Christmas Jars

by Jason F. Wright

  After Hannah came Adam’s two brothers. First the stoic Steven told childhood tales of his older brother’s secret kindness. There were hundreds of such acts, he surmised. “But he never took any credit.” He finished by praising Adam’s unfiltered dedication to family. Steven said that though his brother had a multitude of opportunities to expand the family enterprise into a large-scale commercial operation, Adam steadfastly refused. “We’re not in this for that kind of success,” he was fond of saying.

  Terri, the only sister, then spoke of Adam’s fierce protection of his “favorite sister.” She finished through controlled crying: “When Dad died, Adam became the guy in my life I could run to. He knew me, and when nobody else ‘got me’”—she gestured the quotes with her index and middle fingers on both hands—“Adam did.”

  JJ concluded the program with more of a comedy routine than a tribute, but the mourners enjoyed every embarrassing family story and impersonation of Adam. “My brother used to say I was always performing, and he was right. But today, big brother, this is no performance at all.” He turned to the casket. “I will miss you, I will cherish your name, and I will always love you. Now, get back to work on your latest project already, would you?” He bent over and kissed the casket. “Good-bye,” JJ said. But only those on the front row heard.

  The funeral lasted ninety minutes. Hope memorized thousands of details to record later in the unfinished scrapbook her own mother left behind. She left during the closing number, a soaring duet by sister Terri and JJ’s glowing, beautiful wife, Randa. Standing outside the funeral home, Hope listened to every note and hurried off to her car when a chorus of simultaneous “Amens” ended the service.

  Sitting in her car, hidden away on a one-way side street, Hope marveled at how quickly the headlight procession developed and began moving down the street and toward the cemetery. She had decided days before she would join its tail end and watch from a distance, without joining the graveside gathering. Parked far enough away, and with her windows rolled up, she watched the ceremony unfold.

  As the service ended, Hope could see that the small items loved ones placed on his casket just before they returned to their cars were paintbrushes, carving tools, and sheets of sandpaper. Every inch of Hope wanted to be there, to touch the casket before it was slowly lowered six feet. But her presence would distract, she decided, and might be the final nail she could not bear.

  Hope pulled away long before Lauren and the immediate family were loaded into the two limousines and embarked on the journey home. There, Hope would be waiting on their front porch, where she prayed her own restoration might begin.

  ~

  Hope’s legs shook as she took the five steps from the sidewalk to the Maxwell front porch. She sat on the top step, faced the street, covered her legs with her jacket, and pondered her future with—and without—forgiveness. She counted passing cars, noted more than a handful that seemed to slow and drive on, and noticed a plastic bag lying well right of the front door. Its nose hung over the farthest edge of the porch. From her spot she could tell it was the day’s unread edition of the Daily Record. Her mind calculated the impact of the family’s not having read it before her homecoming with Lauren and the girls.

  Thirty minutes passed. Then with imagined but building music in the background, the two limousines rounded the corner and rolled to a graceful stop. Hope stood, letting her coat fall to the side, and for a moment would not have felt the cold if the temperature were twenty below.

  In unison JJ and Steven exited from the front passenger seats of each car and opened the oversized back doors. Their wives stepped out first, oblivious to the stranger waiting like a courier at the front door. Then came the twins, one from each car, and a few children Hope wished she knew. Then from the second, out stepped Hannah and Dustin.

  Hope had anticipated and now fought the searing urge to jump into the bushes to her left, over a neighbor’s fence, and well out of sight. “Patience,” she thought she heard her mother whisper in the afternoon wind. “Patience.”

  It seemed an eternity until Dustin reached back into the car and tenderly pulled Lauren into view. At the sight of her, Hope found that her controlled breathing gave way to hiccups.

  “Mother,” Hannah said softly, taking her widowed mother by the arm. “Is that . . . is that Hope?”

  Hope tried to lift her hand to wave but could not move it.

  While Hannah led her mother through the chatting family and toward the porch, the younger children asked for and received permission to play. Hope’s eyes locked onto the children as a game of tag erupted and finally spilled around the house and into the backyard. Looking back to the street, she was startled to see Hannah and Lauren now standing one step below her.

  “Where have you been, young lady?” Lauren said.

  But before Hope could concoct a snappy retort, Lauren’s arms reached forward in a swift movement and enveloped Hope inside and out. The tears Hope had kept at bay all day now poured at full volume, and the heavy sobbing that only comes with true remorse filled the air.

  “Come, come, my dear,” Lauren said, stroking her back. “I’m the widow here.” Hope laughed, let go, let Lauren kiss her wet cheeks and move on to the door. “Inside everyone, it’s Christmas Eve.”

  Hannah stepped aside as the others moved onto the porch and through the door. When the last straggler shut the door behind him, Hannah looked to Hope, now pulling tissue from her coat pocket. “It’s good to see you, Hope.” The simple words brought music again in the background that only Hope could hear.

  “I am so glad,” she answered, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Hannah. “I missed you.”

  “We missed you, too,” said Hannah.

  “We?” Hope released her arms.

  “Yes, we. You disappeared on all of us, you know.”

