Chirstmas story

STORIES: ( IMAGINARY)

Most fairy tales begin, “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away.” Well, this wasn’t once upon a time, it wasn’t in a land far, far away, and it wasn’t no fairy tale.
It was nine years ago, in a blue house in rural Atlantic Canada. And, unfortunately, for me, it was very much true.
Before I moved east, I had such high hopes of what life was going to be like after I graduated university with business degree. A better job. More money. So many things I could do for my son, Michael.
When I dreamt I didn’t see castles in the clouds. Instead I saw a boy on horseback (a vacation at a dude ranch!), tantalizingly tender turkey piled high on a plate (money for entertaining!), and bows dancing, coaxing singing from sighing clouds (symphony season tickets!).
So I worked hard and finished my degree in three years, not four. I had great grades and thought I would have no trouble getting a job.
Well … it didn’t work out that way.
In my case, disappointment followed disappointment. After a few months, my bank balance was about as healthy as a hydrangea bush accidentally watered with hydrochloric acid. Any green that was there had been burnt – ashes blowing in a brisk breeze.
Humiliation became complete in a gray office populated by gray frowning faces. Frost was on the ground outside; it felt a full ten degrees colder inside. A number was called and I was handed an application by the disapproving receptionist. Welfare was the only option if I wanted to feed my 10 year old son.
I didn’t only feel I was a failure, I knew I was one. About as successful as Donald Trump’s comb-over.
I felt even worse just over a year later when I was still without work. And it was Christmas. Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!
My dream that year was of Christmases past. Christmases with tall trees, festooned with flashing stars of white and bright coloured globes, shiny packages underneath. Family and friends abounding at the table laden with plate after plate of steaming fresh food. Laughter amidst the sounds of Christmas carols.
Christmas – as I had known it in the past.
Yes, I did have a few meager presents for Michael. I had gone without eating for three weeks so that I had the money to buy him something.
I had even taken the Christmas decorations out of their boxes and placed them carefully around the unheated living room. But one corner stood empty. And that emptiness seemed to represent my own failure and emptiness inside.
I didn’t have a Christmas tree.
Now you may be saying to yourself, Christmas trees don’t cost a lot of money. You can get a cheap one for only $10. But $10 meant four cartons of milk. And that was a fortune when you only had enough money in your food budget for one carton a month.
Seeing my own breath fog in the cold of our living room, I burst into tears.
“Mom, mom, what’s wrong?”
“All I wanted was a Christmas tree. Just a little one. I even prayed that someone would give us one. It would feel like Christmas if we only had a tree.”
“Mom, mom, it’s okay. Why don’t go lie down, have a nap. You’ll feel better when you wake.”
I lay down but I couldn’t sleep. I twisted and tossed, tossed and turned. And I cried some more. But then I heard strange sounds from the other room.
I thought about investigating, about seeing what Michael was up to. But I was too exhausted to get out of bed. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to pretend it was all a bad dream.
I must have slept because I woke up two hours later. I stretched and then stumbled to the kitchen searching for a glass of water.
I didn’t make it to the kitchen. Because I saw tiny lights twinkling in the corner of the now-dark living room.
Behind me Michael exclaimed, “Mom, you don’t have to cry anymore. We don’t have a Christmas tree - but look - we have a Christmas plant!”
I rubbed my eyes to clear them, and I saw that while I had slept, Michael had strung tiny white lights on the tall, green umbrella plant. And then he had placed Christmas ornaments on its outstretched stems.
That Christmas I learned that Christmas isn’t about Christmas trees and Christmas presents. It’s about love. I didn’t have money – or a Christmas tree - but I had a loving son who cared for me, who loved me.
Yes, Christmas is all about loving sons.
The love of my son reminded me that there’s another loving son. Like my son, he cares for me and he gives of himself for me. No, this other son didn’t give me a Christmas tree – or a Christmas plant - but he gives to me a far greater gift – the forgiveness that brings hope and joy – regardless of the circumstances.
My wish to you is that you’ll learn from my lesson. You won’t make the mistake I did and think that Christmas is all about Christmas trees. Instead you’ll remember my story that Christmas is all about the gift of the son.

