When Love Came To Call

This story is dedicated to a very dear friend of mine, Mr. Henry Zale. He will only be ninety-one years young this upcoming month. His kind and encouraging words of wisdom have inspired this writer to keep on writing.


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When Love Came To Call

by Thomas F. O'Neill

The Yuletide Season is not a time for a common courtesy to receive and provide family, friends, and neighbors with material gifts. This special season is for heartfelt acts of gratitude for having people in our lives. When keeping the true spirit of giving close to heart. We find that it enables us to give from the heart all year round.

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Our choices pave our life’s path, and whether those choices are good or bad - we must live with them. Harry Brooks has made many choices throughout his life, and his decisions now haunt him.

He would be the first to admit that he never put others before his self-absorbed wants. He was selfish when it came to the needs of others, and it reflected in how he turned out in life. He was not entirely to blame, though, because, as he put it, “I didn’t have that picture-perfect upbringing.”

He was undoubtedly abused as a child, physically, emotionally, and psychologically by his abusive father. His emotional pain somewhat obscured Harry’s life decisions. He was unwilling or incapable of getting over his emotional hurdles. The emotional turmoil within not only affected his life but the lives of those around him.

He married young, and not having a high school diploma made finding a decent-paying job virtually impossible. He gave up and abandoned his wife and five-year-old daughter five years into his marriage. His wife was forced to raise their daughter on her own and struggled to make ends meet.

They say time heals all wounds, but the abandonment psychologically affected Harry’s former wife, Aggie, and their daughter, Alicia. They never recovered and didn’t hear from him over the next thirty years. As far as they were concerned, he was dead and out of their lives.

As for Harry, he spent those thirty years finding solace in a booze bottle.

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The years of drinking had its toll on Harry, and he now lay dying from cirrhosis of the liver. The hospital staff sees Harry as a downright mean and nasty patient, and he constantly belittles the Nurses, and to their dismay, he throws his bedpan.

They despise entering his room because of his rants and foul language. The only reason they continue caring for him, as one Nurse put it, “he is on death’s doorstep, and soon a higher authority will take over.”

One morning Harry Brooks sat in the hospital corridor in a wheelchair, waiting to have further tests done. A little boy was wheeled up next to him.

“Are you sick too, Mister?” the little boy asked him.

“No, I come here every morning for tea and biscuits,” Harry said sarcastically.

“I don’t like tea,” the little boy said, “what kind of biscuits do they have?”

“All sorts,” he said, “they leave them out for weeks and weeks, and when they get all moldy and discolored, they give them to little kids to eat.”

“Well, that’s OK, Mister, my mommy brings me cookies. I will save some for you,” the little boy said, “she makes them for Christmas every year.”

“Don’t bother, kid, not in the Christmas spirit,” he said in a grumpy voice.

“If I get well enough, I will be home for Christmas,” the little boy said, “If I can’t be home, Santa will stop by here.”

“Hate to break it ta ya, kid, but its been all over the news Santa doesn’t exist,” said Harry.

A nurse overhearing the conversation stopped what she was doing and stared at Harry in disbelief. She was shocked that such a person could be so mean.

“That’s just a rumor that the Grinch started,” the little boy said, “he’s a mean one that Mr. Grinch.”

Harry was not a person to take the Holliday spirit to heart. He never cared for Christmas. One reason, in particular, is that the Bars close down on Christmas day, and Harry is forced to drink his blues away alone.

“My Nana said that rumor has been going around for years,” the little boy said. He looked at Harry and felt sorry for the grumpy old man. In many ways, the old man reminded him of another anti-Christmas character that lost his Christmas spirit – the Grinch.

“How can someone not believe in that jolly old soul,” a Nurse said to the little boy, “he’s known by so many names,” she continued with a smile, “such as – ‘old Saint Nick,’ ‘Chris Kringle,’ and the most popular of all, ‘Santa.’”

“I know,” the little boy said, “some people are just dopes when it comes to rumors.”

