Billy Coffey

storyteller

Jangle, jangle

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

My wife sent me to the store forty-five minutes ago. Since it takes only five minutes or so to get there from the house and another five to pick up a gallon of milk, pay for it, and leave, I figure I should have been home about a half an hour ago. But I’m not.

In fact, I haven’t even made it into the store yet. I’ve been stuck near the entrance watching a Salvation Army volunteer.

The boy is maybe ten, and he’s taking his job seriously. A wool cap sits on his head, ski gloves on his hands. His coat is the puffy kind that looks like its made for sub-Arctic temperatures. He needs them all today. It’s cold out here, and the wind is biting.

This is the time of year when the Salvation Army is out in full force. They’re a gracious lot, volunteering their valuable time to help the helpless. They stand out in the cold and ring their bells and say Merry Christmas when you offer a little something to the nearby kettle. Other than that, though, most won’t say much. They have the bell, and the bell is good enough.

Not so for this boy.

His bell is a clarion, a call to say a message is forthcoming and it is something you’d better heed if you know what’s good for you:

JANGLEJANGLE—“Give to the poor folk. They need Jesus, and so do you.”

The “Jesus” comes out more like “Jayzus.” I can see the boy’s breath in the cold December air. It stops mere inches from his mouth and then fades, but the sound carries. It carries far.

Every shopper who approaches the doors must get through him first. He lets no one off the hook.

JANGLEJANGLE—“Give some money, mister. Think of what all you have and the needy folk who have nothing.”

Standing along the wall about ten feet from the boy is an older man. He, too, wears a wool cap and ski gloves and a heavy coat. He’s sipping coffee and watching. The smile on his face tells me who he is.

I ease my way up to him and say, “That’s your boy, ain’t it?”

He nods while sipping and smiles again. “Sure is,” he says.

JANGLEJANGLE—“God wants you to help the poor people, ma’am.”

The ma’am does. She puts five dollars into the kettle and gets a “Merry Christmas!” in return.

“Seems to be doing a pretty good job,” I tell the father.

“That ain’t no lie, buddy,” he says. He nods toward his son. “He told me last night he wanted to come watch, but that didn’t last long. He said I was doin’ it wrong. I told him he could give it a try if he thought he could do better. That was about an hour ago.”

It’s my turn to smile. “You should be proud.”

Another sip, then, “I sure am. He told me he didn’t understand why there had to be poor people. Said it broke his heart. But then he said that maybe there were poor people because not enough people have done something to help. Lots of people blame God for stuff that’s our own fault.”

JANGLEJANGLE—“Hey mister, don’t you wanna help the poor?”

I suppose some could say the boy’s methods are all wrong. Rather than appeal to whatever inward sense of charity people have, he prods them—and maybe even guilts them—into giving.

But honestly? I’m good with that. Jesus once said that the poor will always be with us, and that’s the sort of thing that can make it easy for us to pass them over. “Let someone else help,” we say. “I have too many problems of my own.” So I don’t mind his prodding and guilting. It forces people to do something about the state of the world. Sometimes it’s good to feel shame.

Me, I’m with the boy. I don’t understand why there has to be poor people, either. It upsets me right along with him. The heart is broken upon the sight of that which contradicts what we know God desires.

But maybe instead of blaming Him, we should all do something about it.

I wish the father a good day and make my way inside. On the way, I drop my own contribution into the kettle. Not enough, I know that. But a start.

“God loves you, mister,” the boy says.

Yes. And God loves him, too.

This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Rejoice hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. To read more posts on the topic of Rejoicing, please visit his blog, PeterPollock.com

Your mama lied to you

image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com
I was nineteen when I realized my mother had lied to me. It was a difficult thing to accept.

She’d lied to me before, but those were small lies—stuff like Santa and the Easter bunny. Things that seemed pretty darn big at the time but not later on, after the sting of their truth had been replaced by the knowing that I would still be getting presents and candy every year. Those are the sorts of falsehoods most parents tell their children, and I think that’s okay. You don’t get sent to hell for lies like that.

You don’t get sent to hell for lies like the one my mother told me, either. Still, that one stung more than when I found out her and Dad were really Santa and the Easter bunny. Maybe it was my age. People tend to hold on to things tighter as they grow older.

As far as I can remember, the lie started when I got a telescope for my eighth birthday. I’d sit outside for hours every night pointing it at every star and planet I could see. I saw seas on the Moon and rings around Saturn, the spooky redness of Mars and the calming whites of Venus. I was enraptured. To know that there were other worlds aside from my own? That what I saw was only a grain of sand upon the shores of All There Is? Amazing.

