From the Friars Daily eLetter

December 25, 2008

The Gift
A Christmas Story
By Fr. Glenn Sudano, CFR

As the elevator made its swift and smooth descent from the fourteenth floor, Tom stood silent staring into space and then into his refracted image on the polished brass-like doors. Being alone he felt free to exhale a very slow and audible sigh of relief. Closing his eyes, he slowly shook his head as if to express pity or disbelief, perhaps both, he then whispered to himself, “God…how empty they are.” He gave a glance at his watch and thought, “in about two hours, I’ll be home!” He quickly calculated that by the time he arrived on the hill everyone would be in bed exhausted after a full day of work which he almost resented missing.

As the elevator slowed to a stop, it sank to the lobby floor so softly it felt like it was settling into a thick bed of foam. The doors disappeared with a swish and as he stepped off the elevator into the lobby, he was both surprised and delighted to hear the sound of sleigh bells and children singing. In the center of the meticulously decorated room stood an elegant and well-manicured acrylic Christmas tree. Tom took a quick look about the room for the kids’ choir, then quickly surmised that the ornate room was in fact empty. A well disguised digital speaker system was artistically wrapped in bright green foil, tied with wide red ribbons and strategically placed about the base of the tree. As he headed for the exit, a stuffed life-size snowman sensed his passing presence, stiffly waved and said, “Season’s Greetings!”

Tom unconsciously quickened his pace like a man on a mission or someone making some secret escape. A uniformed doorman dutifully opened the door, touched his gray felt top hat and said smiling, “G’night Sir, Happy Holiday!” Tom didn’t take but three steps, when he abruptly stopped, turned, and with one finger pointing upward, said slowly and distinctly, “And you, sir; a Blessed Christmas!” The doorman caught the message, and said cynically with a curled lip, “Sir,…Whatever.”

The sidewalk outside the upscale senior citizens’ residence was unusually active. The city streets were lit up and charged with a certain excitement. The weather was frigid which kept everyone, even the out-of-towners, moving quickly like true Manhattanites. Tom too picked up his pace, turning up his coat collar and plunging his hands deep into its warm wool pockets. Past him sped small clusters of shoppers braving the cold and bundled up in cashmere coats and carrying shopping bags bulging with brightly wrapped boxes. A squat and tough looking English bulldog with bow legs scurried past immediately followed by a taut chain and outstretched arm; both dog and owner were sporting bright red coats with real white fur collars. Then, two well dressed middle-aged men sauntered by smiling, then laughing hysterically, arm-in-arm.

Although born and bred in the city, Tom felt like a foreigner. Has he or the city changed? Yet he knew that since his marriage, he’s been a new man. When he thought of his wife, he glanced up at the sky yet could only see a black sliver between the tall glass and brick buildings. Even as a child, Katie loved snow, especially for Christmas. As Tom settled in behind the wheel warming the engine, he turned on the radio to catch a weather report. Almost immediately he heard: “It’s goin’ to be a rough go for Rudolf tonight folks, sorry, no snow!” Tom felt a touch disappointed, but remembered Katie telling the kids, “Hey, remember, Christmas isn’t about snow - but the Savior.” He smiled, slipped in a cassette of sacred music, then pulled out. He had a long ride ahead of him, and he knew he needed every minute of it.

As he drove across town and on to the parkway heading north, Tom tried to ignore the tight heavy knot which sat squarely in the center of his chest. He wondered why every visit with his parents always left him floundering helplessly in a sea littered with conflicting emotions: resentment…love…pity…hope. He was taught long ago that true love was not an emotion but a choice, yet he still interrogated himself; “Shouldn’t a son feel love for his parents?” Just then an invisible wave of resentment unexpectedly washed over him. He almost heard his father’s embittered voice: “Tom, she ruined you.” Tom literally startled himself by leaning and shouting at the windshield, “She didn’t ruin me, Dad, she saved me!”

