Just A Few Drops

It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through. Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this process had involved taking a truck to the local water rendering plant and filling it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off. If we didn't see some rain soon... we would lose everything. 

It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the only miracle I have seen with my own eyes. I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year old son, Billy, walking toward the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but with a serious purpose. I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort...trying to be as still as possible. 

Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward the house. I went back to making sandwiches, thinking that whatever task he had been doing was completed. Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour. He would walk carefully to the woods, run back to the house. Finally I couldn't take it any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey (being very careful not to be seen...as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him). 

He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked, being very careful not to spill the water he held in them...maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns slapped his little face but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher purpose. As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing site. Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed for him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn laying on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand. 

When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house and I hid behind a tree. I followed him back to the house, to a spigot that we had shut off the water to. Billy opened it all the way up and a small trickle began to creep out. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup," as the sun beat down on his little back. And it came clear to me. The trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him. 

It took almost twenty minutes for the drops to fill his hands. When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him. His little eyes just filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said. 

As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away. It was his job. 

I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart I have ever known working so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face began to hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops...and more drops...and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride. 

Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime. And I can't argue with that...I'm not going to try. All I can say is that the rain that came that day saved our farm...just like the actions of one little boy saved another. 

I don't know if anyone will read this...but I had to send it.... To honor the memory of my beautiful Billy, who was taken from me much too soon.... but not before showing me the true face of God, in a little sunburned body. 

Author: Unknown

Memories In Life

His name was Lawrence William Jackson. He was four years older than me in years but in knowledge of life he was much older. He was born with a disability. At the time they called it Muscular Dystrophy. Being younger, I don't think I ever really knew what it was. I just knew I had a brother who was different. He could never walk and his arms and legs couldn't extend all the way out. He could not sit up straight. He spent his life bent over and crawled around on the floor with his legs tucked under him. He had to be helped in going to the bathroom, getting into a chair or getting in bed. Somebody had to be with him all the time in case he needed something. When I was in elementary school, I had to come right home if mother wasn't going to be home to make sure somebody was there when Larry got off the bus. At the time, they tried all kinds of therapy to help him but the only thing I can remember is him crying in pain as they tried to stretch his legs and arms out. As he got older, his condition got worst and he had to be home schooled. Growing up with him I did not see his disability as other people did, he was just my brother. We played together, had our fights and jealousies - just like all brothers do. I never really thought about having to help him because I grew up with him. I'm not saying there were times when I didn't want to do it but I knew it had to be done. I can't say I always treated him kindly but like I said, we were brothers and we acted like it. My parents had two boys and he was the one that had the special talents with his hands and his mind. At a young age he could do things that seemed way beyond his years. He could draw, paint and figure anything out, if he thought about it awhile. When he was 16, my father was building a house and Larry sat done and drew a whole set of house plans. My mother still has pictures that he painted hanging in her house. When he was in high school he took tests that showed he was at a 2nd year college level. He would tell me things about space travel in the 50's and I would think he was just making them up but later on they turned out to be true. As he grew older, I'm sure life was harder because he saw other teenagers doing things and having girl friends. To my regret, I probably didn't even see the torment he was probably going through. I was just becoming a teenager and I was so use to him that I worried about my own life. I was playing football and running track. Because of his condition, a lot of what Larry dreamed of doing, he would never be able to do. He got weaker and weaker. When he got sick, his body wasn't strong enough to fight it. When he was 17 years old, my brother passed away of what was called pneumonia. I was only 13 at the time. I can remember the night we took him to the hospital. He was unconscious but I thought he would be fine. When we got him to the hospital, I couldn't even comprehend what the doctor was talking about when he came out and said there was nothing they could do for him. When I did realize he was gone, I started to cry and I don't think my parents even realized the impact it had on me. The next week I had the last track meet of the year and the coach said, "Win this one for your brother". I loved track but I just looked at the coach and said, "I wouldn't run at all because my brother was more important than any high school track meet." I know the coach didn't mean anything bad, telling me to win it for my brother, but I just couldn't see how he could relate losing my brother to winning a race. I didn't know it at the time but I had lost the person that had the most affect on my life. He taught me more about how to accept life and how to treat people than anyone I had met or will ever meet in my life. My father was a stern man and a hard worker and taught me how to be a man. But my brother taught me the important things in life. Larry's life was harder than I can even imagine but he never complained. He took life as it came and always tried to have a good attitude when he had every reason not to. He never gave up trying to be the best person he could be, against all odds, and accepted life as it was for him knowing that it was not going to get much better. After Larry died, I went on to become the Captain of my high school football and track teams, All the time I was participating, I always felt his presence - like he was there helping me and wanting me to succeed. During my life I have been a police officer, a firefighter /paramedic and have always tried to help people. I do not judge people for their faults. I try to be good man and kind to everyone I meet. I try to understand that all of us are trying to find the same thing in life; that's happiness. In 2001 I was assaulted and left for dead. I had a brain injury and was in a coma for 4 weeks. When I finally woke up, I had some disabilities from the head injury and people could not figure out why I wasn't more depressed or bitter about my situation. Growing up with a brother who had so many disadvantages, but took life as it came without complaint, my problems seemed to be small in comparison to 17 years of living with a disability that was never going to improve and accepting it. Every day of my life, I thank my brother for showing me the kind of person I should be. If people would just appreciate all the gifts they have in life and not try to harm or cheat other people for greedy reasons, thinking that this will bring them happiness. If we would try to help are people without looking for something in return, this would be a much better world. We must find happiness in our journey through life and not always be searching for it. Always strive to achieve and be the best that you can be but be happy with the things you have while you're doing it. I moved to Florida after graduation and I hadn't gone to my brother's grave in 35 years. When I went back to Michigan last year, I decided I would go to his grave. I didn't realize how emotional I would become when I saw his grave marker. I began to cry knowing that he had always been a big part of my life. Thanks Larry, for making me a better person and accepting life as it is. Written by Jon Jackson (Florida)