I looked at the night sky and saw wonder and mystery and possibility, and I knew my calling in life.

So I told Mom I was going to be an astronaut one day. And she looked at me and smiled and said, “You can be anything you want to be.”

That’s when the lie started.

I believed her. When you’re eight years old, you believe your parents hold the keys to the gates of wisdom. They know everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing, and in many cases everything you’re going to do. So if she said, “You can be anything you want to be,” that meant I was going to be an astronaut. No doubt about it.

I’ve told you where her lie began. Now I’ll tell you where it ended.

It was a year after I’d graduated from high school, and I’d drifted into a job at a local gas station. I was filling up Betsy Blackwell’s car (nice lady, Betsy, though every time I’d wash her windshield she’d turn the wipers on and nearly take off my hand), and up to the pump in front of me pulls a nice SUV. Government tags, with a NASA sticker on the back window.

That’s when I knew.

I was never going to be an astronaut. I’d never have the privilege of riding around in a nice Chevrolet Tahoe with a NASA sticker on the back window, much less seeing the stars up close. I wasn’t smart enough or talented enough. I didn’t catch the breaks. No sir, the only sky Billy Coffey would ever be under was the sky out on Pump 1 at the gas station. And he couldn’t even really enjoy that one because he was too busy trying to make sure Betsy Blackwell didn’t take off his hand with her dang windshield wipers.

I kept all of that to myself until two weeks ago. My family had joined my parents for pizza. One thing led to another and then another, and I mentioned that day at the gas station.

Mom smiled and said, “I figured if I said you could do anything, you’d end up being something.”

Ah. I understood then.

Odds are your mama lied to you, too. She said you could grow up to become a scientist or a baseball player or a musician or President. And in the spirit of transparency, I’ll admit plenty of fathers say the same thing. I know I do.

My daughter wants to be a writer/teacher/archaeologist/scientist/doctor. I tell her she’s aiming a bit too low.

My son’s aspirations are a bit more basic but no less high—he wants to work at Legoland. Yes! I tell him. Why not?

Because they might not be able to do anything, but they can certainly be something.

Thumpthumpthump…

image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Whatever’s making the sound outside our window is close. On the property, at least, and loud enough to wake me. It’s not quite a thud. More of a thump, I think. Yes, that’s it. A repeating thump.

Thumpthumpthump.

I raise my head. I’ve only been asleep for an hour, and raising my head is the best I can do. Maybe the sound was just the residue of a dream, a subconscious echo that followed me back into the land of awake.

Nope—thumpthumpthump.

The wind, then. The wind blows often here at the foot of the mountains, and in the winter it nearly blows continuously. It loosens what’s been fastened down and shakes what would normally be stable.

I lay my head back to my pillow and listen. No wind.

Thumpthumpthump.

So it has to be an animal. Here there are animals everywhere, many of which enjoy foraging around the neighborhood under the cloak of night. Everything from cats to bears to coyotes. They usually mind their own business and I mind mine. We get along peaceably.

But it’s winter. The bears are sleeping (much better than I am, I remind myself) and the coyotes are hunkered down in the mountains. And whatever is making the noise outside my window is not a cat.

Easy explanations out of the way, my mind begins to turn to the uneasy ones. Call it the It’s Dark Outside principle—anything that seems out of the norm becomes menacing. Phone calls at night are seldom harbingers of good news, so by extension noises are the same. It means something—someone, maybe—is out. Or in.

Thumpthumpthump.

Cats and bears and the wind have now given way to either a serial killer trying to get into the house or a sleepwalking little girl or boy trying to get out. But that’s ridiculous.

When I was a child, there were all sorts of noises in and around my house during the night. Things went bump and plink and even boom. And since I was too young to know anything at all about houses settling or furnaces working, I was sure those noises were the grumbling stomachs of monsters in search of a small boy’s tasty flesh. It was torturous.

I grew out of that, of course. Sleep came easier when I turned from young child to teenage boy. And when the teenage boy gave way to adult man, sleep became second nature. I worked too hard to be awakened at night by thumps. I wasn’t afraid of anything.

But now I’m a father. The tiredness of work is still there, but the fear has returned. And though my rational and somewhat adult mind knows there are no such things as monsters and ghosts, that same mind knows there are things worse than those. Much worse.

Thumpthumpthump.