Tom and Katie met in their junior year of college; “Love at first sight, ” as Tom would often tell the kids. “Some people’s beauty is only skin deep,” he would tell them, “but your mother was and is beautiful right to the bone.” Early on, Tom discovered that Katie wasn’t only beautiful, she was also bright. He would never forget the day he made the major mistake of helping her plan “her promising career.” A doctorate program in biological research was not just within her reach, it was in fact, right in her hands. Yet, she decided not to accept the scholarship. He remembers standing in awe and disbelief when she laughed and told him, “Tom, why on earth would I want to study life when I can bear life?”

Even as a child Katie felt the call to the cloister, a feeling which lingered well into high school. So she prayed and sought counsel, especially for her dad, and indeed, her call would become crystal clear. She knew that outside of her family and close friends, her radical choice would be quietly mocked and misunderstood. Some would say such a smart woman was wasting her life. She was sure; her call was to not to be self-serving, but self-giving. Her call was not to the cloister, but rather, to become a faithful wife and fruitful mother. Soon after, she met Tom.

Both announced their plans to get married soon after graduation. This was number one of many major disappointments to negatively affect Tom’s parents. While Tom once shared his brother’s dream to have a large apartment surveying the city skyline, he decided to move out of state near Katie’s family. “In the sticks with the hicks,” his brother would say. Tom then decided to drop his plans for a career in international business and to teach economics in a local community college. Yet, the issue that finally snapped their strained relationship was the children. “Too soon and way too many,” was his mom’s continuous refrain. It was the day Tom and Katie decided to make the supreme sacrifice and home school the kids that once quiet hostility turned into open aggression. That’s when Tom’s wife and family were accused as being “simple-minded, sick, and sinister.” His mother called Katie’s dad “oppressive and patriarchal,” while Tom’s father and brother were convinced that he was “psychologically being taken hostage by ‘right-wing religious thinking.’ ”

While his eyes were attached to the dark straight stretch ahead, his mind was free to wander. He began to re-examine an old wound which was still tender to the touch. Years ago his parents unexpectedly invited him and Katie over for dinner. Tom was hopeful, thinking it a time for apologies, rather, it was an ambush. Katie and he were concerned and questioned by his parents and brother for well over an hour: “Why were they depriving their kids of a proper education?” “Why were they staying in the stone age; what’s so sinful about a dishwasher or microwave?” “Why put so many restrictions on the television and computer; and why only one?” When the topic turned to religion, Tom almost lost his patience but Katie calmly put her hand on his lap. They directly accused her of converting their son to follow a “medieval and obviously hypocritical religion.”

When their ammunition was exhausted, Tom didn’t attack, he talked. The children, he calmly told them, without exception, scored higher than the average student in the state exams. In fact, the oldest just received a full scholarship to college, and he suspected the others would follow. He also explained it was evident to everyone that his children were happy, well-integrated, and socially well adjusted; in fact, more mature than most children their own age. Interestingly, none of them had neither time nor desire to watch television, they were busy enjoying their own reality, not someone else’s. The family computer, he explained, was used for research not recreation, therefore, only one was necessary. Tom told them all the children enjoyed reading, sports, hobbies, and everyone played a musical instrument. Besides, none of them believed appliances were sinful in themselves, but when convenience replaces conversation and creativity - is that really good? Finally, Katie spoke logically and eloquently about Christ, the Church, the role of parents, and the dangers of the popular culture. Tom sat silently almost bursting with pride. They sat there staring.

The loud crunching of the cold tires on the long gravel driveway brought Tom back. His two hour drive felt like twenty minutes. The house looked almost blue bathed in the moonlight. It was adorned with evergreen roping with their tight brown pine cones clinging to them and crimson colored ribbons. The German linden wood nativity scene was displayed in the front bay window, each hand carved piece glowing like gold in the light of a simple antique lantern. This exquisite creche was the first and last Christmas gift Tom and Katie gave one another. She told him years ago: “Tom, let’s not give gifts to each other at Christmas, but like Our Lord, be gifts for one another all year round!” Tom turned off the engine, then the lights. He decided to linger a bit in the dark and quiet car just to relish the silence and the sight of the beautiful house. It was obvious the boys spent much of the day cutting, tying, and hanging the pine roping, while the girls, even the little ones, were busy baking, making candles and polishing everything inside.