That evening as Harry slept, he was awakened from his sleep by the little boy. The boy was determined to help Harry; after all he knew firsthand there’s a Santa. The jolly old soul, after all, has been leaving presents under his Christmas tree every year.

“Hey, Mister,” the little boy said, “I want you to see something on TV.”

The little boy turned the TV on, a Christmas movie appeared on screen, with the Grinch as its main character, “see he’s the one who started those rumors about there not being a Santa. He’s just downright mean.”

“Not as mean as I’m going to be,” he yelled, “if you don’t turn that TV off and get out of my room!!!!!!!”

“Are you mad because you’re not going to be home for Christmas?” the little boy asked.

“No, I don’t celebrate Christmas,” came the angry reply.

“Why?” the boy asked.

“Because I don’t,” Harry said with anger.

“I will ask my Mommy to bring you some cookies.”

“Ask her to bring me a bottle of scotch while you’re at it,” Harry said sarcastically, “now go watch the green guy in your room and leave me the hell alone!!!!!!!” he yelled.

A Nurse’s mouth dropped when she heard what Harry said to that cute little boy, “he is the foulest, nastiest, grungiest, and downright meanest person that ever stepped foot in this hospital,” the Nurse said to her coworker.

“I have a big dog, he’s a Rottweiler,” her coworker replied, “and let me tell you, my dog is a pussycat compared to that patient.”

The next day still determined to convert Harry into believing in the season of giving, “Hey, Mister,” said the little boy waking Harry up from a deep sleep, “I brought you some cookies my mommy made them.”

“What,” said Harry in a confused voice, “oh, that is awfully nice of you,” he said to the boy in a perturbed voice.

“My Nana helped me write Santa a letter letting him know you are here,” the boy said, “my mommy said he comes by the hospital to visit the sick on Christmas. My Mommy and my Nana will be back later, and I will introduce you to them.”

“Look, kid, that is not necessary!!!!!!!” he yelled.

The following day, “Hey, Mister,” the boy said, waking Harry, “I brought a picture I want you to see.” He handed him the picture of Christmas past. “That’s me last year with my Mommy and my Nana. We put that Christmas tree up. You see those boxes with the shiny paper; those are presents that Santa left me.”

“This kid is destined to be an evangelical Minister,” Harry thought to himself. He was now sorry he ever mentioned Santa’s nonexistence.

“Well that was certainly worth waking me up over,” Harry said, sarcastically. He then took a closer look at the photo, “that woman is your Nana?” he asked, pointing to the little boy’s grandmother in the picture.

“Yep,” the boy said, “and that is my mommy, “pointing to the other woman in the photo.

“Thirty years,” Harry said to himself. He immediately recognized the lives he had left behind. He then became visibly uncomfortable, “look kid,” he said, “that is a nice Christmas picture, but I need to be alone” for the first time in many years, Harry’s past was racing in on him, and it was about to collide with the here and now.

He began to see the little boy as a living bridge linking Harry’s past with the present moment. The sarcasm and cheap shots drained from him; he was now at a loss for words.

He didn’t want to dredge up the family’s history, so he never mentioned that he was the boy’s Grandfather – the person who abandoned the boy’s Mother and Nana many years ago.

Each day the boy came to see Harry, the meetings slowly began to change him. It was a long time since a child entered his life, thirty years too long. In some way, the boy was now positively affecting that grumpy old fool.

“I hope he is not bothering you,” said Harry’s daughter Alicia as she walked into his room.

“That is my Mommy,” said the little boy.

The boy then turned to his mother, “I gave him some of your cookies,” he said.

“I didn’t get your son’s name,” Harry said to her.

“His name is Harvey, and my name is Alicia.”

“My name is Harry,” he said, “so, how old are you, Harvey?”

“Five,” came the reply.

“She is all grown up now and a Mother,” he thought to himself, “she was the same age as her son is now when I saw her last.” He was relieved in a way that she didn’t recognize him.

He could not bear to tell her who he was in her past. He let her talk, and he listened. He learned that she was going through a rough divorce, and when Harvey got sick, it strained her marriage. Her husband eventually left her for another woman. It was then that Alicia’s Mother moved in with her to help them get through the rough times.