It’s nothing, I’m sure. That’s the way it usually turns out. Fear is a magnifying glass that makes big things out of small things. Besides, I have faith. God is watching and the angels are standing guard. All will be well. And whatever it is, my family is sleeping through it. No reason I shouldn’t sleep through it, too.

But just in case, I get out of bed and look out the window. Nothing. And the doors are locked. I check them. Twice.

My kids are nestled. They’ve both managed to kick their blankets off, but I tucked them back in. I’m offered sighs for approval. Back in the bedroom, my wife is asleep and calm.

Mine is a peaceful house. That it happens to reside in a world that is far from serene doesn’t matter. It’s good to be vigilant, I think. Good to stand ready and fight back the badness that may lurk. But there must also come a time of letting go and letting God and his angels. I settle back into my pillow and tell myself this is one of those times. It’s ridiculous to be kept awake not by a noise, but what that noise might mean.

Thumpthumpthump.

I reach over for the remote and flip on the television. The sound is low—no need to wake anyone else. Wings is on. This is good. I used to watch that show all the time, and it was always good for a laugh. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll sit here and laugh and forget about what may lurk in the world’s shadows.

Besides, maybe I’ll sleep tomorrow night.

Please Take One

jiminy-cricketThe thing about the what we say is that there is more behind them than words. There’s inflection and emphasis, too. That explains why it can be so hard for people to communicate with each other. Most of our arguments, whether it’s between members of a family or members of nations, is because we simply disagree on what’s in front of us.

A case in point is what happened to me back in the spring at the local toy store when I was verbally accosted by a six-year-old boy. I still say I was right. If I could find him again (and if he still remembers), I’m sure he would still say he was right, too. Such is life, I suppose. We’re always arguing and never really making things better.

To read the story, hop on over to katdish’s site. And be careful what you say today. You never know who might accuse you of doing something wrong…

Blaming God

There are people who understand the point of sports and those who do not. I’m of the former. I do not judge the latter (different strokes for different folks, I say), but I will tell you what that point is.

It’s the human drama on display in every game. The sacrifice. The hopes and the doubts. Historic success and equally historic failure. That’s sports.

Last Sunday was a case in point. And an important one too, so if you happen to be someone who isn’t interested in football, I’ll ask that you just hang in there and hear me out.

It was the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Buffalo Bills. Overtime. As the Steelers are one of the best teams in the league and the Bills one of the worst, a win by Buffalo would take much of the sting out of a disappointing season. The Bills had the ball and a chance to win the game, and then this happened:

AP photo/David Duprey
AP photo/David Duprey

The dejected fellow who almost but didn’t end that game is Steve Johnson. Just a kid in the third season of his pro career who dreams what just about every red-blooded American male dreams—making a game-winning catch in front of the home crowd.

And he didn’t. He failed.

The story doesn’t end there, though. After the game, Steve Johnson decided to air his disappointment for all to see. He took to Twitter and called out God:

I PRAISE YOU 24/7!!!!!! AND THIS IS HOW YOU DO ME!!!!! YOU EXPECT ME TO LEARN FROM THIS??? HOW???!!! I’LL NEVER FORGET THIS!! EVER!!! Thx Tho…

I watched this story on the news Sunday night from my living room sofa. The kids were asleep, the Christmas tree was up, the house was quiet. There’s a peace to this time of year that can envelope you and dull the sharp edges around your life. As I sat there and saw that tweet (followed by four replays of his missed catch from three different camera angles), I was reminded of the sharp edges I carry in my own life.

No one should blame him for being mad at God. I think we’ve all shaken our fist at heaven at some point. I know I have repeatedly. I doubt I’d ever display that anger to anyone—much less on Twitter—but I understand. I know how he feels. I’ve said the same exact words to God.

And though I’d never presume to speak for God, I can tell Steve Johnson what He’s told me over the years.

I’ve said, I PRAISE YOU 24/7!!!!!!

And God said, “Wonderful!”

Wonderful? But I praise you AND THIS IS HOW YOU DO ME!!!!!

“Yes, sometimes. Hard times have to come to every person, whether they love Me or not. And sometimes it’s the ones who love Me who suffer more. That doesn’t seem fair or right, and that’s okay. I understand. You just have to trust Me. Trust is the most important thing. But sometimes those hard times are your own doing. You realize that, right? You’re free. Free to believe and think and do and try as you see best. So sometimes when that ball is dropped, it’s you who missed it and not Me who made you.”

