As a single woman
that lives alone, whose parents are gone now, and who never had children –
there is one particular Christmas story that especially touches my heart. This
past year as I flew hundreds of thousands of miles, literally getting on a
plane every few days, I often had the thought: “If this plane went down, it
would likely be days before anyone realized I was gone.” No one ever knew my
itinerary. And although I have great family and friends, no one in my life was
close enough to notice the many comings and goings of my life.
I know a number of my friends who sneak into their bathrooms
to have just a few moments of peace and quiet alone. But there are also many
singles who spend more hours, days, and weeks alone that we can possibly count.
I know many who, like me, are so grateful to be invited along to a family
dinner or outing – even when it’s complete insanity – because there is truly
something comforting in the chaos, something peaceful in the pandemonium.
What a blessing it is in my life that my sister and her kids
invite me for the holiday celebrations and special family events – something I
am more truly grateful for than they can possibly imagine. But there are also
so many who are not so fortunate as me at the holidays, and many more who long
for the association and companionship of inclusion throughout the year.
THE MAN WHO MISSED CHRISTMAS – by J. Edgar Park
It was Christmas Eve;
and, as usual, George Mason was the last to leave the office. He walked over to
a massive safe, spun the dials, swung the heavy door open. Making sure the door
would not close behind him, he stepped inside.
A square of white cardboard was taped just above the topmost
row of strongboxes. On the card a few words were written. George Mason stared
at those words, remembering…..
Exactly one year ago he had entered this self-same vault.
And then, behind his back, slowly, noiselessly, the ponderous door swung shut.
He was trapped—entombed in the sudden and terrifying dark.
He hurled himself at the unyielding door, his hoarse cry
sounding like an explosion. Through his mind flashed all the stories he had
heard of men found suffocated in time vaults. No clock controlled this
mechanism; the safe would remain locked until it was opened from the outside.
Tomorrow morning.
Then realization hit him. No one would come
tomorrow—tomorrow was Christmas.
Once more he flung himself at the door, shouting wildly,
until he sank on his knees exhausted. Silence came, high-pitched, singing
silence that seemed deafening. More than thirty-six hours would pass before
anyone came—thirty-six hours in a steel box three feet wide, eight feet long,
seven feet high. Would the oxygen last? Perspiring and breathing heavily, he
felt his way around the floor. Then, in the far right-hand corner, just above
the floor, he found a small circular opening. Quickly he thrust his finger into
it and felt, faint but unmistakable, a cool current of air.
The tension release was so sudden that he burst into tears.
But at last he sat up. Surely he would not have to stay trapped for the full
thirty-six hours. Somebody would miss him. But who? He was unmarried and lived
alone. The maid who cleaned his apartment was just a servant; he had always
treated her as such. He had been invited to spend Christmas Eve with his
brother’s family; but the children got on his nerves and expected presents.
A friend had asked him to go to a home for elderly people on
Christmas Day and play the piano—George Mason was a good musician. But he had
made some excuse or other; he had intended to sit at home, listening to some
new recordings he was giving himself.
George Mason dug his nails into the palms of his hands until
the pain balanced the misery in his mind. Nobody would come and let him out,
nobody, nobody, nobody….
Miserably the whole of Christmas Day went by, and the
succeeding night.
On the morning after Christmas the head clerk came into the
office at the usual time, opened the safe, then went on into his private
office.
No one saw George Mason stagger out into the corridor, run
to the water cooler, and drink great gulps of water. No one paid any attention
to him as he left and took a taxi home.
Then he shaved, changed his wrinkled clothes, ate breakfast
and returned to his office where his employees greeted him casually.
That day he met several acquaintances and talked to his own
brother. Grimly, the truth closed in on George Mason. He had vanished from
human society during the great festival of brotherhood; no one had missed him
at all.
Reluctantly, George Mason began to think about the true
meaning of Christmas. Was it possible that he had been blind all these years
with selfishness, indifference, pride? Was not giving, after all, the essence
of Christmas because it marked the time God gave His son to the world?
All through the year that followed, with little hesitant
deeds of kindness, with small, unnoticed acts of unselfishness, George Mason
tried to prepare himself….
Now, once more, it was Christmas Eve.
Slowly he backed out of the safe, closed it. He touched its
grim steel face lightly, almost affectionately, and left the office.
There he goes now in his
black overcoat and hat, the same George Mason as a year ago. Or is it? He walks
a few blocks, then flags a taxi, anxious not to be late. His nephews are
expecting him to help them trim the tree. Afterwards, he is taking his brother
and his sister-in-law to a Christmas play. Why is he so happy? Why does this
jostling against others, laden as he is with bundles, exhilarate and delight
him?
Perhaps the card has something to do with it, the card he
taped inside his office safe last New Years’ Day. On the card is written, in
George Mason’s own hand:
“To love people, to be indispensable somewhere, that is the
purpose of life. That is the secret of happiness.”
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