Billy Coffey

storyteller

The last Christmas present

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

There was one last gift under the tree when we took the decorations down. I remember my wife and I looking at one another when we saw it. It was a small look followed by an even smaller one and punctuated by a shake of my head. We ended up putting it aside away from the children’s eyes. It now sits beneath the small table in front of our living room window. I suppose that’s where it’ll stay, at least for now.

It’s a box of chocolates. His favorite, from what I understand. The maroon wrapping paper is neatly folded over it. On the front is a tag. Written on it in the somewhat shaky hand of a child just getting her printing muscles sharpened is his name and the names of my two children.

The chocolates were supposed to have been delivered the last day of school before Christmas vacation. The man was a teacher’s aide, and a good one. He helped my wife during a few classes a day. She said he was a hard worker and good with the students. He helped in my daughter’s class as well, most recently on a science experiment that focused on constructing something that would keep an egg from breaking when dropped ten feet.

It snowed the night before that last day of school though, giving my kids an early Christmas present in the form of a snow day. I remember the kids were upset about that. My wife calmed them by saying they’d be able to give him his present the day they went back. It would be like stretching Christmas out and into the new year. They liked that idea.

Looking back, I wish it hadn’t snowed that day. I wish my kids would have gone to school. They would have gotten to give him his present. It may have been a nice goodbye.

Word came a few days after Christmas that he had quit to find a better job elsewhere. It was sad, but understandable. It’s tough making it these days. No one’s going to blame you for trying to find a better life.

Then, a few days later, came the news reports. First the television, then the paper.

He’d been arrested for allegedly molesting a child.

The school was quick to inform us the incident happened at the man’s home and seemed to be isolated. Neither of those facts offered much comfort. It seemed as though every time I walked into the living room, the first thing I’d see was that present.

It wasn’t a hard decision to keep the news from our children. They were still under the impression that he’d quit, and that was an impression we would leave in place. Unfortunately, other parents thought differently. On the first day back to school, one of my daughter’s classmates told her the man was in jail. Thankfully, she didn’t say why. That omission didn’t matter much to my daughter. Knowing someone you like very much is in jail is enough to break your heart. Why that person is there is irrelevant.

The Christian thing would be to pile the family in the truck and deliver it to his home. The news said he’s out on bail now and awaiting trial. I would imagine he would appreciate even a small gift of chocolates right about now. Whether he’s guilty or not, I’m sure he’s lonely.

That’s what Jesus would do.

Jesus might drive on over to that man’s house, give him a hug, and say I love you, but I can’t. I’m not Jesus. I’m just a dad who can’t stop thinking his family bought a Christmas present for someone who may be a child molester.

My mind keeps returning to the science experiment he and my daughter worked on. The one with the egg. Her team ended up using a concoction of toilet paper, cardboard, and marshmallows to catch the egg when it dropped. They won first place. Theirs was the only entry that kept the egg from breaking.

I wonder if he thought about that. I wonder if he realized eggs are like kids. Easily broken. That’s why you have to protect them. Why you have to love them and cherish them and do your best to keep the world away from them. Because the innocence they possess is the purest thing there is, and because they don’t have to be like you to enter the kingdom of heaven, you have to be like them.

I suppose he didn’t think of that. I wish he would have.

So I ask you, dear reader: What would you do with my box of chocolates?

Johnny’s fear

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

Let me tell you about Johnny.

I met him when I was eight. It was during Bible school, those dreaded five days during the summer when you’re trying to fight the sensation that you’re back in school because you’re afraid God will be mad at you if you feel that way.

He was sitting under the big oak tree by himself, which was where the wayward softball Brent Stinnett hit landed. I was playing centerfield, so I was the one who retrieved it. I asked Johnny to toss it to me. He wouldn’t, so I got it myself. Then I asked if he wanted to play.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

Johnny lowered his head and kicked at a root jutting up from the ground, then shrugged.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s fun.”

“No,” he said again.

So I left him there under the oak.

I found him in the same spot the next day for the same reason (that Brent Stinnett could really pound a softball). This time, Johnny was first:

“I don’t want to play,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” I told him.

“Well, just in case you were gonna, I don’t want to.”

I suppose the Christian thing would have been for me to befriend Johnny right then and there, or at least do a bit of gentle prodding to see what was really bothering him. But I was your average eight-year-old boy, which often means doing the Christian thing is not nearly as important as playing a game of softball.

Besides, by then the chattering had gone around the Bible school playground that Johnny wouldn’t play because he was afraid. Of what, no one was certain.

By day three, I’d learned that when Brent Stinnett came up to the plate, I should back up. So I did, right next to Johnny under his tree.

“Are you really scared like all the kids say?” I asked him.

Silence. Which to me even then meant yes.

“You ain’t gotta be scared. It’s just a game.”