Latiff - The Story of a Begger

Latiff was the poorest beggar of the village. Every night he slept in the hall of a different house, in front of the town square.

Every day he had a short rest under a different tree, with a widespread hand and a far away look in his thoughts. Every evening he would eat the alms or the crusts that some charitable person brought over to him.

Without embargo, in spite of his aspect and the way his days happened, Latiff was considered by all to be the wisest man of town, perhaps not so much because of his intelligence, but by what he had lived.

One sunny morning the king appeared in the square, surrounded by his guards, walking between the fruits and trinkets looking for nothing.

Laughing at the merchants and at the buyers, the king and his entourage almost stumbled over Latiff, who was dozing in the shade of a holm oak. Someone told the king that he was in front of the poorest of his subdits, but also in front of one of the most respected men because of his knowledge.

The king, entertained, approached the beggar and said to him, "If you answer my question, I will give you this golden coin."

Latiff looked at it, almost contemptuously, and said to him, "You can keep your coin, what will I do with it anyway? What is your question?"

The king felt defied by the response and instead of a banal question, he asked a question that was bothering him for days and that he could not solve; a problem of goods and resources that analysts had not solved for him.

Latiff's response was wise and creative. The king was surprised; he left the coin at the feet of the beggar and continued on his way to the market, pondering the events.

The next day he came back directly to where Latiff was resting; this time under an olive grove. Again the king posed a question and again Latiff answered it rapidly and wisely. The king was surprised again at so much intelligence. In a humble act, he took off his sandals and sat in front of Latiff.

"Latiff, I need you", the king said to him. "I am overwhelmed by the decisions that as king I must make. I do not want to harm my people and neither do I want to be an evil king. I ask you to come to the palace to be my adviser. I promise you that you should not fear at all, that you will be respected and that you will be able to leave whenever you want... Please."

