The Color of Christmas Parables

“Then the Grinch thought of something

he hadn't before!

What if Christmas, he thought,

doesn't come from a store.

What if Christmas perhaps

means a little bit more!” 

(Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!)

The Man in the Mirror

A Christmas Parable by Bill

His worn cap has slipped down over his eyes again so that when he looks up all the world seems dim – dim and colorless. That’s him alright, the dim and colorless man. He pushes his hat back with a shaky hand and glares out at the quickly fading daylight. He’d have to find a corner somewhere and make a nest before the thugs come out. Oh yeah, he knows about street thugs. Those bullies in the street community who prey upon the weak, the ones who’d take your shoes and your last few coins in exchange for a knife in the ribs.

He skitters into a nearby alley way, his bony, stick frame casting a long wiry shadow on the rough asphalt. He is the dregs – dressed in rags and smelling worse than the ally gutter. He ghosts silently past darkened windows until his reflection in a passing pane of glass catches him for a moment. Who is he – this worn out old man? He hadn’t started life like this  – oh no. Not so many years ago… well, now that he thinks back, it was probably twenty years… anyway, a ways ago, in a different lifetime he’d been married, had a little house, a good job, a baby girl.

And then he loses his job, can’t pay his bills, becomes depressed – and starts drinking – and loses his wife – and baby girl. No, she doesn’t leave him – that’d be too easy. They’re killed, wife and baby, in a car accident on their way to bail him out of the drunk tank one Friday night; killed by another drunk. What is left of him after that is staring back from the darkened windowpane – a lonely shell of a man who has long ago given up on himself and the world. A fake human being he thinks to himself.

He turns his back on the glass with a snort of derision and nearly stumbles over a man blocking his way. With a knee-jerk reaction of fear he backs up with surprising speed, almost tripping over his own feet. But the man does not seem hostile – probably not a thug – in fact he’s dressed in a Santa suit of all things. So our man, he stops, and in the hazy light of the back alley he takes stock of the fellow. It was all there for sure – beard, red coat and white trim, big black boots… well, he’s seen stranger things than Santa Claus in an alley so he lowers his eyes, looks away and makes to go around and continue his hunt for a place to bed down.

Except, as he goes by Santa, or whoever he is, reaches out and grabs his arm – not with aggression, but firmly. So our man, we’ll call him John, though it’s a name that he’s almost forgotten – been so long since anybody’s called him by name  – John, he gives his arm a shake, glares at Santa, reaches out to push him off. But Santa is persistent and pulls John down the alley like he wants to show him something. A voice in the back of John’s booze-eroded mind tells him he should resist, run, be alarmed, but Santa is insistent and for no reason he can fathom, John acquiesces and follows along, Santa leading him by the sleeve of his thread-bare coat like a lost puppy on a leash.

They haven’t gone more than a block when the fog rolls in real thick. That happens sometimes, but tonight this seems to come out of nowhere.  The world fades back and John and Santa are walking alone in swirling mists. John finally musters enough gumption to confront his silent guide – who are you? What do you want? Where you tak’n me? But Santa, like Dickens’ Christmas ghosts keeps his tongue still and simply points. The mists curl back to reveal a young woman, a girl really, sitting curled up with her back against a dumpster, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees. Wearing skin-tight revealing clothing she is crying, weeping the hopeless tears of one who is trapped in misery.

Now, this isn’t Christmas past or some miserable Christmas future – it is just right now. John’s seen the girl before –14 years old maybe; a prostitute. She’s been beaten. Again. Damn! John thinks to himself – I hate this place. A thought flashes in his mind: this could be my girl – if I hadn’t killed her. But it’s not his problem. He’s his own problem and he doesn’t want anything to do with this girl or her angry pimp. But the real problem is he hasn’t had enough to drink and feelings are threatening to erupt. He wants to run away, but Santa stands firm behind him and points to the girl. A little piece of crust breaks off John’s heart and falls to the ground as he takes a step toward her. He shakes his head at himself – who is he to help anybody? He’s not wearing much of a coat, but he takes it off and wraps it around her. She sniffs, wipes her nose on the sleeve and looks at, or maybe through, the smelly old man who is kneeling beside her.

