I find the best Christmas stories to be those which only use the season as a backdrop. Instead they capture the essence of this time of giving, sharing, sacrifice, commitment, love and peace as something that attaches to no date on the calendar. Here’s another heartwarming seasonal story that addresses the other side experienced by many at Christmas – the anxiety and stress of having so much to do to prepare for the feast and with so little time to do it – true for many of us, not only at Christmas, but throughout the year.
The story was authored by Carol Amen and is titled One Step at a Time:
I SAT AT THE sewing machine staring at that pile of work.
The cut-out pieces of three bathrobes, a jumper and a blouse waited for me to transform them into gifts. I would never get them done by Christmas with everything else I had to do. Christmas was only eight days off now – only four of them school days in which to work secretly on these projects while the children were off at school.
I stared out the window which supplied a scant, gray winter’s light to my sewing area, then back at the pile of work, trying to decide which garment to start on.
Actually, I felt like chucking the whole thing. I had wanted to sew in order to give my family exactly what they needed without spending too much money.
It seemed ironic to be making these things for those I loved and hating every minute of it. What was the matter with me? I had been sitting there 15 minutes without sewing a stitch.
I looked away from the sewing machine and peered out into the cold deserted street. Not even the usual hardy preschoolers were anywhere to be seen. And then, to my left, like a slow human snail, appeared Mr. Andrews bundled under coat, muffler and hat, and preceded by his cane.
Mr. Andrews was as new to the neighborhood as were the rest of us – residents of about three months. He had told my son (size 14 bathrobe) that a stroke two years ago had left him helpless and confined to his bed for a long period of time. In recent months he had relearned how to walk. “Just like a baby does,” he had told my son. He had to practice every day or he’d regress. We met him often and always waved, but he could only nod slightly. It took every bit of concentration he could muster just to command his legs and arms to coordinate his slow trek to the end of the street and back.
Now, curiously drawn by his jerky tap-tap, I watched him, letting the robe pieces fall neglected onto my lap. His progress was slow. Each step carried him about six inches forward.
How far it must seem to him to achieve his goal to just reach the end of the street, turn and then shuffle slowly back to his home, I thought. Then I gasped as I saw an obstacle. Because it was garbage collection day, neighbors had set their cans out by the street. But at the house directly across from us, they blocked the whole sidewalk. In order to get by, Mr. Andrews would have to step off the curb or balance himself on the slight incline of the driveway.
I watched him pause and study his problem. Half rising from my chair, I decided to run downstairs and outside to help him, but he had already started his detour alone. I stayed at the window hypnotized. Slowing from his already short, careful steps, Mr. Andrews began a series of even smaller inching’s down the slope of the driveway. Once he tottered and almost fell, but instead of wasting breath calling out, he precariously steadied himself and proceeded minutely forward. One foot and then the other – not always strong and sure but always determined, he moved on past the cans. Ever so slowly he edged back up the slope and onto the flat and then ever so slowly and patiently on and on down the sidewalk.
I examined the pile of unattached bathrobe parts through a hot flush of shame. If I had not been stymied into inactivity by the overwhelmingness of my task, I could have had the first set of pockets completed already. It embarrassed me to draw the comparison out fully. Here I sat with all my faculties intact except one – the will to begin, to take the first step. And there was Mr. Andrews.
He seemed to be speaking to me across the distance that separated us. You can’t get anywhere if you don’t start, floated one message on that cold winter day, and another was You can only go anywhere one step at a time. I realized that my sewing machine, the same as Mr. Andrew’s faltering legs, contained no magic. Work was required.
By the time his cane tap-tapped back in the other direction, I had the fronts and back attached with neat seams. I worked steadily the rest of the day and had size 14 finished and hidden away just as the school bus arrived.
I enjoyed the days that remained before Christmas. With a stack of carols on the record player, I hummed while stitching, and completed one gift each day. At exactly three o’clock on the Friday school was out, I wrapped the last outfit, my daughter’s jumper and blouse, and placed it under the tree. If I had wasted five minutes anywhere along the line, I’d never have finished in time.
For many of us, sadly, the spirit of Christmas is ‘hurry’. And yet, eventually, the hour comes when the rushing ends and the race against the calendar mercifully comes to a close. It is only now perhaps that we truly recognize the spirit of Christmas. It is not a matter of days or weeks, but of centuries-over twenty-one of them now since that holy night in Bethlehem. Regarded in this manner, the pre-Christmas rush may do us greater service than we realize. With all its temporal confusion, it may just help us to see that by contrast, Christmas itself is eternal. – Burton Hills
Have an AWE-full Weekend!
William “Bill” Bacque