Whether it was out of compassion, for service or for surprise, Latiff, after thinking a few minutes, accepted the proposal of the king.

That same evening Latiff came into the palace, where immediately a luxurious room was assigned to him. The room was close to the king's room and had a tub filled with essences and lukewarm water waiting for him.

During the following weeks the consultations with the king became habitual. Every day, in the morning, and in the evening, the monarch ordered his new adviser to consult him on the problems of the kingdom, on his own life or on his spiritual doubts.

Latiff always answered with clarity and precision and became the favourite speaker of the king. Three months after his arrival, there wasn't any decision made by the monarch without consulting his valued adviser first.

Obviously this unleashed the jealousy of all the other advisers. They saw in the beggar a threat against their own influences.

One day all of the advisers asked for a private hearing with the king. Very circumspect and with gravity they said to him, "Your friend Latif, as you call him, is conspiring to demolish you."

The king said, "I cannot believe it."

"You can confirm it with your own eyes", they said. "Every evening, at about five o'clock, Latiff slinks away from the palace up to the south wing and he enters a dark room. He meets with someone undercover, we do not know with whom. We have asked him where he was going all these evenings. He gave us evasive answers. His attitude alerted us to his conspiracy."

The king felt defrauded and hurt. He had to confirm these versions.

That evening, at five o'clock, he was waiting for Latiff under the stairs. He saw Latiff come to the door and look all around, with the key hanging from his neck. He opened the wooden door and slinked secretly into the room.

"Did you see him?" The other advisers shouted. "You saw him?"

Followed by his personal guard, the monarch struck the door.

"Who is it?" Latiff asked from the inside.

"I am the King" he said, "Open the door to me."

Latiff opened the door. There was nobody inside, except Latiff. No other doors or windows, no secret doors or any furniture where someone could hide.

Inside the room, there was only a worn out wooden plate; in a corner, a walking stick and in the center of the room a shabby tunic hanging by a hook in the roof.

"Are you conspiring against me Latiff?" the King asked.

"How could I, your Majesty?" Latiff answered. "No way. Why would I do that? Only six months ago, when I first came here, the only thing that I had was this tunic, this plate and this walking stick. Now I feel so comfortable in the clothes that I wear, I feel so comfortable with the bed that I sleep in, I am so flattered by the respect that you give me and so fascinated by the power you allow me... to be close you ... that I come here every day to touch this old tunic to make sure that I do Remember...

WHO I AM AND WHERE I CAME FROM.

True:

We must never forget who we are and where we come from; life turns and we can always return to the same place. 

Written by Jorge Bucay --- Argentinean Writer
Translated by Gustavo Velez --- Columbia 

Conversation

In a brief conversation, a man asked a woman he was pursuing the question: "What kind of man are you looking for?"

She sat quietly for a moment before looking him in the eye & asking,"Do you really want to know?"

Reluctantly, he said, "Yes." 

She began to expound: 

"As a woman in this day & age, I am in a position to ask a man what can you do for me that I can't do for myself? 

I pay my own bills. I take care of my household without the help of any man.... or woman for that matter. 

I am in the position to ask, "What can you bring to the table?"

The man looked at her. Clearly he thought that she was referring to money. 

She quickly corrected his thought & stated, "I am not referring to money. I need something more." 

"I need a man who is striving for excellence in every aspect of life." 

He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, & asked her to explain. 

She said:

"I need someone who is striving for excellence mentally because I need conversation & mental stimulation. I don't need a simple-minded man. 

I need someone who is striving for excellence spiritually because I don't need to be unequally yoked...believers mixed with unbelievers is a recipe for disaster. 

I need a man who is striving for excellence financially because I don't need a financial burden. 

I need someone who is sensitive enough to understand what I go through as a woman, but strong enough to keep me grounded. 

I need someone who has integrity in dealing with relationships. Lies and game playing are not my idea of a strong man. 

I need a man who is family-oriented. One who can be the leader, priest and provider to the lives entrusted to him by God. 