THE GIFT:(Imaginary story)
I stepped out the door. The air’s crisper than the crease in Donald Trump's pants. The cold air can’t keep my spirits down - I’m bouncing up and down like a kid who has to use the bathroom. Except I’m excited, not desperate. I finally found the perfect present and I can’t wait to get home, wrap it, and ship it to my sister. The odds of finding a suitable present for Gail are as good as finding leftover dessert at a Baptist potluck. You could say Gail’s difficult to buy for. But that would be like saying my dog likes week-old garbage. It just doesn’t get across the depth of feeling.
You see, Gail’s got phobias. Lots of phobias. She’s scared of smells - and if you sniff hard, everything smells!
The DVD player we bought her a few years ago … well, she returned it because it smelled of perfume. It didn’t matter that it was made of metal, came from an electronics store — not a perfumery. In her mind, it smelled of perfume. And back it went.
Books smell of ink. Clothes smell like the dyes used to colour them. Sheets and towels have formaldehyde on them to make them perma-press.
But this year, I got something that I knew she would like - that wouldn’t have smells attacking her sensitivities. Gail always loved mom’s Royal Albert tea service. As a child, she always wanted to play with it – but of course she wasn’t allowed to touch it! I could tell she loved it. When we had company, the tea service came out and Gail would get this dreamy look on her face like a mental patient on prozak. She’d carefully caress the smooth porcelain with her just the tips of her fingers.
Mom’s tea service isn’t in service any more. The teacups went into a moving van long ago and never came out again and the overwrought teapot took its own life on a wooden floor twenty years ago. The pattern and pattern maker vanished long ago as well.
But today, yes, today, I found that forgotten pattern in a forgotten store in uptown Saint John. That bashful teaservice lerking in a dark corner of the timid shop, hiding itself from my wandering eye. I almost missed it. I approached like a hungry cat pouncing on the unsuspecting mouse. A Royal Albert tea pot. Two china tea cups and their saucers. No chips. No cracks. It isn’t perfect. It’s stained with dust. But that will wash—along with any odors.
If I wash it, dry it carefully, seal it in a plastic bag, she can’t complain of the smell. I know Gail’s love for Royal Albert will be stronger than her fear.
I can hardly wait. I long to hear the joy in her voice.

Three weeks later.

I mailed the package. I was notified by shipping company’s website it arrived two days ago. But Gail hasn’t phoned.
Did it get delivered to the wrong house? Is Gail sick? Why hasn’t she called?
Ring…..ring.
“Gail, um, I sent you a parcel. The website says it was delivered two days ago. Did you get it?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you open it?”
“No. I could tell it was smelly.”
“Gail, how could you tell it was smelly if you didn’t open it?”
“You know I’ve got allergies. My muscles started feeling sore when I looked at it.”
“Right. So you didn’t open it.”
“I put it outside to air out.”
“Well, why don’t you open it outside and throw away the smelly wrapping paper and then bring the present inside.”
“But the smell from the paper would be on the present!”
“Gail…just go get the present.”
“I can’t.”
“Gail, get it!”
“I can’t. Someone must have taken it from the front lawn. It’s not there now.”
Click.
My joy has been cruelly killed - murdered mercilessly long distance. Weariness wraps around me like a boa constricter.
She didn’t even open the present.

