeks later.
“I have a better idea. Wait here.” Al positioned his crutches under his arms and swung his way toward Queen. She sat in the back seat of her mother’s car, pretending not to have been watching. Al knocked on the window and she rolled it down. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“I’m listening,” she sang.
“You keep ticking and keep an eye on my apartment. Check my mail. That kind of stuff. If you do that, I’ll accept your jar when I get home. Deal?”
“Deal!” Queen stuck her hand through the open window and he released one crutch to shake it.
“Deal,” he repeated.
Moments later on the platform Laura asked, “What was that about?”
“She’ll tell you.”
Laura finally wiped away the tears that had been collecting on her cheeks. “Here’s our number, in case you need anything.” She handed him a sticky note. “Maybe you’ve got friends and family around. We try not to be nosy, but just in case, here you go.”
Al folded the note and stuck it in his wallet. “Thanks.”
Two days later, Al arrived in a strange small town in the south surrounded by other strange small towns and map dots he’d never even heard of.
Christmas Jars Reunion Page 5