I need someone whom I can respect. In order to be submissive, I must respect him. 

I cannot be submissive to a man who isn't taking care of his business. 

I have no problem being submissive...he just has to be worthy. 

And by the way, I am not looking for him...He will find me. He will recognize himself in me. He may not be able to explain the connection, but he will always be drawn to me. God made woman to be a helpmate for man. I can't help a man if he can't help himself." 

When she finished her spill, she looked at him. 

He sat there with a puzzled look on his face.

He said, "You are asking a lot." 

She replied, "I'm worth a lot." 

True Love

It was a busy morning, about 8:30am, when an elderly gentleman in his 80's arrived to have stitches removed from his thumb. He said he was in a hurry, as he had an appointment at 9:00am. I took his vital signs and had him take a seat, knowing it would be over an hour before someone would to able to see him. I saw him looking at his watch and decided since I was not busy with another patient, I would evaluate his wound. On examining it I saw it was well healed, so I talked to one of the doctors and got the needed supplies to remove his sutures and redress his wound. While taking care of his wound, I asked him if he had another doctor's appointment this morning, as he was in such a hurry. The gentleman told me no, that he needed to go to the nursing home to eat breakfast with his wife. I inquired as to her health. He told me that she had been there for a while because she is a victim of Alzheimer's disease. As we talked, I asked if she would be upset if he was a bit late. He replied that she no longer knew who he was, that she had not recognized him for five years now. I was surprised and asked him, 'And you still go every morning, even though she doesn't know who you are?' He smiled as he patted my hand and said, 'She doesn't know me but I still know who she is.' I had to hold back tears as he left. I had goose bumps on my arm and thought, 'That is the kind of love I want in my life." True love is neither physical nor romantic. True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be. Remember that the small deeds that we do in life really matter.

The Pirate

It was Christmas Eve and James was home from college. He had just finished helping his mother clear the supper table and was talking about his plans for the coming summer after he graduated.

His fourteen-year-old sister entered the kitchen. "Are you guys ready? Dad wants to read the story."

Mom smiled, "Okay give us another minute or two."

James couldn't remember how old he was the first time that he had heard his Dad read the story. The story had been written by his great-grandfather and the reading of it was part of the family's annual Christmas Eve.

This year just as they did every year James, his sister, and his parents would gather in the living room. Dad sat with the small leather bound book in one hand and the pocket watch in the other just as he did every year. James sat there looking at his Dad as he opened the watch. "Still works after all these years."

Mom entered the living room and placed a tray of cookies and hot cocoa on the coffee table. His sister picked up a cookie and said, "Okay, we're all ready Dad."

Dad opened the book and looked at the hand written words that had been put there many years before and began to read.



The year was 1931 and work was hard to come by. I was twenty years old and counted myself fortunate to have found work in the small factory where I met the Pirate. That is what he called himself and he looked and acted the part. He wore a black patch that covered his right eye. There were about thirty of us who worked there and we were all subjected to the Pirate's meanness six days a week. The Pirate had a name for everyone. The names were all derogatory and based on what the Pirate saw as a defect.

There was one man who had been born with one leg shorter than the other. The Pirate called him Limp. Another whom he called Four Eyes. One he simply called Ugly. The Pirate never used anyone's real name. Part of working at the factory was being nick named by the Pirate within the first week or two of employment.

The name that he gave me was Worm. It had started out as Book Worm when he saw me reading in the warehouse during my half hour lunch. It wasn't long before he shortened it to Worm.I had discovered Kierkegaard quite by accident while browsing in a used book store. After reading his Works of Love I wanted to read everything that he had written.

The Pirate taunted me on a daily basis, often making derogatory remarks about what I was reading. These remarks were usually based on a twisting of the words in the title. Sickness Unto Death became Sickness in the Head. His comments wore at me.