“My son has a rare form of cancer,” she told him, “he needs bone marrow to live, but they are unable to find a suitable donor that can match his type.”

“I need a new liver,” Harry said, “I am on a transplant list.”

Their meeting was unexpected, and it jolted Harry in many ways. He was glad to see her, but the guilt of what he had done so many years ago consumed him. He did not want to open up about his past, so he decided not to reveal it.

He absorbed the present moment with his daughter and grandson. The circumstances surrounding their meeting are beyond his comprehension. He believes there is a reason for their coming together, and what that reason might be is beyond his understanding.

His grandson continued to visit him every day, and he began to look forward to the boy’s visits. The nursing staff slowly began to see changes in Harry. His rants were less frequent, and he stopped throwing his bedpan. At times he even appeared to take on more human-like qualities.

His daughter soon realized that there was something unusual about Harry’s relationship with her son. One evening, out of curiosity, she went to Harry’s room to talk to him and to get to know him better.

“You are very kind,” she said to him, “my son has taken such a liking to you.”

“I like your son as well,” he said.

“You are a nice man,” she told him.

“No, I’m not,” he replied, “I did many mean and selfish things in the past, unforgivable things.”

“We have all done things that we regret,” she said, “you need to forgive yourself.”

“I caused others too much pain,” he said to her.

“Well, you know what you did in the past, and you know what kind of person you were,” she told him, “what you are now is what’s most important.”

“I was selfish and mean,” he repeated.

“I don’t know what kind of person you were,” she said, “but I see a good person. You are not a mean person, now.” She saw the pain in his eyes, and her heart went out to him.

“I would do anything to change my choices,” he said, “All those bad choices.”

“Accept yourself for what you are now,” she said, “don’t dwell on the past. You have to forgive yourself first before others can forgive you. You must take the time to find ways to mend yourself, and then you will be able to reach out to those you hurt.”

“I abandoned my family, and I hurt them,” he said as if he could not bear to look at his daughter.

“We all made bad choices at one time or another,” she said, but Harry’s words hit home. She did her best to put aside her emotional pain and anger from being abandoned as a child - by her own father.

“What I did is unforgivable,” he said.

“We find ways to live with the bad choices,” she told him, “life is full of choices, and those choices are part of who we are as human beings. You mustn’t dwell on your bad decisions. Pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and move on.”

“I can’t change what I am or what I did,” he said, “that is what I am being forced to live with every day.”

“You have to move on,” she said once again, “your greatest opportunities are within you, not in your past.”

“You did alright for yourself,” he said, “and you have a good head on your shoulders.”

“My Mother struggled to raise me,” she told him, “it wasn’t easy. My father left when I was five years old, and we never seen him or heard from him.”

“Are you angry with him,” he asked.

“Of course I am,” she said, “I would like to know why he left and why he never tried to contact us. For years I thought it was something I did, or there was something wrong with me, and it took a long time to get over it, and it still affects my relationships with men.”

“I have done the same thing,” he told her, “I left my family, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I wish I could change that bad decision in my life.”

“Well, you don’t know how much longer you are going to be around,” she replied, “I would try and mend whatever is broken before it is too late.”

“Too much time has passed,” he said.

“You are not the man you make yourself out to be in your mind,” she told him; she could see how guilt was consuming him, and the only words she could muster up to ease him in some way, “you need to forgive yourself,” she told him once again with a soft sincerity in her voice. “You are inhibiting yourself from finding peace in your mind.”

“What would you say to your father if he showed up in your life?” Harry asked.

“If he was in the room with me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “if you were given the opportunity to talk to him……..”

“I would want to know why he left,” she said, “it would be hard at first, but I would want to let him know how I feel, about the anger I feel. I would want to know what he did all those years, and I would tell him how he hurt my mother and what she went through.”

“Can you forgive someone like that?” he asked.

“I have gotten over it,” she told him, “if I felt he was truly seeking forgiveness, I would forgive him.”

“Would you let him back into your life?” he asked.