Now I wish I could say I made this story up. Actually it's half true. I didn’t buy Gail a tea service this year. The truth is that the DVD player we bought last year was stinky. It was returned. As were previous presents.
However, the story isn’t really about Gail. It’s about a gift. The gift that wasn’t opened.
It’s an allegory.
Perhaps we could say this story is about—food. Perhaps the wife takes my part in the story. I shopped, washed and wrapped the present. It took hours. kneading, prepping and cooking, the cook’s carefully shopped, washed and prepared her present. It’s taken hours and hours of toil, tenderness and attention.
The husband comes home, takes one look at the meal and says in his most romantic and tender way, “What’s that? My mother never made that! I’m not eating it!”
Hope and joy evaporate like drops of water on a red hot griddle. Hubby might as well take his wife’s hand and place it on that burning pan. Beause her heart just froze like pollywogs in December. It will thaw but the invisible scar will remain.
But this message isn’t just about Gail. And it isn't about food. It isn’t just for husbands. Or just the wives. It’s for all of us.
God has prepared a great feast for us, given us all gifts.
"Come and dine," the Master calleth, "come and dine! '
His largest and best gift is eternal life though his Son, Jesus Christ.
God’s also given peace and joy. He gives faith and healing. Tongues and knowledge to others. The ability to encourage. To sew. To paint. To laugh. To love.
And yet, we don’t open many of these gifts because we’re AFRAID. We don’t like the packaging. Or the paper they’re wrapped with.
“What’s that? I’ve never seen a Christmas present wrapped with turquoise wrapping paper before. The paper’s got to be green or red or it ain’t a Christmas present.”
I can only imagine God’s sorrow.
Today, open the gifts God has chosen just for you. And you’ll find: love, joy, peace, hope, endurance, faith and a whole lot more.
"Come and dine," the Master calleth, "come and dine!"

The Easter Lily( IMAGINARY STORY)

On December 19, 2003, I was missing my parents, who had gone on to be with Jesus.My Dad, , died on December 22, 1966. He was 40 years old and we buried him Christmas day, 1966. My mother, , died on January 7, 2001. She was 71.

I woke up that cold December morning and drove to the family cemetery where my parents are buried. I arrived there, and sat in my warm truck as I recalled precious memories of Daddy and Mama. After several minutes. I opened the door of my truck, got out, and slowly walked the short distance to my parents' graves. As I did, I pulled the collar of my jacket tightly around my neck. We had already had several days of freezing weather and it was cold and windy that morning. I approached my Daddy's grave, saw something, and stared with disbelief. There, growing beside the grave, was one Easter Lily...IN FULL BLOOM. As tears filled my eyes, the presence of the Lord was strong as He gently reminded me through this flower, that He still lives. And because He lives, my parents live also, and I will see them again one day.

With rejoicing in my heart, I picked the Easter Lily, carried it to my sister, and it blessed her, too. Consider the lilies, how much more does Jesus care for us.

Luke 24 verse 5 "And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead?"
Verse 6, " He is not here, but is risen: remember how he spake unto you when he was yet in Galilee,"

Lessons Learned From a Snake, a Cake, and an Apple( Imaginary story)

I don’t remember the argument. It’s the rage, frustration, and anger I remember. Forty-five years later, I still have no clue WHY I was so angry with my mother.

I do remember something, however. At three years old, revenge wasn’t in my vocabulary - but it was in my heart.

Outside on a sunny day a slithering line of brown ripples through lush green grass. I’ve found my perfect revenge. A garter snake! Even whispering the word, snake, Is enough to make my mother shiver and shriek.

Racing to the door; up goes the mail slot; in goes the snake.

I sit down and giggle. I wrap my arms around myself and giggle some more. I almost wet myself with delight I’m so eager for my mothers coming fright. In my imagination I see Mom walking, suddenly stopping, face turning white, mouth opening, a horrified howl.

I would like to say I heard a scream. I would like to say my revenge was satisfied.

I can’t.

Instead I waited for the scream. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Fast forward ten years. Once again I’m waiting - waiting for my sister’s fiancée to get out of the bathroom. He carefully brushes strands of hair forward to cover his bald spot. I watch him spray until his hair’s a solid mat of fastidious fibres studiously cemented to the crown of his head like a rooster’s comb.

Later, I have the pleasure of watching him water ski. Speedos several sizes too small - partially hidden by an overlapping stomach dancing to the drum-beat thump of skis hitting waves, varnished mat of hair flapping up and down in the breeze.

To say I like Don would be like saying a person with a sensitive nose likes the smell of wet burlap bags.

At dinner I notice Don shaking the pepper over his food. And I get an idea for payback. There, on the table, a single slice of birthday cake remains. I’ll play a nice little girl and give that slice to Don. But I can’t just give him plain vanilla cake. I have to spice it up.