One day he came up to me as I was moving some boxes and said," You are one very sick in the head person you garbage Worm. Go crawl in the dirt." He walked away laughing. It was his Pirate laugh. It was usually heard after a comment that the Pirate found extra amusing.

We tolerated this stuff from the Pirate because we needed work. When the Pirate was out of hearing range there was plenty that was said about him. The few who did tell him off directly were fired on the spot. The Pirate called it 'walking the plank'.

On one occasion a worker named Fred, who the Pirate called Screwball, was out for two days. When he returned the Pirate asked him where he had been. When Fred told him that he had been out because his brother had died, the Pirate looked at him and bellowed, "Your brother, not you so you should have been here!"

Fred said nothing. I was standing nearby and said, "Come on Pirate, lighten up."

The Pirate glared at me. "Shut your trap Worm or you walk the plank. Don't mouth off to me. Didn't your mamma teach you to respect your elders? Maybe you didn't have a mamma. Maybe someone just cut a worm in half and you are one part."

I was quiet. I needed work.

I continued my readings of Kierkegaard. I had been fed up with institutionalized religion and its hypocrisy. Kierkegarrd resonated with me. He wrote of the power of love and how being a Christian was more than adopting the label or attending a church. Through his writings he became my teacher.

There was a dilemma about this because my feelings for the Pirate were anything but love. In fact there were times when I hated the Pirate. There were times when I wanted to pummel him. I controlled myself but this hatred was growing inside me and it contradicted what I had been learning from my teacher.

I had been working at the factory for about eight months. One day after several gruesome encounters with the Pirate I sat in my small room weeping. I had had enough. I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to do something. I had searched for work elsewhere with no luck. If I left it would likely mean living on the street. I had no one. Both of my parents had died years before and I had been fending for myself for the last four years.

In my despair I sought solace in the New Testament. I opened it at random and as my eyes fell upon the page I read the words that were to guide me on my course of action. It was Matthew 5:44, "But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you."

The following day during lunch I sat in the warehouse reading Kierkegaard's, Either / Or. The Pirate passed by and bellowed, "What are you reading Worm?"

When I showed him the title he laughed. "Either or what? Either you respect the Pirate or you walk the plank." He walked off laughing to himself.

I wondered what could turn a person into a man like the Pirate and returned to my reading. Once again words jumped out at me, "Perhaps he sighs at the thought that he is loved by nobody and does not reflect that he is loved by God." That night when I prayed, I prayed for the Pirate. The idea of what I was to do germinated in my sleep. I woke in the middle of the night and there it was in my head.

Four weeks later on Christmas Eve the factory shut down an hour early. The factory owner, who I had never seen before, showed up and passed a turkey out to every worker. After he had left, most of the workers sat around two tables drinking punch that was heavily spiked with rum. The Pirate was far off from everyone else counting stacked boxes. I decided that it was a good opportunity to do what I had planned.

I walked towards where he was and he stopped and turned to look at me. "What is it? Don't worms like punch?"

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small box. It was wrapped in plain brown paper. I handed it to him. "Merry Christmas Pirate."

He took it in his hand stood there silent for a moment as if puzzled. "What's this?" He said it loudly. Loud enough so that the men sitting drinking punch quieted their conversations and looked towards us.

I spoke softly. "Its a gift."

The Pirate got louder. "A gift? What is this? Some kind of joke? It won't be funny when you walk the plank!"

I turned to walk away and he shouted at me. "Halt Worm." I turned back to look at him. He tore off the paper and looked at the box. "Some kind of joke Worm?"

I said nothing.

He opened the box slowly and took out the pocket watch. It had cost me more than a week's pay and I wondered if he would fling it or toss it on the floor and step on it but he didn't. Instead he raised his voice. "What is this? A broken watch?"

I continued to speak softly. "No, open it."

The Pirate pressed at the pin on top of the watch and it sprung open. His eye drifted towards the inscription that I had the jeweler inscribe, "The Pirate 12/24/31 God Loves You".

I turned and started to walk away.