“I ain’t scared,” he said. Then, as if remembering he was in Bible school and thus that God was watching, he added, “Much. I ain’t scared much.”

“What are you scared of?”

“Lots of things,” he said. “Falling down. Striking out. Getting hurt. Hitting somebody. Getting my clothes dirty. Getting stung by a bee. I’m allergic to bees, you know.”

I didn’t know, but at that moment Brent Stinnett flew out to left field and the inning was over. I jogged back toward the field and shouted at Johnny over my shoulder, “You’re just thinkin’ too much.”

Johnny never did play softball that year. Or any other, as a matter of fact. But he did keep coming to church, and it didn’t take me long to realize he was afraid of much more than playing softball. Much, much more.

Like telephones, radios, the dark, spinach, horses, thunder, and butterflies. The list was endless. Johnny was a walking neurosis. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.

But he has.

I ran into him at the post office the other day, along with his two children and Mary, his wife. Nice family. Johnny has a big job at a bank now. He’s happy and content. And, finally and completely, unafraid.

There was no psychotherapy involved in Johnny’s transformation. No pills or prescriptions. To hear Johnny say it, there was just his faith and his family. That was all he needed.

Maybe that’s all everyone needs. Because the truth is that we all harbor our own fears, those shadows that crawl and slink deep inside and get in the way of seeing the beauty of things. I’m not afraid of softball or telephones or spinach, but I am afraid. I’m afraid a lot. And there are times when I want more than anything else the opposite of that fear.

For the longest time, I thought that opposite was courage. Makes sense, doesn’t it? But Johnny’s taught me different.

He’s taught me that the opposite of fear isn’t courage, the opposite of fear is Love.

The Masks We Wear

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I saw my first anti-swine-flu-surgical-mask-wearing person yesterday. At Wal-Mart, of course. Standing in the express line with a shopping cart full of Lysol, Tylenol, latex gloves, bottled water, and, strangely enough, picture frames.

Her posture was stiff and alert, which made it easier for her to keep a vigilant watch over the no-fly zone she had mentally cordoned off around herself. Anyone or anything germy that approached was shot down with a laser-like stare.

I’d heard that the top three bestselling items at amazon.com the past week were three different brands of surgical masks. Drug and department stores couldn’t keep them in stock. And a lot of other people felt the plain old masks from the local Rite-Aid wouldn’t do. They needed extra protection. So now even the Lowe’s next door was running short on the thick industrial masks that were guaranteed to keep everything out. Including oxygen.

I assumed that she would make it safely through the checkout line and back home, where she would undoubtedly proceed to fill sandbags, listen to her ham radio, and clean the shotgun she would use to fight off the flu zombies. I couldn’t be sure, though. I didn’t stick around. Instead of making an attempt at conversation, I swung wide right and went the other way. Which was probably for the best. Even if she wanted to talk to me, she probably wouldn’t have. And how well can you understand people talking through those masks, anyway?

I wasn’t making light of both her and the whole swine flu thing (now called H1N1, by the way. It sounds more clinical). I knew this was serious, that people had died, and that paranoia was spreading faster than the virus itself. Yet it seemed as though every day brought a new Something that beckoned us to shudder and bite our fingernails in dread. There was only so much life-altering news I could take in a short amount of time, and I’d gotten a little callous in the process. If the Chinese invaded tomorrow, I’d probably just yawn and go back to bed.

Sure, I was concerned. How could I not be? It was all over the news, and the Vice President had all but dared us to go outside our homes. I just hadn’t progressed to the mask-wearing point.

My mind ambled back to one of my earlier thoughts: how well can you understand people who are talking through those things? I’d seen actors on television talk just fine while wearing them, but that’s as close as I’d gotten.

Not having anything better to do, I decided to ask the pharmacist. Yes, he said, you can talk through them. And yes, you can be understood.

He said this with the supreme air of confidence that you tend to get from a Wal-Mart employee. But I still didn’t buy it. A mask might let words through, but it hides the important things. I can say I’m happy, but the smile that accompanies those words is proof. And I can tell you I’m upset, but you wouldn’t be sure unless you saw me frown. Most of our communication goes beyond vocabulary. If you want to truly understand people, you have to do more than listen to them. You have to look, too.

“We can’t keep ‘em,” the pharmacist told me. “Everyone’s afraid.”

I could understand. Because we all put a mask on when we’re afraid. We all drew an imaginary circle around our hearts and dared anyone to come too close.

We all tried to keep the world from us, never pausing to consider that by doing so we also kept us from the world.

It seemed to me that we all had a choice to make. We could let the fear take us, or we could let God lead us. We could shut ourselves off from the world, or we could open ourselves to it.

We could put on a mask, or we could put on our faith.

“Would you like one?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I answered. “I’ll take my chances for now.”

“Germs spread by contact,” he warned.

“So do blessings,” I said. Then I smiled, and walked on.