  “I know, and I need you to know how sorry I am. This has weighed on me, eaten at me, for so long I can’t—” The tears returned, and Hannah embraced her again.

  “Shhh. It’s all right.” Hannah’s hand cradled Hope’s head.

  “I wanted so badly to apologize to your dad,” her voice shook.

  “I don’t know how to tell you, Hope, but that would not have been necessary.”

  Hope lifted her head and looked Hannah in the eyes. “Of course it was. I lied. I ran. He was so good to me. You were all so good to me.”

  Hannah pulled her tightly in once more and whispered in her ear. “He never knew.” She paused and let the revelation settle. “He never knew.”

  While they sat and held hands, Hannah explained that when the article ran, highlighting Hope’s achievements at the paper, her sisters and their mother agreed to toss it in the neighbor’s trash. “Dad never knew,” she repeated.

  For Hope, the truth was at once both a relief and a crushing burden.

  “We thought you’d call, stop by, send a letter, something, anything.”

  Hope struggled for words but found nothing more than the ones meant mostly for Adam. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” Hannah smiled. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  Hope’s well-rehearsed script had taken an impromptu turn that no amount of research or rehearsal could have readied her for. She smiled back and took five long steps to the paper hiding at the far end of the porch. She pulled it from its bag and placed it in Hannah’s hands. “Read this,” she said, checking the time on her wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait! Stay!” But Hope was already down the stairs and gliding down the sidewalk. “Do you have dinner plans?” she called out, but Hope kept running. “It’s Christmas Eve, Hope. Mom wants to see you. Everyone wants to see you.”

  Hope stopped before leaping across the street. “I know,” she called back. “It’s Christmas Eve, and yes,I have dinner plans.” With that, she vanished and made the drive beyond the edges of town to Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits.

  Seventeen

  ~

  In traditional Maxwell holiday
fashion, Lauren and her family spent Christmas Eve eating. This year, instead of Lauren’s renowned cooking, they worked through mountains of food left by neighbors and friends in the days since Adam’s death. The twins created a list of those needing thank-you cards, and the men gathered in the garage to unwind and decompress from the emotionally draining day.

  After the late lunch, Hannah gathered everyone in the same living room where Adam once eloquently painted for Hope the story of the Christmas Jar. Hannah called order, holding in her hands the Christmas Eve edition of the Daily Record. “Given the funeral and all, I assume no one’s had time for the paper, right?” Tired heads nodded around the room. “I thought so. Listen, gang, I know this has been a tough day for us, but you might find this interesting. It’s the top story.”

  She turned the paper around and waved it from left to right until everyone had seen the oversized, larger-than-life headline. Then she read it anyway. “‘Christmas Jars and Hope, by Hope Jensen.’”

  Hannah read each word and the building sentences deliberately, as if answers to their grief were hidden somewhere in the lines.

  (December 24)—A good man has died; his name was Adam Maxwell. Know this, readers, Adam was more rare than a bad meal at Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits, tucked six miles from town on Highway 4.

  This reporter first met Adam this past March. We met one evening, along with his elegant bride, in their modest but comfortable, even heavenly, living room. To him I was an eager college student seeking answers from a successful entrepreneur. Adam was a husband and father willing to teach at every opportunity fate dropped at his size-12 feet.

  Days became weeks and weeks grew into months that I strangely both cherish and regret. The man who opened his home, his business, his family, and his heart to me was a giant. Connecting body to soul were veins filled with the warmest, most sincere and honest energy I have ever known. In every moment, in every decision, in every step on his journey Home, he was a man of refreshing openness and honesty. As for me, unfortunately, I have been less so.

  Most longtime subscribers will not recognize my name, but my voice has been a small part of this paper since my senior year of high school. Forever the nerd, I passed on after-school activities, parties, and cruising for boys on Friday nights up and down Grande Blvd.

  Rather, I embedded myself in this paper, starting as an intern, moving to classifieds, then community, then editorials, and finally upstairs as a trusted member of the team responsible for every word on these wafer-thin pages. I ran with blind ambition and a deep-seated desire to have you read this very article, positioned prominently on my world’s most precious real estate: the front page.

  One year ago I was among a handful of unlucky local residents burglarized on Christmas Eve. Seeing your home dismantled and defiled is something indescribable, even to someone who fancies herself good with a pen. But it wasn’t what I missed that most changed me. It was what I found.

  During the shuffling in and out of my apartment that memorable night, an anonymous angel left a jar filled with coins and a few 20-dollar bills. On it was inscribed: “The Christmas Jar.” I found no name and no explanation. It is ironic that this reporter embarked on such an important mission with so few facts. Over the ensuing days I became obsessed with knowing who had been so kind to me and why.

  I wanted to thank them in front of you. I wanted to change minds and lives about the meaning of Christmas. The painful reality is that I just wanted to be seen—and read.

  My overzealous and misguided energy led me to the introduction that brings these words to your doorstep this morning. Yes, readers, a good man has died; his name was Adam Maxwell.

  Since that December evening one year ago, a blessed mystery has unfolded, and great is the temptation to unravel every detail for you. But I shall not. Suffice it to say that despite my best denials, the spirit of the jar has affected me, too.