The Pirate began to let loose a stream of profanities that ended with, "What are you crazy?"

I was about eight feet away and turned to face him. "No, I'm a Christian."

We both stood silent for a moment. Then I noticed it. It started as a tiny tear dripping from his left eye. It quickly grew into a stream. I stepped towards him and reached out my hand to shake his but he was dazed and just stood there.

I stepped closer and he murmured, "I'm sorry." I reached out and hugged him.

At first he just stood there, limp as his tears flowed onto my shoulder. Then he lifted his arms and wrapped them around me and cried like a baby. I held him as he whispered through his tears. "I'm really sorry."

I held him tighter and whispered. "It's okay. God loves you."

When I stepped back he stood there silent, then turned and walked away.

On the next work day the Pirate was somewhat quiet. He remained that way throughout the week. Mid way through the following week he stared to yell at Fred. "Hey Screwball..."

Fred cut him short. "Hey Pirate what time is it?"

The Pirate reached in his pocket, pulled out the watch, told Fred the time, and walked away. Fred's method was used from time to time by others who would ask the Pirate what time it was just as he was launching into a tirade.

As the weeks passed the Pirate became gentler. Once when a worker returned after being out for a day the Pirate asked where he had been. When he said he had been throwing up and had been really sick the Pirate said, "Okay, I hope you feel better."

It was a Sunday in early March of 1932, I was walking through the park when I noticed the Pirate sitting on a bench. He was breaking off pieces from a loaf of bread and feeding them to the pigeons.

He had not noticed me.

He sat there talking to the pigeons. "It's okay there's plenty more, share."

When he did notice me a look of embarrassment came over his face as if he had been caught picking his nose. I sat down next to him. "It's okay, Pirate. Saint Francis talked to birds too."

He continued to feed the birds as he spoke. "I'm far from a saint. I don't even go to church." He handed me a chunk of bread.

"Pirate you are in church. God's house does not have walls. Going to a church does not make a person a Christian anymore than sitting in a tree makes a person a bird. Kierkegaard said that man in all his cunning knew that the only way to try to destroy Christianity was to declare, we are all Christians."

I started to bite into the bread when he stopped me with, "Not for you, for the birds."

I joked with him. "You know they might eat me. Birds eat worms."

He giggled. "You know Worm, you think a lot."

I returned to the park the same time the following Sunday. There he was sitting on the same bench feeding the pigeons. It was on this day that he told me how he had become the Pirate.

His mother had died when he was 10. His father who had a taste for liquor and a mean streak had taken to drinking heavier after his mother had died.

The Pirate had a sister who was 4 years older than him. When she was 15 she received a severe beating from their father. She left home and took to selling her body on the street.

The Pirate loved animals. When he was 14 years old he found a stray puppy on the street and fed it half of his sandwich. It was a few days before Christmas. The puppy followed him home and he pleaded with his father to let him keep the puppy. His father reluctantly agreed.

On Christmas Eve his father drank himself into a stupor. When the puppy wet on the floor his father got up and kicked at it repeatedly. The Pirate tried to get between his father and the puppy. His father picked up a whiskey bottle and smashed it across the Pirate's face. That was how he lost his right eye.

When he left the hospital he was put in a children's home. He ran away after two days. The factory owner found him sleeping in the back doorway of the factory and took the Pirate under his wing. That had been 26 years before and the Pirate had worked there since then.

I continued to meet the Pirate in the park every Sunday for the next six months. We talked. We became friends. In September 1932 I left for the west coast. There was promise of work in Oregon as part of president Roosevelt's Work Projects Administration.

During our last Sunday in the park the Pirate handed me a what looked to be a book wrapped in plain brown paper. I looked at the package and was about to open it when he said, "Save it for the train ride."

I thanked him.

As we shook hands he put his other hand on my shoulder. "You know Worm, I don't really know who I am anymore." There were tears in his eye.

I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "I think you'll figure it out."