“I suppose I could do that,” she said, “but these are all hypotheticals. You need to take positive control of your situation and mend the relationships in your life.”

The next day, Harry met with his grandson’s physician and talked in Harry’s hospital room.

“Well, first, we will have to see if you are a match,” the doctor said, “do they know?”

“They don’t know anything, and promise me you will not tell them,” Harry said.

“Your health is weak,” the doctor told him, “your immune system is weak due to your failing liver. Giving up some of your bone marrow will weaken you even more, and it could shorten your waiting time for a healthy liver.”

“My whole life, I thought of no one but myself,” Harry said, “I made all the wrong choices. I want to make the right decision for a change, and I want to make a positive choice for my grandson. When I die, I want to know that I did something positive for someone.”

A few days later, Harry gave up some of his bone marrow.

“Hey, Harry,” said his grandson waking him from a deep sleep, “my mommy said they found some bones for me.”

“Bone marrow it’s called,” Harry said in a frail voice, “it will make you better.”

“When will they make you better,” the boy asked.

“When they find me a liver,” he said in a low weak voice.

Dear, Santa

My mommy helped me with this letter because I am only five years old. I hope you get this letter quickly because my friend Harry needs your help, you see he needs a new Liver for Christmas so he can get better.

I love you, Santa,

Harvey

A few days after his grandson was operated on, Alicia visited Harry and brought her mother along. As Harry slept, his former wife recognized him immediately, and she became visibly angry.

“I hope he suffers,” Alicia’s Mother said with anger. Harry was asleep, unaware that they were in his room.

“What is it, Mom?” Alicia asked her.

“That is your Father,” she said to her daughter.

Alicia looked at Harry. She was surprised but not entirely surprised. The conversation she had with him days before eased her transition from their past to the present moment, “I can’t hate him, Mom,” she said, “he’s not the person you hate. I spoke to him; he is truly remorseful for what he did to us and a good person.”

“A good person doesn’t abandon their family,” her mother said, “he is a selfish, selfish man.”

“He’s changed, and I forgive him,” Alicia said.

The Bone Marrow transplant was successful, and Harvey slowly began to recover. Two more weeks went by, and Harry was running out of time, and he was growing weaker with each passing day.

Alicia visited Harry once again before taking her son home for Christmas.

“Thank you,” she said

“For what?” he asked.

“For what you did for Harvey,” she told him, “I put two and two together, and I figured it out. I know you gave Harvey your bone marrow, and I also know you’re my father.”

“Does your Mother know?” he asked her.

“She’s the one who told me that you’re my father,” she said, “and of course, she is angry, and that is why she’s not here.”

“She has every reason to be angry,” he said.

“I will talk to her some more,” she said to him, “I was given permission to bring Harvey home for Christmas, and I have to bring him back before the New Year.”

His former wife, Aggie, came to see him later that afternoon, and she was alone, and Harry saw her hesitate before entering his room.

“Hello,” Harry said.

“Thirty years is a long time,” she said angrily.

“Yes, it is,” he thought to himself. At that moment, he was at a loss for words and just didn’t know what to say or do. He looked at her as the emotion moved through him like a large ocean wave.

“I understand if you never forgive me,” he said as he broke down and wept, “what I have done to you and Alicia is unforgivable.”

“We went on with our lives, Harry,” she said, “it’s not a matter of forgiveness. I am angry that you showed up after so many years.”

“My coming back into your lives was not planned,” he said, “I believe it was meant to be.”

“We moved on with our lives,” she said once again, “you are no longer part of the picture. I am still angry, Harry, for marrying someone as selfish as you.”

“I am selfish in many ways,” he said.

“You can go on being selfish, Harry,” she told him, “it makes no difference to me because you are not part of our lives anymore.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Do you Harry?” she asked him, “do you really understand what you did to us?”

“I know I hurt you,” he said, “I know I hurt our daughter.”

“Alicia said you are not the same person,” she said with anger in her voice, “but I don’t care one way or the other.”

With a clenched fist, she became visibly upset and said, “you giving Harvey your bone marrow was a kind jester. Now you can die in peace. As far as I’m concerned, you died a long time ago.”