I lift the icing - and add pepper. I even scoop out part of the cake and scoop in a teaspoon of pepper. Carefully I reassemble the cake. My brilliant alterations are barely noticeable.

Innocence exuding from my face, I’m an angel, bearing a gift in my hands. I offer the cake to Don. He lifts a fork to his lips.

I anticipate a cough, cake spewing across the table, Don’s eyes watering from the strength of the spice.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

In the years past I’ve often wondered if Don saw me doctoring his cake and decided to spoil my plan by showing absolutely no reaction at all. Or was he so used to pepper he never even noticed additional seasoning! Or, perhaps, like my mother, Don was wise enough to know that revenge, like pepper, is a disappointing dish. It’s best not served at all?

Let’s go back to when I was three years old, sitting on the front porch, waiting for Mom to scream. Mom heard the bronze mail flap shut - CRACK. Looking into the hall, she sees IT! Her first instinct is to scream. But my giggling gives me away. If she screams, I’ll learn to revel in revenge. If she berates me, well … all that will do is build a wall of anger between us.

Mom steps over the snake, opens the hall closet, gets her broom. Sweep, sweep, sweep - down the stairs and out the back door. One reptile out the door, the other giggling on the front porch.

Mom always said, “Things done in spite don’t turn out right.”

I heard it often enough. Too bad I didn’t ‘hear’ it - I never learned from the hearing so I had to learn from the hurting.

Let’s go back in time. I’m not three. I’m not 13. I’m 18 this time.

Saturday morning tasks - my mind isn’t on scouring the pans, wiping the sink, water pooling on the floor. Instead, I’m thinking of the dress I made my sister. Gail’s difficult to buy clothes for - no waist, no hips. You could say she’s not a woman of substance. Most things don’t look good on her. Then there are her allergies - only 100% cotton will do.

I knew the dress was going to look good on her before she even slipped it over her head. It did. It looked more than good. Gail was gorgeous!

I finish wiping the counters, grab the garbage, step down the stairs and out the back door. I lift the lid to the garbage can not concentrating on task at hand - that grey blue fabric sure did change Gail’s blah blue eyes to bright blue.

Grey blue fabric. Grey blue fabric!!??!! What’s it doing in the garbage can?

Drenched and dripping from my hands, the remains of Gail’s beautiful blue dress. Cut to pieces, soaked in salad dressing. My masterpiece! All my work; all my planning; all the hours away from TV and telephone working to make her beautiful.

Why did she do it? Revenge! It had to be. Just another instance of getting back at Mom through me.

My childish pranks - the snake, the cake - aren’t such fun anymore. Revenge is a lovely apple if you overlook the worms.

I’m not three or 13. And I’m certainly not thin anymore. I still wrestle with rage, frustration, and anger. However, revenge isn’t as tasty as it once was. Now I know the apple’s sweet but the worms silence your heart.

You never get revenge; it gets you.

Revenge, like a wormy apple, is best left on the ground.

IMGINARY STORY

 The day was almost over. As I cleaned the room in preparation for the next patient, I heard the intercom blare my name announcing a call waiting for me at the nurses’ station.