Tom pictured the house as it looked on that crisp October afternoon with the “For Sale” sign stuck in what looked like a bright red and yellow carpet. When Katie first heard it had belonged to a retired Methodist minister and his wife, she was elated. “The house feels holy,” she whispered to Tom as they walked through the well-kept rooms. Tom loved the large den with its cherry wood walls, oak staircase, and stone fireplace. Katie envisioned a huge vegetable garden and loved the sunny country kitchen with its knotty pine cabinets and oversized oven. Both saw enough space for the kids to play, plus plenty of room for an addition which Tom and the boys built in a summer with the help his nephews and Katie’s six brothers!

Tom wanted to stay and reminisce but he was tired and his toes began getting numb. Stepping outside, he stretched and arched backward to take in the night sky. His nostrils burned as he breathed long and deep of the frigid air scented by burning cedar. A very thin wisp of clouds floated above the black tree line to the west. “Sorry, Katie,” Tom whispered, “No snow, but tomorrow…the Savior!”

He gently opened the unlocked back door and walked into the dark kitchen still warm and fragrant from a full day’s baking. The pine cabinets shimmered showing a fire was still alive in the hearth. He quietly walked into the family room towards the thick and bristling bed of orange embers. The room was so peaceful and silent except for the measured clicking coming from the stately mahogony clock which stood sentry in the corner. The hearth’s dim glow barely illumined the clock’s large ornate face. Black iron acorns hung behind the copper pendulum and disc making them swing lazily behind a long narrow door of thick leaded glass.

The antique clock was a gift from Katie’s parents who held the tradition of giving these heirlooms as wedding gifts to their children and spouses. In fact, this was the last of eight they had purchased over the years. Each clock was inscribed with a word of wisdom composed by her dad. This one read: “I measure the months and years, you give them their worth.”

Tom approached the warm hearth, took a wooden taper, then touched the tip to the embers. Then almost methodically he lit seven candles, each evenly spaced and sitting in freshly cut pine boughs. Slowly a deep green holly wreath with its sharp, hard leaves and blood-red berries majestically appeared over the rough blue stone mantle. In the corner appeared a stocky scotch pine, its full branches weighted with bright foil-covered candies and frosted gingerbread stars. The entire room was beautiful - simple, natural, and measured. Katie had taught the kids to appreciate beauty. She didn’t care for things plastic or mass-produced. He would tell the children, “Your mom’s got ‘the touch.’ ”

Turning once again towards the mantle, he admired the radiating row of candles - seven thick bayberry and one slender white. This was but one of a number of simple but well-established Christmas traditions Katie carried over from her family, that is, displaying a candle for each child. Early on in the marriage, Katie had a miscarriage. Her womanly instinct told her that the one month old child was indeed a girl which she named “Angela.” Tom slowly sat on the edge, then slid back into one of the wooden rockers. There he sat and prayed for his parents that they would come to find some sense of meaning in their lonely lives. He commended to God’s mercy his only brother who suddenly died alone - financially successful yet spiritually bankrupt.

When the clock chimed, Tom instinctively yawned, rocked forward, then slowly stood up. Taking a small copper snuffer, he gently extinguished each candle one by one, stopping at each for a silent prayer. When he reached the white one, he paused and whispered, “Angela, give Mommy a kiss for me and the kids. Tell her I love her and miss her deeply. And please pray we have a Blessed Christmas.” He then gently lowered the tiny cone over the yellow, pointed flame which became a thin, writhing grey ribbon which snaked up and disappeared at the wreath. He walked to the stairs barely made visible by the muted light of the frosted embers. He took each step carefully almost as to prevent spilling but one precious drop of peace which filled his heart.

Outside, well beyond the frosted panes of the glowing bay window, the early morning sky slowly began to swell, then sag above the long row of black empty aspens. Then, suddenly, without warning, as if beckoned by the open arms of the handcarved Christ, full flakes like small feathers began their soft and steady descent. While inside, upstairs, grateful tears also quietly fell, fresh upon a cool and snow-white pillow.