He pulls her up. He wants to skitter away, find a nest and bed down in his own misery, but he doesn’t. Come on – he says, we’ve got to get you warm. She is so lost that she doesn’t resist. For a moment John glances back to see what Santa is up to, but the man has melted back into the fog so John leads the girl down the alley, just as he had been lead moments before.

The soup kitchen is around the corner. They know John there – he’s a regular. They’ve seen the young woman on the streets. No questions are asked, no judgment made. John takes her to a table and comes back with a steaming bowl of soup, a biscuit and coffee. But she is shaking so hard that she can barely get the spoon to her mouth. John takes her hand, helps her, just for a moment, and in the stillness, in the eternity of this moment John the beggar is made human again. His heart cracks wide open, the encrusted wreak of decades of self-loathing falling aside as tears cascade down his dirty weathered cheeks. Who am I? he repeats to himself as he looks at the frightened girl – who am I to help you?

She looks at him, some color returning to her face, her hands managing the spoon on their own and the raw look of need in her eyes answers his question. You, her eyes say, are the only hope I’ve got. John’s newly exposed heart beats tentatively, afraid to break, uncertain of the landscape that love is drawing him into. Wait here, he says, I’ll be right back. I’ve got to talk to someone. The girl is absorbed in her soup and coffee and barely acknowledges his words.

Outside John returns to the alley. He peers into the gloom, searching for Santa, and again the fog slowly seeps in to absorb the night. As he moves into the mist he is startled to see his Santa walking along beside him. John wants to know what is going on… why did you take me to her… but Santa puts his finger to his lips – ssshhhh he motions. And again guides John down the alley, back to the window pane where they had met. Santa points to the reflection and an unwilling John wrestles his gaze to the dim mirror. He could not be more shocked at what the reflection holds, not John the beggar, John the broken man filled with cheap wine and guilt, but rather John the man he could have been, or perhaps should have been, or perhaps is – strong, kind, wise, clean, sober. For a moment he is resentful to be tortured so by what is lost to him.

He is too tired though to maintain such resentment. His thoughts wrestle within and he thinks, maybe the man in the window -  maybe this is really who I am? He turns to ask Santa – is that me, underneath this rotten life, is that man still there? The last piece of rotten crust falls from John’s heart and a palpable glow fills his being with light. At the event horizon of contrition he surrenders himself… and forgives – forgives the man in the mirror, the threads of life that brought him to this alley, the past, the present, and the unknown future. Time flows and he gently comes back to the moment.

Santa is gone; he has faded away, drawn back into the fog from which he came. Silence erupts – absolute stillness – like gentle falling snow, like the soft morning glow of pre-dawn light. Silence that is so pure you weep for peace and joy. In the distance a church bell rings and the voices of carolers sing out into the night – silent night, holy night…

John blinks tears out of his eyes and in that moment the life pours in and the stillness is gone. He is standing alone in the grey light of the darkened alley, staring at an old weathered man reflected in a pane of glass. He wipes a fingerless glove across his face, smiles and turns down the alley toward the soup kitchen. Somehow the thread of time has unraveled itself and many hours have passed; 12:01 AM, Christmas morning, and John the miracle has work to do. Merry Christmas!

I leave the last word to inventor, author, and American founding father, Benjamin Franklin:

“How many observe Christ's birthday!

How few, His precepts!”

The color of Christmas parables...

walking the talk.

The hardest

candies

have

the softest

centers

Be

true to

Love

Breathe

Play

Laugh

To Ponder Further:

- From the Bible: "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." (Isaiah 9.6)

- From modern culture: “My idea of Christmas, whether old-fashioned or modern, is very simple: loving others. Come to think of it, why do we have to wait for Christmas to do that?” (Bob Hope)

- From Hinduism: "Whenever the Law declines and the purpose of life is forgotten, I manifest myself on earth. I am born in every age to protect the good, to destroy evil, and to reestablish the Law." (Bhagavad Gita 4.7-8)