I maneuvered my way through the crowded hospital corridor and picked up the first free phone I could find. The grim tone of my brother’s voice caused my heart to leap into my throat.
“They found a large tumor on Mom’s liver.” This was not the first time we had heard the words “tumor” or “cancer.”
Six years earlier, she had fought a hard fight against colon cancer and won. However, we felt the winds of change after a kidney infection landed her in the emergency room earlier that month. Her doctor performed a blood test that indicated her cancer might have returned. The CAT scan confirmed our worst fears. The cancer had spread, or metastasized, to her liver.
“What are we going to do?” Alan’s voice broke through my stunned silence.
After asking a few more questions about my mother’s test results, all I could say was, “I’ll call you back.”
I left the desk and found my husband in another area of the emergency room where we both worked as nurses. I shared the news with him and other co-workers who were standing by. Concerned looks and pats on the shoulder were all they could offer in the way of a solution. My husband turned to me. “What about Rhonda?”
Spurred on by a glimmer of hope, I grabbed the phone. My hands shook as I dialed the number. The din of the emergency room grew faint as I waited for the familiar voice to answer.
“Hey, Rhon. It’s Pam. Can you talk for a minute?”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I launched into the story without taking a breath. “Mom has a tumor on her liver. Alan told me her doctor said he can’t operate because it is wrapped around a major blood vessel. What can I do? Who can I take her to?”
Then came the inevitable question, “What kind of insurance does she have?”
I took a deep breath “She doesn’t have any."
The silence that followed was shattered by my friend’s determined voice, “Pam, give me a minute and I will call you back.” The phone went dead.
As I waited, my heart began to sink. How would my mother get the care she needed? Mom had survived two major surgeries, six weeks of radiation, and eighteen months of chemotherapy. After she went into remission, my parents tried to obtain some sort of health coverage for her. All of these efforts were fruitless. Because of her history, no conventional insurance company would touch her. She was too young for Medicare, and when she tried applying for Medicaid, she was told she would have to divorce my father in order to qualify for benefits. After fifty years of marriage, this was not an option. Furthermore, even if we had the funds, where would she get a doctor? Few surgeons in the state would call themselves qualified to tackle such a case, and, if they did, it could take months to get an appointment. Our chances seemed bleak. It was an impossible situation.
Throughout the Bible, we find story after story of men and women surrounded by circumstances that had no viable solution. In the Old Testament, we read about a couple of senior citizens waiting for a promised child to be born. Let us not forget the runaway murderer commissioned by God to lead Israel out of centuries of slavery against the super power of his day. How about the Israeli leader who needed more hours of daylight in order to defeat the enemy? All of these were impossible situations.
In the New Testament, we can feel the anxiety of the disciples as five thousand hungry people waited for the meal Jesus announced that He would provide. Ponder this: Lazarus was dead. Mary and Martha were racked with grief when Jesus finally arrived three days later. “Where were you?” they cried. More impossible situations.
The list goes on and on, but with every insurmountable obstacle, God comes through. Abraham and Sarah have a healthy baby boy. Moses brings the children of Israel out of bondage after four hundred years of oppression while being chased by the entire Egyptian army. Joshua defeated the enemy when God made the sun stand still. Jesus not only fed five thousand men, but also all the women and children who were there with food to spare. Much to the delight of Mary and Martha, Jesus brought Lazarus back to life. When the world shakes its head and announces there is no way, God flexes His muscles on behalf of those whose hearts are loyal to Him, (2 Chronicles 16:9).
Replaying the events of that day, I feel humbled and honored at the evidence of God’s hand at work in Mom’s life. Little did I know that God would use an old friendship to bring about a new solution. When the call finally came, Rhonda’s voice rang full of confidence.
“Pam, the doctor I work for has agreed to see your Mom. He is one of the best trauma surgeons in Florida. And, because of where her tumor is located, we are going to enroll her in the teaching program so all her hospital costs will be covered. She won’t have to pay for a thing.”
Friend, are you facing an impossible situation? Perhaps a loved one has been touched by an unexpected illness like my mother, or your checkbook shows more withdrawals than deposits. If so, just remember what God asked Jeremiah in chapter 32, verse 27: “Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh; is there anything too difficult for me?” When we see obstacles, God sees opportunities. God is ready, willing, and able to do all that we need. Turn the burden over to Him, ignite your faith, and watch the hand of God turn your situation around.
“Heavenly Father, thank you for working all things for my good. Give me a loyal heart so that you can ‘show Yourself strong’ in my life. Bring to my mind how You have rescued me in the past. Increase my faith so I can see Your solution to my impossible situation. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

In the Bunker( Imaginary story)