December 25, 2008 The Gift A Christmas Story By Fr. Glenn Sudano, CFR As the elevator made its swift and smooth descent from the fourteenth floor, Tom stood silent staring into space and then into his refracted image on the polished brass-like doors. Being alone he felt free to exhale a very slow and audible sigh of relief. Closing his eyes, he slowly shook his head as if to express pity or disbelief, perhaps both, he then whispered to himself, “God…how empty they are.” He gave a glance at his watch and thought, “in about two hours, I’ll be home!” He quickly calculated that by the time he arrived on the hill everyone would be in bed exhausted after a full day of work which he almost resented missing. As the elevator slowed to a stop, it sank to the lobby floor so softly it felt like it was settling into a thick bed of foam. The doors disappeared with a swish and as he stepped off the elevator into the lobby, he was both surprised and delighted to hear the sound of sleigh bells and children singing. In the center of the meticulously decorated room stood an elegant and well-manicured acrylic Christmas tree. Tom took a quick look about the room for the kids’ choir, then quickly surmised that the ornate room was in fact empty. A well disguised digital speaker system was artistically wrapped in bright green foil, tied with wide red ribbons and strategically placed about the base of the tree. As he headed for the exit, a stuffed life-size snowman sensed his passing presence, stiffly waved and said, “Season’s Greetings!” Tom unconsciously quickened his pace like a man on a mission or someone making some secret escape. A uniformed doorman dutifully opened the door, touched his gray felt top hat and said smiling, “G’night Sir, Happy Holiday!” Tom didn’t take but three steps, when he abruptly stopped, turned, and with one finger pointing upward, said slowly and distinctly, “And you, sir; a Blessed Christmas!” The doorman caught the message, and said cynically with a curled lip, “Sir,…Whatever.” The sidewalk outside the upscale senior citizens’ residence was unusually active. The city streets were lit up and charged with a certain excitement. The weather was frigid which kept everyone, even the out-of-towners, moving quickly like true Manhattanites. Tom too picked up his pace, turning up his coat collar and plunging his hands deep into its warm wool pockets. Past him sped small clusters of shoppers braving the cold and bundled up in cashmere coats and carrying shopping bags bulging with brightly wrapped boxes. A squat and tough looking English bulldog with bow legs scurried past immediately followed by a taut chain and outstretched arm; both dog and owner were sporting bright red coats with real white fur collars. Then, two well dressed middle-aged men sauntered by smiling, then laughing hysterically, arm-in-arm. Although born and bred in the city, Tom felt like a foreigner. Has he or the city changed? Yet he knew that since his marriage, he’s been a new man. When he thought of his wife, he glanced up at the sky yet could only see a black sliver between the tall glass and brick buildings. Even as a child, Katie loved snow, especially for Christmas. As Tom settled in behind the wheel warming the engine, he turned on the radio to catch a weather report. Almost immediately he heard: “It’s goin’ to be a rough go for Rudolf tonight folks, sorry, no snow!” Tom felt a touch disappointed, but remembered Katie telling the kids, “Hey, remember, Christmas isn’t about snow - but the Savior.” He smiled, slipped in a cassette of sacred music, then pulled out. He had a long ride ahead of him, and he knew he needed every minute of it. As he drove across town and on to the parkway heading north, Tom tried to ignore the tight heavy knot which sat squarely in the center of his chest. He wondered why every visit with his parents always left him floundering helplessly in a sea littered with conflicting emotions: resentment…love…pity…hope. He was taught long ago that true love was not an emotion but a choice, yet he still interrogated himself; “Shouldn’t a son feel love for his parents?” Just then an invisible wave of resentment unexpectedly washed over him. He almost heard his father’s embittered voice: “Tom, she ruined you.” Tom literally startled himself by leaning and shouting at the windshield, “She didn’t ruin me, Dad, she saved me!” Tom and Katie met in their junior year of college; “Love at first sight, ” as Tom would often tell the kids. “Some people’s beauty is only skin deep,” he would tell them, “but your mother was and is beautiful right to the bone.” Early on, Tom discovered that Katie wasn’t only beautiful, she was also bright. He would never forget the day he made the major mistake of helping her plan “her promising career.” A doctorate program in biological research was