The Christmas Letter
a Christmas short story
Megan Payne
SUNLIGHT BOOKS
Copyright 2011 Megan Payne.
Smashwords Edition.
Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Used with permission.
This digital edition published by Sunlight Books for the glory of God. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, except in fair use, by any means without written consent. All rights reserved.
For more stories, please visit www.sunlightbooks.org.
The Christmas Letter
"And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor...and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing."
Kelsey Hall decided to do something different this year. She was tired of looking at the pinched, hungry faces and the shivering bodies of the poor and the homeless and knowing that the little bit that she could give them would not last much longer than her "charitable" impulse. Charity. It was actually reading the so-called love chapter that changed her way of thinking entirely.
Charity, they said. Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give to the poor. Wonderful deeds, they were. Pure religion and undefiled, it was. But according to the third verse of that love chapter in Corinthians, it wasn't charity.
And so with nary a word to anyone on what she was about and with all the fire and determination and vehemence that usually only the young can muster, Kelsey took herself down to the park in the middle of winter, staked out a bench, and wrote in her prettiest handwriting on her finest piece of stationery.
She wrote with passion, putting all the intensity she could feel into every word. She wrote, then read over her work, then bowed her head. A very long moment later, she carefully folded the letter and gently tucked into its waiting envelope. Then she turned around and left it on the bench.
~
Roy Billings had once had a good life: good corporate job, good home, good wife, good kids; he had it all. Now, he was just another homeless old man in a ratty, threadbare grey coat too large for him, pushing a shopping cart with his latest gifts from the church to his favorite park bench. He had a new blanket for tonight, a little thin, but warmer than the old newspapers he usually used.
He was just getting ready to sit down when he saw the white square leaning against the back of the bench. Roy had never found somebody else's leftovers here before, and he felt a small tremor of trepidation that the person who lost it would either return or that he would have to find it and give it to them.
But, of course, he wouldn't, he admonished himself. He was just being silly. Nevertheless, he looked both ways before he sat down on the bench beside it and tapped his bare fingertip against the torn knee of his jeans. His glove had sprung a hole last week. It gave him something other than the envelope to look at it.
For a moment, the distraction seemed to work, but then, Roy had always been curious, and finally, with a sigh, he gave in, plucked the envelope from the bench, and opened it. It was a letter. Written to him.
Beloved Stranger,
I do not know who you are, though I may have seen you from time to time as I walked through my world and you walked through yours. I may be somebody you recognize, or then I may only ever meet you through this letter.
But I want you to know something, dear stranger. I love you. I love you with all that is in me. I love you because you are a child of my Father God and you are precious and dear to my brother, Jesus. I love you and am praying for you as you hold this letter, that you know how much you mean to all three of us. Know that I am praying for you, that you are blessed and provided for and, most of all, loved this Christmas. Know that I am loving you and thinking of you today and every day.
You too are my family. You are precious to me. You are the reason Jesus came to earth and gave us Christmas and the cross and the resurrection. You are the reason a loving Father was willing to sacrifice His Son. You are the reason.
God bless you.
The letter was not signed. There was no indication of who might have written it or left it here for him to find, like a treasure in the snow. But that made it no less precious.
Roy clutched the letter to him, rocking back and forth as a feeling he had not had for years blossomed in his chest. He did not even reach up to wipe away the trickle of tears.
~
Melody Jensen was having a really bad day. Her car broke down on the way to work; her father called to say he wouldn't be flying in for Christmas after all; her brother needed to borrow money for Christmas presents because his work had skipped his Christmas bonus this year and tips were stingy; she had a terrible head cold; and on top of all that, she had promised Cynthia Ratzinger that she would show up to help at the soup kitchen on Christmas Eve.
But Melody's spirit of cheer was a formidable thing, as her brother liked to tease her. She had not worked three customer service jobs over the last ten years for nothing. She had not been filling up on her Scriptures every morning for nothing. She waited out in the car (borrowed from a friend) for almost fifteen minutes praying and loving God and praising with every ounce of her will before she walked inside the church, put on her apron, and took her place in the line. Here, they called her the Christmas carol girl, and she lived up to the name today, swaying to her own softly sung renditions of her favorite songs to Christ.
It would take every bit of Christmas spirit to see her through to tonight.
She had served perhaps a dozen people before an elderly gentleman with soft, gray hair moved up to the front of the line and smiled at her. His eyes were a little red, as if he had been crying, but his smile was pure sunshine, and she could hardly help but smile back.
"Merry Christmas," she told the man as she handed him the bowl of soup.
His smile brightened further. "God bless you, miss," he said, bobbing his head up and down happily.