A warning, a wish and a story:This is a little warning for those of you who are always telling me my posts make you cry.
This one will.
Or, it is likely to, anyway.
So, if you are out of tissues, or driving (which if that is the case, please put your electronic device down, and pay attention to the road), or just plain not in the mood, you may want to skip this for now.
It is a great story, though. Worth telling.
And I feel compelled to tell it.
To remember.
To share.
My wish for you, dear readers, is that you all may know someone in your lives like my grandfather.
Thank you for reading, and joining me on the journey for almost another year. I hope you have gained a little joy here, a little hope, and a little inspiration.
The days ahead will be full of Christmas preparations, and visits from friends and to friends, and time spent with family, and as many Christmas movies as I possibly can watch. . . so I'm not sure how often I will get to post.
I hope you all have a wonderful holiday! May your days be merry and bright . . .
All through my growing-up years, my grandpa was the pastor of a small church in one of the worst cities in New Jersey.
Newark had a crime rate unequaled to any other city in our state.
And there it sat. The little church on the corner of Berkley and N. 9th Streets. A small light in a big, dark place.
Made of stone, and encompassed by a 16 ft. chain link fence with barbed wire on top, it looked so out of place among the run down apartments and houses that lined the streets around it.
The building was small, but immaculate.
The grounds were always kept clean and were tended to regularly.
My grandpa did most of the maintenance himself, but he always seemed to have help. The people who attended there were like that. Always ready to help. Always offering. And always willing to pitch in when asked for assistance.
From my child's eye view, grandpa was a good shepherd to his little flock.
It was a flock that included a wide cross section of folks, as you could well imagine, being in a big city like that.
Lots of rough people.
Drug addicts.
People with AIDS.
Mafiosos.
Punky, street-wise kids.
Dysfunctional families.
College students.
Doctors.
Single moms.
Single dads.
Rich people.
Poor people.
Sad people.
Dying people.
Me.
Everyone.
Grandpa, who worked a regular full-time job as well as being a pastor, was faithful to every one of them, and served them with love and kindness, and truth.
I lived with my grandparents for several years when I was a child, and knew it was not uncommon for the phone to ring at all hours of the night. Most times, I would sleep right through, but sometimes the briiinnnggg would wake me from slumber, and I would hear the low rumble of my grandfather's voice reassuring, comforting, praying. Many times, I would hear him get up, get dressed and walk down the hall, down the stairs and out the door.
On those nights, he was going to deathbeds, to grieving families, to domestic disputes, to the downtrodden and the detoxing.
The next day, you would find him up early, clean and fresh and off to work as a supervisor at PSE&G, the electric and gas company that made New Jersey run and hum.
He was
always available to the people who looked to him as their pastor.
He was
always there for the guys who worked for him.
And, he was
always available to
me.
He was larger than life.
And stories like the one I am about to tell are why (ah, you thought I was already telling the story, but I just laid a bit of background).
There was a man.
This man was what some would consider an
undesirable.
A derelict, often unwashed and unkempt, with rheumy eyes and a constant cough, Alec sat in the back pew most of the time.
He lived not to far from the church in a little, run down place. Close enough to walk.
He was at church almost every time the doors were opened.
He carried a worn leather Bible.
He was silent, mostly.
He would nod a greeting and take his seat.
A lot of the time, he would fall asleep while grandpa was preaching.
Grandpa would pick him up for church, and give him rides home.
He would spend time talking to him after church and at church functions.
Sad to say, I never gave Alec too much thought.
I was young, and, foolishly, didn't see beyond the end of my own nose very well.
One particular Christmas Eve, snow moved through the Northeast, and gave us a Currier and Ives style white Christmas.
Not white enough to cancel our Christmas Eve service at grandpa's church, however.
The attendance was sparse, but a faithful few braved the wintry weather and put holiday festivities on hold to gather together to worship the One whose birth meant so much.
Alec was there.
Wearing a threadbare windbreaker, with his collar up against the biting wind and stinging cold, he walked into church and, silent as ever, took a seat in the back pew.
The service was lovely.
Candles were glowing, carols rang out, testimonies of God's faithfulness were shared.
It wasn't a long service.
Just a little time, set aside to worship, to remember.
When it was over, everyone greeted each other warmly with holiday good will, and quickly dispersed to their own homes and families and festivities.
Grandpa was always the last man out of the church.
He would make sure everyone was soundly on their way, and lock up.
I opted to stay with him that evening so he would not have to ride home alone on Christmas Eve. I didn't mind. I loved riding with gramp. And no one should ride alone, especially on Christmas Eve.
Grandpa was talking to Alec, who stayed, following gramp while he closed everything up, and talking about this and that. The snow. He was lonely.
And gramp was listening, and conversing pleasantly. Asking questions. Stopping his activity to look at the man who was talking to him. Taking time to hear him.
I was waiting politely but eagerly. We had a big Italian dinner and gifts waiting at home!
"Well, Merry Christmas, pastor." Alec finally said, pulling his windbreaker up around his scruffy neck.
"Alec! Where is your scarf? It's cold out there!" Grandpa admonished.
"Well, I don't have one right now . . . "Alec sheepishly trailed off.
"You need a scarf, Alec." grandpa said matter-of-factly.
He had gotten a beautiful, wool, gray and black plaid scarf from someone as a gift, and he had it wrapped around his own neck, tucked into his overcoat. He unwrapped his present in one swift motion, and, without an ounce of hesitation, he swathed it around Alec's neck. A neck that probably had not been washed that day. Maybe even that week.
Gramp tucked it in to Alec's collar and said, "There. We need to get you a warmer coat."
Alec was stunned, and was beginning to protest, but broke off, his already red and runny eyes tearing up, and said, simply, "Thank you, pastor."
"Come on, Alec. I'll take you home."
Alec rode in the front seat, and he and grandpa chatted on the short drive to Alec's home. He was going to see some family the next day. He was fine for the night. No, he didn't need anything.
It was easy conversation.
I sat in the back of the car, a sadness welling up in me over Alec. Over how little I had cared. Or even noticed him. Over how much grandpa did.
It almost made going home to all the fine food and gifts seem . . . hollow.
As we let Alec off, he leaned in the car, beginning to take the scarf from his neck. Grandpa said, "No, Alec. It is for you. A gift."
The man's eyes lit up.
"Thank you. Thank you." was all he said.
I had never wished someone Merry Christmas with more sincerity than I did that night, calling it out to him as he made his way through the fresh snow to his door.
He turned and waved, and let himself in.
We drove off, and I found that I needed to wipe tears from my eyes with my gloved fingers.
I looked over at grandpa, who seemed not disturbed in the least that he had just given his warmest, nicest scarf away.
Giving Alec that scarf was as natural to him as breathing.
That's the kind of man he is.
He did it out of love and service and friendship.
He did it because a man needed a little warmth on a cold night.
He did it because he had been taught how to give by The Giver.
I believe I grew up a little bit that night. That I began to see a little bit beyond the end of my own nose.
From then on, whenever I saw Alec, I was sure to say hi, or to nod to him when he entered the church (which he preferred. He was shy, and probably self-conscious).
I wanted him to know that I saw him.
I wanted to be kind.
I wanted to be like my grandpa.
Grandpa, who had always been an example of how to be like Jesus.
The church did, by the way, buy Alec a coat that year.
Grandpa continued to serve him in friendship, an unlikely pair, until their time together on earth was up.
Alec is gone, now.
But I believe I will see him again, someday.
And I think he will be wearing a scarf.