not just within her reach, it was in fact, right in her hands. Yet, she decided not to accept the scholarship. He remembers standing in awe and disbelief when she laughed and told him, “Tom, why on earth would I want to study life when I can bear life?” Even as a child Katie felt the call to the cloister, a feeling which lingered well into high school. So she prayed and sought counsel, especially for her dad, and indeed, her call would become crystal clear. She knew that outside of her family and close friends, her radical choice would be quietly mocked and misunderstood. Some would say such a smart woman was wasting her life. She was sure; her call was to not to be self-serving, but self-giving. Her call was not to the cloister, but rather, to become a faithful wife and fruitful mother. Soon after, she met Tom. Both announced their plans to get married soon after graduation. This was number one of many major disappointments to negatively affect Tom’s parents. While Tom once shared his brother’s dream to have a large apartment surveying the city skyline, he decided to move out of state near Katie’s family. “In the sticks with the hicks,” his brother would say. Tom then decided to drop his plans for a career in international business and to teach economics in a local community college. Yet, the issue that finally snapped their strained relationship was the children. “Too soon and way too many,” was his mom’s continuous refrain. It was the day Tom and Katie decided to make the supreme sacrifice and home school the kids that once quiet hostility turned into open aggression. That’s when Tom’s wife and family were accused as being “simple-minded, sick, and sinister.” His mother called Katie’s dad “oppressive and patriarchal,” while Tom’s father and brother were convinced that he was “psychologically being taken hostage by ‘right-wing religious thinking.’ ” While his eyes were attached to the dark straight stretch ahead, his mind was free to wander. He began to re-examine an old wound which was still tender to the touch. Years ago his parents unexpectedly invited him and Katie over for dinner. Tom was hopeful, thinking it a time for apologies, rather, it was an ambush. Katie and he were concerned and questioned by his parents and brother for well over an hour: “Why were they depriving their kids of a proper education?” “Why were they staying in the stone age; what’s so sinful about a dishwasher or microwave?” “Why put so many restrictions on the television and computer; and why only one?” When the topic turned to religion, Tom almost lost his patience but Katie calmly put her hand on his lap. They directly accused her of converting their son to follow a “medieval and obviously hypocritical religion.” When their ammunition was exhausted, Tom didn’t attack, he talked. The children, he calmly told them, without exception, scored higher than the average student in the state exams. In fact, the oldest just received a full scholarship to college, and he suspected the others would follow. He also explained it was evident to everyone that his children were happy, well-integrated, and socially well adjusted; in fact, more mature than most children their own age. Interestingly, none of them had neither time nor desire to watch television, they were busy enjoying their own reality, not someone else’s. The family computer, he explained, was used for research not recreation, therefore, only one was necessary. Tom told them all the children enjoyed reading, sports, hobbies, and everyone played a musical instrument. Besides, none of them believed appliances were sinful in themselves, but when convenience replaces conversation and creativity - is that really good? Finally, Katie spoke logically and eloquently about Christ, the Church, the role of parents, and the dangers of the popular culture. Tom sat silently almost bursting with pride. They sat there staring. The loud crunching of the cold tires on the long gravel driveway brought Tom back. His two hour drive felt like twenty minutes. The house looked almost blue bathed in the moonlight. It was adorned with evergreen roping with their tight brown pine cones clinging to them and crimson colored ribbons. The German linden wood nativity scene was displayed in the front bay window, each hand carved piece glowing like gold in the light of a simple antique lantern. This exquisite creche was the first and last Christmas gift Tom and Katie gave one another. She told him years ago: “Tom, let’s not give gifts to each other at Christmas, but like Our Lord, be gifts for one another all year round!” Tom turned off the engine, then the lights. He decided to linger a bit in the dark and quiet car just to relish the silence and the sight of the beautiful house. It was obvious the boys spent much of the day cutting, tying, and hanging the pine