THWACK! The bullet struck a rock just to the left of Pvt. Shepherd’s head. That was a close one he thought, wondering if the next would be right between his eyes. “One hell of a way to spend Christmas” he grumbled to himself while shivering from mingled fear and the bitter Afghani cold. When he got word of his deployment he figured he’d be sweating his ass off, not freezing to death. Afghanistan was like in the same area as Iraq and Iran, right? And they were hotter than Hell’s furnace. But noooo, here he sat in a stinking ditch wondering which would get him first — the frostbite or a Taliban bullet. “Note to self dumbass” he muttered “never ever ever volunteer for anything again.” He’d been off-duty, waiting as usual for a chance to get on the internet and maybe send an e-mail, or luckier yet IM with his girl Dani or the folks back in Missouri. Dani — damn how would she deal with it if he got himself killed. Crimsom hair, blue eyes that flashed like lasers when she smiled, and the voice of an angel. Yeah, she was the one alright. PA-TWANG! Another bullet hit the lip of the ditch, shaking him out of his daydream. Rat bastards, he thought. Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a basketball! Well, thats not exactly true. The RPG they fired sure tore hell out of his Humvee, killed the Sarge and Spec. Jones. If he hadn’t been up top with Ma Deuce, the .50 caliber machine gun, he’d be buzzard meat too. Luckily he got blown clear with just a couple dings from sharpnel to his leg. Damn! It was supposed to be an easy trip over to the supply dump. Oh well, he was the one stupid enough to volunteer to go along. ZING-BRRAAAP! Wow. Someone emptied half an AK-47 clip at him that time. Whats that sound? Laughter? What the hell? Now the Taliban sunsbitches were laughing at him. “American!” someone shouted from up top the ridge. “You, American! Come out so we can see youuuuu” one taunted. And again there was laughter. Huh? Sounded like a truck or something. Not an Army one though, he thought. Could he be that damn lucky? Were they leaving? Cautiously, after a good five minutes he poked his head up a little. KERWANG! Another shot rang out from above. But this one was far from close. “You! Infidel American” the voice shouted again ” today you wish you not come to my country, eh? Come out so I can see you. My comrades have gone.” Sure, Shepherd thought. Stick my head up so you can shoot at me again? In a pigs ass! “Army man. If I wanted to kill you it would already be so” the voice said again. “You are Christian, correct? I know of your religion. This is your holy day. Why do you come here to kill us?” What was this Taliclown talking about now, Shepherd wondered? “Christian! Hear me! Allah is great. But I think your man Jesus was a good prophet as well. Not as great as Mohammed, but good. I studied in America years ago. I have not the hatred in my heart for you my friends have.” Ok, now I get it. The Taliban version of psych warfare at work. “Oh yeah?” Shepherd shouted back ” and I suppose you’re the freakin’ Afghan Santa Claus right? Bite me, rag head!” Again, laughter. “Ho ho ho you are the funny one Army man. I tell you a story, yes? A few days ago a bunch of the Army men like yourself came to my village. My young daughter, she is not well you see. One of your soldiers gave her some candy, the first she has ever had. And made her a stick figure doll with rubberbands. Smiles are a rare resource in my land. So Christian I do this favor for you. Go now, return to your people. Spend a Christ Mass with your own family and be thankful I spare your life Army man. Do not think it will happen again.” In the distance a new sound fell upon Shepherds ears — rotors! A Blackhawk! About damn time the cavalry rode to the rescue! ” I must go now Army man. Your people are coming. What is it that you Americans say at this holy time? Merry Christ Mass?” Minutes later as the helicopter fluttered downward thru the smoke of the still-burning Humvee, a lone figure in blood-stained BDU’s was seen kneeling in the sand, praying and giving glory to God in the highest.
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As the rest of us sit down to our Christmas dinners and unwrap gifts from under the tree, thousands of our bravest and best are in harms way, protecting America. I hope that this short story will remind you of the sacrifices they’ve made and continue to make. Please join me in prayer for their safety and that some Christmas soon will find them all at home with their loved ones.