“You have every right to be angry,” he said, “what I did is unforgivable,” he said once again as the tears flowed down his face.

“Why did you do it, Harry?” she asked him while desperately trying to contain her emotions, “why did you abandon us on Christmas?”

“I was young and immature, and I was unable to support my family,” he said as the tears continued to flow, “I had no money. I had nothing to give, Alicia, on Christmas morning. I had nothing to give you. I gave up, I just gave up,” he repeated, “and then I started drinking. Now my liver is destroyed. I drank my life away.”

“You left because you couldn’t afford Christmas presents,” she said in an angry condescending voice, “we needed you, Harry, not presents. While you drank, I raised our daughter,” she said, “she still has problems, Harry, she is going through a divorce because of issues that stem from you abandoning her.”

“I can’t change the past, and I know the choices I made were bad choices,” he said, “I have to live with that for the rest of my life. But I can start making the right choices now with my little time.”

“Harry, take the time to assess your life and understand the damage you caused,” she told him.

“I don’t think us being here now is by sheer happenstance,” he said, “I think it is for a reason that is beyond our comprehension.”

“Well, you made the right choice for Harvey,” she said, “Alicia and Harvey are grateful for what you did,” she then took one last look at him before leaving the room, “I said what I had to say to you, take care of yourself, Harry.”

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said as his world crashed in on him.

“Have a good Christmas, Harry, alone,” she said as she left.

Harvey looked at the sparkling crystal angel on top of their Christmas tree,

“I hope Santa got my letter,” he said to his Mother on Christmas Eve.

“I am certain he got your letter,” his mother said.

“I want Harry to get better,” Harvey said while helping his mother make eggnog for Christmas Day.

“He looks so sad being sick,” Harvey told his Nana as she was taking freshly baked cookies out of the oven, “he needs Christmas to make him better.”

“You think?” his mother asked, “that Christmas will make him better.”

“Let’s bring him Christmas, Mommy, to make him happy.”

On Christmas Day, as Harry slept, he was awakened by his Grandson.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” his grandson said. Harry slowly opened his eyes and noticed a Christmas tree in his room.

“Merry Christmas,” Alicia said to him.

“This was Alicia and Harvey’s idea,” Aggie said, “they didn’t want you spending Christmas here alone.”

“Merry Christmas, Aggie,” he said in a surprised voice.

“Yea, well, Merry Christmas to you, too,” Aggie said.

“Well, thank you,” he said, “but I didn’t get you guys anything.”

“Well, you being here with us is enough,” said Alicia.

“We put that tree up, and you never woke up, not once, the whole time,” said Harvey.

“Thank you for bringing Christmas here,” Harry said to them.

“We brought you some eggnog and cookies,” Harvey said, “I helped my Mommy make the eggnog and cookies.”

A nurse entered the room as Harry shared the eggnog with his long overdue family reunion. Harry, for the first time in thirty years, felt better. The cloud of doom lifted from him, and the weight of his emotional pain lessened. He felt exhilarated as the holiday spirit moved him closer to his reunited family.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to a nurse in a jubilant voice. He slowly got out of bed, poured the nurse a glass of eggnog, and handed her some cookies. “Merry Christmas,” he said again, giving her a big hug.

The nurse stared at Harry in disbelief; she then looked at the Christmas tree, the two large jugs of eggnog, the large bowl filled with cookies, the people in the room, and then back at Harry.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Brooks,” the Nurse replied - she appeared before Harry like a deer trapped by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

“Quick,” Harry said to the Nurse excitedly, “get some more glasses for the eggnog. There’s plenty of eggnog, and plenty of cookies,” he said jubilantly, unable to contain himself from laughing.

When the Nurse returned with plastic cups, “get the other staff in here,” he said excitedly.

The nurse just looked at Harry, wondering what medical condition could cause such a laughing binge, “perhaps the Doctor changed his medication, and this is just some unforeseen side effect,” she thought to herself.

No medication, though, was behind Harry’s transformation. In that single moment, Harry freed the joy that was imprisoned, locked away, deep inside of him. After many years, Harry has allowed himself to be happy.