roping, while the girls, even the little ones, were busy baking, making candles and polishing everything inside. Tom pictured the house as it looked on that crisp October afternoon with the “For Sale” sign stuck in what looked like a bright red and yellow carpet. When Katie first heard it had belonged to a retired Methodist minister and his wife, she was elated. “The house feels holy,” she whispered to Tom as they walked through the well-kept rooms. Tom loved the large den with its cherry wood walls, oak staircase, and stone fireplace. Katie envisioned a huge vegetable garden and loved the sunny country kitchen with its knotty pine cabinets and oversized oven. Both saw enough space for the kids to play, plus plenty of room for an addition which Tom and the boys built in a summer with the help his nephews and Katie’s six brothers! Tom wanted to stay and reminisce but he was tired and his toes began getting numb. Stepping outside, he stretched and arched backward to take in the night sky. His nostrils burned as he breathed long and deep of the frigid air scented by burning cedar. A very thin wisp of clouds floated above the black tree line to the west. “Sorry, Katie,” Tom whispered, “No snow, but tomorrow…the Savior!” He gently opened the unlocked back door and walked into the dark kitchen still warm and fragrant from a full day’s baking. The pine cabinets shimmered showing a fire was still alive in the hearth. He quietly walked into the family room towards the thick and bristling bed of orange embers. The room was so peaceful and silent except for the measured clicking coming from the stately mahogony clock which stood sentry in the corner. The hearth’s dim glow barely illumined the clock’s large ornate face. Black iron acorns hung behind the copper pendulum and disc making them swing lazily behind a long narrow door of thick leaded glass. The antique clock was a gift from Katie’s parents who held the tradition of giving these heirlooms as wedding gifts to their children and spouses. In fact, this was the last of eight they had purchased over the years. Each clock was inscribed with a word of wisdom composed by her dad. This one read: “I measure the months and years, you give them their worth.” Tom approached the warm hearth, took a wooden taper, then touched the tip to the embers. Then almost methodically he lit seven candles, each evenly spaced and sitting in freshly cut pine boughs. Slowly a deep green holly wreath with its sharp, hard leaves and blood-red berries majestically appeared over the rough blue stone mantle. In the corner appeared a stocky scotch pine, its full branches weighted with bright foil-covered candies and frosted gingerbread stars. The entire room was beautiful - simple, natural, and measured. Katie had taught the kids to appreciate beauty. She didn’t care for things plastic or mass-produced. He would tell the children, “Your mom’s got ‘the touch.’ ” Turning once again towards the mantle, he admired the radiating row of candles - seven thick bayberry and one slender white. This was but one of a number of simple but well-established Christmas traditions Katie carried over from her family, that is, displaying a candle for each child. Early on in the marriage, Katie had a miscarriage. Her womanly instinct told her that the one month old child was indeed a girl which she named “Angela.” Tom slowly sat on the edge, then slid back into one of the wooden rockers. There he sat and prayed for his parents that they would come to find some sense of meaning in their lonely lives. He commended to God’s mercy his only brother who suddenly died alone - financially successful yet spiritually bankrupt. When the clock chimed, Tom instinctively yawned, rocked forward, then slowly stood up. Taking a small copper snuffer, he gently extinguished each candle one by one, stopping at each for a silent prayer. When he reached the white one, he paused and whispered, “Angela, give Mommy a kiss for me and the kids. Tell her I love her and miss her deeply. And please pray we have a Blessed Christmas.” He then gently lowered the tiny cone over the yellow, pointed flame which became a thin, writhing grey ribbon which snaked up and disappeared at the wreath. He walked to the stairs barely made visible by the muted light of the frosted embers. He took each step carefully almost as to prevent spilling but one precious drop of peace which filled his heart. Outside, well beyond the frosted panes of the glowing bay window, the early morning sky slowly began to swell, then sag above the long row of black empty aspens. Then, suddenly, without warning, as if beckoned by the open arms of the handcarved Christ, full flakes like small feathers began their soft and steady descent. While inside, upstairs, grateful tears also quietly fell, fresh upon a cool and snow-white pillow.