RR
December 1975, and 9-year old my spirit was as low as the Missouri thermometer. But the simplest of gifts warmed not only the heart of myself but my family for decades to come. Following divorce, my mother had recently moved to Texas so this was to be our first Christmas apart since my birth. One of my favorite holiday activities was shopping with my mom to find the perfect Christmas gift for my maternal grandparents, but of course this year it was not to be. My dad and I had a difficult relationship even at that early age, so though he had legal custody I spent as many weekends, school breaks, and other days with my grandparents as possible. It was the thought of not having a gift for my beloved grandma that hurt me most of all. One weekend shortly before Christmas my grandpa finally coaxed out of me the reason for my somber mood during this season of joy. “You know son” he said “we can go buy something for your grandma, but I have a better idea. Lets go out to the garage.” Out into the cold we went where behind the garage lay a pile of scrap lumber, including a pine stump about a foot long — the leftover trimmed from this years Christmas tree. “I think your grandma sure could use a good candleholder, don’t you son? Bring that little log into the garage.” Out of the tool chest came a family heirloom in its own right — my great-grandfathers antique hand-cranked drill. So, while grandpa gently guided my hands and applied the needed pressure I cranked away until two fine-looking holes were made. ”Grandpa thats great” I exclaimed “but I wanna make it even better!” In a flash I was off like St. Nick, sneaking past grandma to the toybox for some red and green crayons. “Just what are you two up to out there son” she asked. “Oh, uhhm, nothing grandma” I replied with a mirthful glint in my eye. Back to the garage, where another thirty minutes of careful work on each end of the pine produced satisfactory hues of evergreen and crimson. The three wisemen from the Orient could not have felt more pride as I marched my gift into the house and presented it to grandma. “Oh my!” she softly exclaimed as her tears flowed and my face beamed like the star of Bethlehem. Years later I came to realize those tears of joy were not only for the treasured gift, but for the rekindled Christmas spirit in her grandson.
For the next 38 years that old pine log, covered in crayon, with two discount-store candles stuck in it, was always the centerpiece of my grandparents holiday decorations. Invariably, any guest who paid the least notice of it were told the story of its creation in reverent tones. We lost grandpa in January 2004 but still the gift lived on. In the summer of 2008 it was time for grandma to enter a nursing home for good. One of the personal posessions she absolutly insisted on taking was, you guessed it, that old pine stump. Now a whole new audience of nursing staff and residents were regaled with its legend. Grandma passed away this June, so this is my first Christmas without either of them in my life. However, as I write this, sitting on my kitchen table sits the centerpiece of my own home decorations this year — an aged candleholder made for next-to-nothing yet more valuable to my family than all the worlds gold. So this Christmas as you rush from store to store then home to wrap those gifts remember that sometimes the old cliche’ is true — that with some gifts it really is the the thought that counts.
The countdown to Christmas was on, but Mother was slightly troubled. Some of her children just didn’t seem to be in the holiday spirit. Perhaps they were worried about buying presents and how they could possibly afford them. Maybe, just maybe, one or two was blue because of the way Mother had been treated in the last few years. Oh sure, the children still sang their songs. The decorations adorned as usual. The tv was still full of commercials and programs meant to tug at both the heartstrings and purse-strings. But somehow, things just didn’t seem like Christmas yet. It seemed to Mother that things were easier in earlier times — before the scars and pain of betrayal by those she held so dear. Oh well, maybe someday they would all appreciate her gifts. But as for now, what could she possibly do to rekindle the low smoldering ember of holiday spirit. “Ah, I’ve got it” Mother said to no one in particular. And with that exclaimation she blew gently into the breeze and waved her hand as if saluting a long-forgotten friend. And as she did, a cleansing white snow began to fall across the land. ”Merry Christmas, my children. I love you” Mother Nature said as she bowed her head, turned, and disappeared into the swirling opaque whiteness.