But YOU EXPECT ME TO LEARN FROM THIS???

“Absolutely, and you will in time.”

HOW???!!!

“Time. Time is the big secret. You have to wait. That goes along with the trust. Patience and trust are the means by which I move you from one blessing to another.”

But I’LL NEVER FORGET THIS!! EVER!!!

“Wonderful! I hope you won’t. Often I’ll allow you to fail because I know that’s how you’ll learn best. Isn’t that how it’s always been in your life? It’s your failures that have led to your success?”

Thx Tho…

“You’re welcome. And it’s okay if that thanks is weak. I understand that, too. Just hang in there. Lean on Me. You’re stronger than you think and wiser than you know.”

That’s the way that sort of conversation has played out in my life, at least. And I’m sure it’s much the same as the ones you’ve had with God. Me, I’ll sing the praises of what Steve Johnson did. You always hear sports stars talk about God after the big game has been won. It’s nice to hear a little about Him when the big game has been lost.

Steve Johnson will get up and move on. There will be other big passes in other big games. He’ll catch some of those. He’ll miss some, too.

And that’s okay. It’s all about trust and patience.

We all drop the ball sometimes.

The heart of the tree

IMG_3575I’m a linear guy when it comes to decorating for Christmas. That means working from the outside in. Lights on the trees, garland on the porch banisters, wreathes on the windows, spotlights in the yard. When all that is done and right—and it always has to be right—we’ll move to the inside: nativities, candles, lights.

The tree comes last. Always has, too, even when I was a child. I think that’s as it should be. The manger is the soul of Christmas and the reason we celebrate our blessed assurance, but the tree is its heart. I firmly believe that. It is in most instances placed in the room in which we gather and spend our time together, whether living room or family room. We wrap them with lights that by some magic seem to cast a glow upon us that seems warmer than any sun and more comfortable than any blanket. We place stars or angels at the apex to remind us of what shone in that bright sky so many years ago as heralds of the Good News to all men.

But if the heart of Christmas is the tree, the heart of the tree is its ornaments.

It was only this year I realized that, and I have my children to thank for it. The tree had been set and straightened in its stand, the lights had been strung, and the star had been put up. Both kids were in the throes of the seasonal hyperactivity that seems to pour out of them once the Xs on the calendar creep toward December. But the constant torrent of that excitement began to ebb and flow once the box of ornaments was opened.

They quieted.

It was not the sort of silence that signifies boredom or joyless work. It was instead an almost holy stillness, the sort of which I would imagine accompanies some great discovery long buried by dirt and time.

They didn’t reach for the shiny baubles purchased on sale at Target, not even the Star Wars or Winnie the Pooh ornaments from the Hallmark store. What my kids reached for were the treasures wrapped in paper towels and tissues that had over the last eleven months slipped through the cracks to the bottom of the box. The ones that cost nothing but time and effort. The ones they made themselves.

Chances are you have the same sort of thing on your own trees. The house made out of a school milk carton. The reindeer made out of clothespins. A bell made out of a Styrofoam cup.

They sorted these ornaments into their own separate pile. Only after they were secure (and only after repeated pleas by both of them for me not to sit on them) did they reach for the fancier accessories. They tied bows and plugged in the mechanical ornaments. My daughter hung the colored bulbs by rainbow order. It was all lively and punctuated by jokes and cheer—the flow. But every few trips to the tree would be to hang one of their own ornaments onto the tree, ones made in kindergarten or pre-school or even last year. Those trips would be made in that awed silence–the ebb.

I didn’t ask my children why they acted such. I wasn’t sure if they knew, and I wasn’t about to spoil their unknowing. They’ll learn that soon enough.

In a few short years what my children see as the magic of Christmas will yield to a new understanding. They will know that Santa isn’t real, but that their memories are. They can see them each year as they hang them on the tree and all their outward talk turns to talk directed inward. They’ll remember where they were when they made them, whom they were with, what they were feeling. They will glimmer in the sun during the day and in the bright lights during the evening. They will look and they will remember.

Maybe that’s where all the warmth of a Christmas tree comes from. Not from the lights, but the thoughts.

That’s what I think now. Christmas is a time where memories are made tangible and we glimpse the thin line of life that connects our yesterdays and tomorrows, all wrapped up in milk cartons and pipe cleaners.

They’re fragile, like us.

Precious, like us.

This post is part of the 2010 Virtual Advent Tour. For more holiday stories, please visit them at the Virtual Advent Tour blog.

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