While on the train the next day I removed the wrapping from the gift that he had given me. It was a leather bound copy of Kierkegaard's "The Concept of Dread". There was a handwritten inscription inside the front cover. It read : Thank You, from the Pirate?

About six months later I received a post card from him. It said, "I'm not much of a writer. Hope all is well."

I wrote him once but we lost touch with each other.

I returned to the east coast during the holiday season of 1942. By that time I was married with one child. My wife's mother lived back east and she had wanted to see her grandchild.

The day before Christmas I decided to pay a surprise visit to the old factory to see the Pirate. When I arrived I was greeted by Fred. When I asked where the Pirate was he said, "Jim passed away three months ago. He spent most of his free time with his kids until he took ill a few months before he died."

I asked if Jim had gotten married and Fred said, "No, but he called them his kids. They were the kids at the children's home; Jim's children's home. Jim had some money you know. He lived pretty frugal and worked many years. He had a home built just for those kids. Imagine that, the Pirate a philanthropist. You should stop by and see it, nice place, not far from here."

I did go to the home. It was a large house standing where I remembered an empty lot had been. The sign outside read: Jim Muldoon's Home for Children.

I stood there for a few minutes marveling. It was the nicest building in the area.

I must have been noticed. A man opened the front door and walked down the steps towards me. "Can I help you?"

I told him that I had been a friend of Jim's and he invited me in and showed me to the living room. I noticed a large portrait of the Pirate hanging on the wall. The man introduced himself as the manager of the home and began to talk about Jim and all he had done for the kids that he called his children.

As we spoke a boy, who looked to be about 14 years old, entered the room. He had a a long scar that stretched across the left side of his face. The manager introduced me as a friend of Jim's.

The boy stepped forward and shook my hand." Mr.Jim, he saved my life. A good man, best person I ever met."

The manager told me that Jim was survived by a sister, who helped out at the home at times. "She lives two blocks down, number 42, first floor."

I went to see the Pirate's sister. She asked who I was before opening the door. When I said, "Jim's friend", she asked which one. I stated my name and she opened the door.

"Come in, come in. Jim told me about you."

We sat at the kitchen table drinking tea as she talked proudly of her brother. Mid way through a sentence she stopped and said, "Wait."

She got up and walked into another room returning a minute later with the pocket watch in her hand. "Jim would have wanted you to have this. He used to say that he had been frozen in time until you gave him this watch."

She placed it in my hand and I opened it and looked at the inscription. She told me how Jim had helped her turn her own life around. "He wanted nothing in return. Towards the end when he got sick he even made his own burial arrangements, picked out his own headstone. A finer brother no one could ask for."

She told me what cemetery Jim had been buried in and gave directions to his gravesite. I planned to visit it sometime before I went back out west but as I stepped out into the brisk air, I felt a compulsion to visit it right then.

Perhaps because it was Christmas Eve and the anniversary of that day eleven years before when I had given him the watch that I now held in my pocket.

I took a bus to where the cemetery was. As I walked the three blocks from the bus stop to the cemetery it began to snow. There was about a half hour left before dark when I arrived at the cemetery. The wind had picked up and snow was sticking to the headstones.

I wondered if I would find his name. I did manage to find it and knelt beside it to pray as the snow continued to fall. The lower part of his headstone was covered with snow. I brushed the snow off with my glove. The epitaph was a quote from Kierkegaard:
"I am as it were, an agent in the service of the Highest." 

Tears streamed down my cheeks and mixed with snow as I felt about the grace bestowing power of Love.



Dad closed the book. There were a few moments of silence as there were every year after Dad read the Christmas Eve story.

Dad looked at James, "Next year you can read the story." He placed the small book in the palm of his hand, put the watch on top, and held it out to James. "It's yours now. Pass it on." 

Author : Brian Joseph 

Brian Joseph is the author of the mystical novel,"The Gift of Gabe". More of his short stories can be found at http://www.giftofgabe.com