With a large smile, he told the nurse with the utmost exhilaration, “this will be my way of sharing Christmas with the hospital staff.”

“Your way of sharing Christmas with us, Mr. Brooks,” a nurse said in a shocked voice.

One of the nurses forgot what she went into his room for as she drank some eggnog with the other staff. Some came by just out of curiosity to see the changed Harry.

“I wonder what changes his Doctor made with his meds,” a nurse said to her coworker.

“Merry Christmas,” Harry said to two nurses while laughing and giving them big hugs.

Two other Nurses mumbled, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Brooks,” while taking a couple of steps back as he approached them with a warm embrace. Such a reaction from those two nurses could only be expected. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that Harry threw his bedpan at them.

Harvey’s eyes and face lit up when he saw the large burly man in the red suit. Old Saint Nick walked down the Hospital Corridor, past Harry’s room, and continued toward the pediatric unit.

“Hey, Santa,” Harvey yelled, “did you get my letter?”

Santa turned with a twinkle in his eye, “yep,” he said, “sure did.”

Harvey walked up to him, “my friend is really sick, Santa,” the boy said, “he could really use your help.”

Santa picked Harvey up and sat him on the Nurses' station counter. Santa looked him straight in the eye. Harvey saw love emanating from those eyes, and with a special warm glow, Santa asked, “do you know why Christmas is so special?”

A soft “Why?” came the reply.

“Christmas is a time when Love comes to call,” he said, “your letter called out to me, Harvey. It was a special letter; do you know why it was special?”

“Why?” the boy asked in a soft whisper.

“It was special because you didn’t ask me for something you want,” and with that special sparkle in his eyes, Santa said, “you asked me for something your friend needs.”

“My Mommy helped me write that letter,” Harvey said, “I always knew you were real,” he continued with a big smile.

“Your friend’s gift is in the works as we speak,” old Saint Nick told him as he lifted Harvey and placed him back down at the Nurses station, “always remember, Harvey, and tell your friend Harry, Christmas, is when love came to call.......”

“Excuse me,” said the Nurse tapping the jolly old soul on the shoulder, “how did you know that little boy’s name.”

“His Santa,” said Harvey.

“I’m Santa,” said Santa.

“It comes with the territory,” Harvey told the Nurse, laughing.

Santa winked at the boy, and immediately Harvey’s face lit up with an exuberant glow. Old Saint Nick then turned and walked towards Harry’s room. The jolly old soul then placed his finger on his nose as he continued on his way. Harvey excitedly turned and said, “thank you, Santa,” but Santa was gone, “I knew he was real,” the boy said, “I just knew it the whole time.”

“Where did he go,” the Nurse asked Harvey, “he was here a second ago. I was going to give him a glass of eggnog.”

“Who was here a second ago?” asked Alicia.

“Santa,” said, Harvey

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say he was the real McCoy,” the Nurse said to Alicia, “he even knew your son’s name and about the letter he wrote.”

“I’m glad he came to see me. He liked the letter you helped me write,” Harvey said to his mother.

“I wonder who that could have been,” Alicia thought to herself, “I didn’t tell anyone about the letter.”

Alicia then turned to her mother. Her mother shrugged her shoulders to let her daughter know she had nothing to do with Santa’s visit.

“I’m glad he stopped by to see Harvey,” said Harry

“Were you behind Santa's visit?” Alicia whispered to Harry.

“No,” he said, “it’s been a long time since I wrote him, seen his helpers from time to time, but never met the real Santa.”

They spent the rest of Christmas day together, and Harry thanked the higher power for showing mercy and compassion in allowing him that moment of happiness with his family. “Thank you for such a wonderful Christmas,” he said to them.

A few days later, Harry’s name mysteriously moved to the top of the transplant donor list. He received what he was waiting for a new liver. He was genuinely grateful for getting a second chance at life and a second chance to make positive choices.

“You see, there is a Santa,” Harvey said to Harry, “and you are going to get better now.”