Matt crouched low in the makeshift bunker that he had shared, for several hours now, with his buddy Harley. Both of them were Lance Corporals in the Marines, and had been in Iraq with their platoon for many weeks. There is a saying in the Marines: The Marines liberate and the Army occupies. This is what had recently occupied much of Matt’s time here—trying to keep the civilian population of Iraq’s villages and towns safe from the gunfire of rebels and insurgents. Lying in a bunker, for Matt and Harley, was a study in contradictions—there were long hours of boredom, punctuated occasionally by moments of heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping terror.
The young men passed the time in earnest conversation. They spoke of their families back home, and of the two pretty girls who waited anxiously for word of their safety. They shared how their common faith was sustaining them through these stressful months. They plotted practical jokes against their comrades, and practiced comical imitations of the pronounced southern accent of their sergeant. They complained about the heat and the lack of personal hygiene. Matt noted to Harley that he’d worn one pair of socks so long that they were crunchy, and that by his own reckoning, it had been 54 days since his last shower.
“Yeah…I noticed,” said Harley, wincing.
“Dude…you’re no bed of petunias yourself,” retorted Matt.
Ordinarily, this exchange would have led to a round of mock combat, but this day was eerily hot and still—too hot almost for conversation, let alone anything requiring exertion. The canteen at Matt’s shoulder, filled this morning with tepid water, had baked so long in the desert sun that it was now the temperature of a cup of morning coffee.
Despite the relative relaxation of the conversation, Matt’s and Harley’s Marine instincts were finely tuned. In one instant, a slight noise or movement in the distance captured their attention, and they looked out to see, about 100 yards away, a lone Iraqi soldier with weapon in hand, making his way toward them through the desert.
“I don’t think he sees us,” whispered Matt. The next several seconds were spent urgently planning a course of action. They had each others’ backs, they vowed, and if they were spotted they would rush from the bunker together, and either subdue their enemy or die trying.
Even as this decision was made, they looked out again to assess the Iraqi’s progress. To their astonishment, between him and them there now was blowing a swirling wind, kicking up clouds of yellow sand and obscuring visibility in all directions. Matt and Harley had no idea if the soldier was now upon them, or if he’d wandered off in another direction. They waited…and prayed.
Several minutes later, the sandstorm quieted. Matt peered out into the desert. The Iraqi soldier had disappeared. With gratitude, Matt thought for a moment of the words written on the outside of his helmet: Jehovah-Jirah—God provides!




IMAGINARY STORY
“I remember back to when we still lived in Saskatchewan. Your Aunt Hazel was only 15 but even then she loved to cause trouble. I remember the time ....” Aunt Hazel - could they tell stories about the disreputable Aunt Hazel. Whenever they talked of Hazel, mom would shake her head, her forehead lined with disapproval.
Aunt Hazel wasn’t the only member of our family with a propensity for naughtiness. If I had been born 50 years before, Uncle Henry would have been telling stories about me. But I wasn’t, so it was up to my father to fill the role.
Getting a story out of my father was harder than finding a dry spot under a waterfall. Except for when it came to telling this story about me. “When you were little, we were building this house. One weekend, I got up early in the morning, had my breakfast and then headed out to where I had left my tools. When they weren’t there, I figured a certain little monkey had taken them.”
He would peer at me over the top of his bifocals and continue, “I never would have guessed you had buried them - right there, out in the back yard, under the fir trees.”
But that’s not the only story that could have provided listening entertainment for the family circle. Uncle Henry could have said of another one of my exploits, “Spur of the moment - you never did think ahead, Jean.”
It was seeing that garter snake that put the awful idea in my head. At three, I wasn’t scared of snakes. But at 42, my mother was petrified of them. So when I saw that snake I saw the means to get back at my mother for some imagined wrong. Giggling with glee, I picked up that snake, and carried it to our front door. Holding the snake in the one hand, I opened the mail slot with the other. Slowly I forced the snake through the opening and into our front hall. I hugged myself with delight, relishing my mother’s shriek of fear. Unfortunately I didn’t think about what would happen afterwards.
You would think I had learned my lesson by the time I hit my teen years. But at 14, I was just as bad as ever. My sister and I were vacationing in the Hawaiian Islands. Gail had visited the islands three years before and was passionate about infecting me with her appreciation for them.
“Oh, Jean, you’ll love the seven sacred pools.”
I turned towards her with a look that said exactly what I thought. You see I had met a cute teenage boy the day before. I wanted to spend this day with him.
But my sister insisted on sharing this special place with me. Disregarding the oppressive humidity and heat, Gail bundled me into the car. An hour into one 180 degree curve after another, the sight of that peaceful flock of sheep at the side of the road was just too much for me. I started shouting, “Baaaaaa, Baaaaa” every time my sister honked the horn, just before heading into another one-lane blind curve. After 4 corners, my sister turned to me and roared, “Shut up! You’re a bad girl.”
Did I listen to her? Yes - and no. Because I didn’t stop misbehaving - but I did catch on to that phrase. And instead of yelling, “Baaa,” for the next two hours I shouted, “I’m a baaaad girl, a baaaad girl.”
If Uncle Henry had heard this story, he would have stated, “You always were a bad girl...but I never thought you would have admitted it yourself.”
Now I realize that I’m giving you the impression that everything I did was bad. But that isn’t the case. I did do a lot of good things - for instance....
Now, just give me a few minutes - perhaps I can think of something....
That, ladies and gentlemen, is my point. We love to remember the bad things. We laugh at how Uncle John can’t hold down a job. Or how Susie is late for everything - even her own wedding.
Michael Michalko tells a true story about a company that commissioned a consulting firm to determine why one department was creative and another wasn’t. After a year of intensive study, the consultants discovered that the only difference was that the creative team saw themselves as creative - while the low performers believed they weren’t.
The moral of the story is that: what you believe about yourself - becomes reality. And our family stories are the soil from which these beliefs grow.
I was fortunate, because even though my actions were often less than sterling, the only naughty episode my mother and father reminded me of was burying my dad’s tools. All their other stories were of achievement and success. As a result, I grew up believing I was smart, artistic, and able to conquer the largest challenge. Aunt Hazel wasn’t quite as fortunate.
We all have stories that we tell in our family circles. I urge you to let your stories be positive. Grow your family’s character by dwelling on strengths, not weaknesses.
Who knows what would have happened to the disreputable Aunt Hazel if 50 years before some of our family stories had started, “Hazel, now she sure is one clever woman. I remember the time...”