  Though I cannot know how many have been similarly affected by the Christmas Jar tradition, I sense the number is impressive. I suspect many of you today will take jars you’ve kept tucked away in your homes and deliver them to someone in need. Those needs will vary from social to emotional and, of course, to financial.

  The decision about whom to bless will be made in private ways and in private places. Some will gather around kitchen tables later this morning; others will kneel in prayer on soft living room rugs. Some will not decide until the car seemingly stops itself beside some lonely wanderer.

  In the days that come, neither givers nor receivers will discuss their experiences beyond the walls of their homes. But by week’s end, and without much fanfare, someone will wash a new jar, cleaning it until it sparkles and reflects his or her kind countenance. Then with caring hands this person will wipe it dry and place it in its familiar spot.

  That night, one by one, family members will empty their pockets and delight at the clink of change hitting the empty glass bottom. Most days will yield a quarter, a dime, perhaps two nickels and a stray penny. Occasionally Mother will make change for herself by dropping in a worn dollar bill and pulling out an appropriate combination of cool silver coins.

  Over the months that follow, the gathering change will leave no recognizable void. Occasionally the temptation to borrow for laundry, a movie, or the ice-cream truck will float through the house, over the jar, and out the back door. But it never lands. The money is spoken for.

  Over the course of twelve months these jars will fill slowly but with purpose. Every day, if only for an instant, the benefactor will consider Christmas. For most, including this reporter, there will be a sweet daily reminder of what this day we call Christmas means. Most will pause, if only for an instant, to consider the miracle of a perfect baby boy born in a manger under the brilliant star that predicted it all.

  Tonight a grateful single mother, or a homeless man, or a young struggling couple—or perhaps even you—might find such a jar.

  You will lift it up and hold it a foot from your wet eyes. You will spin it. You will examine its uncanny beauty. Then you’ll wonder why.

  The answer is simpler than time and curiosity will tell you. It is not the copper- and silver-colored coins you will empty onto your coffee table. No, the answer is not in the total you will count and put to good purpose in your life. The answer, dear reader, is what went into the jar each day, long before it ever found you.

  Friends of the Daily Record, I am proud to report that I have discovered the origin of the Christmas Jar. It was a miracle, nothing less, performed by a child, and today made available to all.

  May you also find it, and may the spirit of Adam Maxwell live on.

  Hannah finished reading, and her face balanced a rare combination of pride, relief, and loss. “I can’t believe I made it through that . . .” The room sat in reverence, and before anyone found words, a knock on the door broke the comfortable quiet.

  “I’ve got it,” Steven said, slipping off a stool and gliding around the corner to the front door. A moment later he returned with a jar three-fourths full with change. “For you,” he said, handing the jar to his mother, who sat snuggled in a blanket in Adam’s brown recliner, still soaking-in the gravity of Hope’s front-page feature.

  “Amazing,” she said, holding it at eye level and spinning it as if seeing a Christmas Jar for the very first time. “Was there anyone there?”

  “There was. It was a woman and her son. The boy handed it to me and said, ‘Thank you, and God bless.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Amazing,” Lauren said again, and the room hushed around them.

  “All right, gang, how about a game?” Hannah slid the paper under her chair for safekeeping.

  “Yeah!” one of the older children answered.

  “How about”—Hannah paused for effect—“kissing booth?”

  The family converged on the matriarch, Lauren, drenching her in wet, loving kisses.

  “All right, troops,” she begged, “enough! I�
�ve got freezing coins dumping all over me!”

  They kissed her one last time, and the laughter held on well through the cleanup.

  During the next thirty minutes, the sun began its final descent toward the approaching Christmas. A card game sprouted in the dining room, the children gathered around a television in the basement, and Hannah and her mother sat in the living room looking through family albums.

  Three loud knocks on the door interrupted them. “Let me,” Hannah said, getting off the floor near her mother’s chair and walking to the foyer.

  Three minutes later the door shut and she appeared carrying yet another jar, this one decorated with bright paints and white ribbon and filled to the top with coins and bills.

  “Another?”

  “Yes, Mother, another.” Hannah set the jar on the reading table at Lauren’s side. “For you.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Get this. They said they’re first-timers. They found a jar at their door after church last year. They don’t even live around here.”

  “You’re kidding. Did you get their name?”

  “Now you’re kidding, Mother. Of course not. They wouldn’t say. They just wanted us to know they were thinking of us, that Christmas was different this year than any other, and to thank you.”

  Just as Hannah took her seat amid the stacks of photo albums, another knock at the door sounded.

  “I’ll get it,” one of the twins called from the kitchen. A few minutes later she too entered the living room, this time carrying not one but two Christmas Jars. One was a small jam jar, still with its lid, the initials “CJ” written on top in marker. The other was a quart-sized plastic jar that smelled of peanut butter.

  Tears began dripping from Lauren’s cheeks before she even held them. “I don’t know what to say,” she muttered.

  “One is from an older couple that got their own jar a few years ago when their last child moved out of the house. They thought you could use it.”