'Twas the Night After Christmas(Just an imagination)

'Twas the night after Christmas and all through the trailer, the beer had gone flat and the pizza was staler. The tube socks hung empty, no candies or toys ....


The kids they weren't talking to me or my wife, the worst Christmas they said they had had in their lives. My wife couldn't argue and neither could I, so I watched TV and my wife, she just cried.

When out in the yard the dog started barkin', I stood up and looked and I saw Sheriff Larkin. He yelled, "Roy I am sworn to uphold the laws and I got a complaint here from a feller named Claus."

I said, "Claus, I don't know nobody named Claus, and you ain't taking me in without probable cause." Then the Sheriff he said, "The man was shot at last night." I said, "That might have been me, just what's he look like."

The Sheriff replied, "Well he's a jolly old feller, with a big beer gut belly, that shakes when he laughs like a bowl full of jelly. He sports a long beard, and a nose like a cherry." I said, "Sheriff that sounds like my wife's sister Sherri."

"It's no time for jokes Roy" the Sheriff he said. "The man I'm describing in dressed all in red. I'm here for the truth now, it's time to come clean. Tell me what you've done, tell me what you've seen."

Well I started to lie then I thought what the hell, it wouldn't have been the first time that I've spent New Years in jail. I said, "Sheriff it happened last night about ten, and I thought that my wife had been drinking again."

When she walked in from work she was as white as a ghost. I thought maybe she had seen one of them UFO's. But she said that a bunch of deer had just flown over her head, and stopped on the roof of our good neighbour Red.

Well I ran outside to look and the sight made me shudder, a freezer full of venison standing right on Red's gutter. Well my hands were a shakin' as I grabbed my gun, when outta Red's chimney this feller did run.

And slung on his back was this bag over flowin'. I thought he stolen Red's stuff while old Red was out bowling'. So I yelled, "Drop fat boy, hands in the air!" But he went about his business like he hadn't a care.

So I popped a warning shot over his head. Well he dropped that bag and he jumped in that sled. And as he flew off I heard him extort, "That's assault with intent Roy, I'll see ya in court."