“Thank you for writing the big guy,” Harry told his grandson, “and I will never listen to those stupid rumors ever again.”

“Santa told me to tell you Christmas is when love came to call.”

“Well, I’m glad it came,” Harry said, “and I will always try and keep that love close to my heart.”

His former wife, Aggie, has accepted that Harry is now a permanent fixture in their lives. He is a permanent fixture because he wants to make a positive impact, not only in his life but in his family’s lives. He knows he can’t erase the past, but he can begin to take positive control of the life he is now living.

His life is now being lived the way it should be, but most importantly, one day at a time. He hasn’t had a drink of alcohol since receiving his new liver.

The following year, on Christmas Day, Harry shared Dinner with his family, “You have mellowed with age, Harry,” said Aggie.

“My life was never picture perfect,” he said to them, “but the choices I make now can develop into happier moments and fonder memories for all of us.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It is never too late to change for the better and to make right whatever is wrong with our lives. Harry Brooks is a living example of how bad choices are not necessarily the ‘end all’ to our happiness. We have the power to pull ourselves together and correct our mistakes.

It was primarily out of fear and Harry’s inability to seek forgiveness that inhibited him from moving forward and taking control of his life. He has gained a better understanding of those experiences and a deeper insight into the importance of forgiveness. He had to forgive himself first before he was able to find forgiveness from others.

Forgiving hearts enabled him to mend the broken person he was inside and his broken relationships. He, in turn, found the strength in his heart to reach out to those he truly loves.

How they all came together that Christmas season is still beyond Harry’s comprehension. But he is grateful that those events took place because he has been given a second chance to live his life for the better. He has also gained a much deeper appreciation for his family by putting their needs before his superficial wants. After all, his selfishness in the past did him in, but he has learned from those mistakes.

Harry Brook’s grandson is now a sophomore in college, and Harry’s former wife is remarried. She is married to a restaurant owner and is currently helping her husband with his business.

Harry is now living with his daughter, and she tells people quite often. “Our lives came together after a thirty-year hiatus, and we came together during the Christmas season, and since then, Harry has honored Christmas with his family.”

Harry, on the other hand, tells people,

“There was a time when I felt the Christmas season was simply a common courtesy to receive and provide family, friends, and neighbors with material gifts. I now understand more clearly that the season of giving is for heartfelt acts of gratitude for having people in our lives. When keeping the true spirit of giving close to heart. It enables us to give from the heart all year round. The Christmas season is when love came to call, and that love gives Christmas its true meaning.”

With Love,

Thomas F. O’Neill

introspective7@hotmail.com

(800) 272-6464

Other articles, short stories, and commentaries by Thomas F. O'Neill can be found at the links below.

Link: http://thomasfoneill.blogspot.com

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A Labor Of Love

by Thomas F. O’Neill 

In 1908 in a small village in Poland, a child was born. The child entering the world was no different from any other child’s arrival. He grew older but showed no exceptional gifts or qualities. He was simply an ordinary boy who enjoyed playing games with other children. But in his Mother’s eye he was unique and special.

 

She wasted no time in letting her son know just how special he was to her. In her mind and heart, he was not like other children. “You are destined for something, something great,” she would tell her son.

 

When her son was born he was given the nickname ‘Staush’ by his Father and the name stuck with him throughout his life. It was an affectionate name that reminded him of his parents' love for him.

 

On Christmas morning, when he was seven years old, his mother gave him a painting. It was a painting of a beautiful female Angel with deep blue eyes and a gentle angelic face. “This is the Angel that is watching over you,” his mother told him, “the Angel is watching over you because you have a special mission in life. You only have to believe in your Angel, and everything will be alright.” He believed his mother because he had no reason to doubt her.

 

He also had fond memories of his Father taking him fishing.

 

“You catch more fish than me,” his father said to him, “why is that?”

 

“Don’t know,” he replied.

 

“The fish must like you,” his father said.

 

His father always returned the fish he caught to the water.

 

“Why do you put the fish back,” he asked his father.

 

“Because I like the Fish,” came the reply.

 

He often told the story of how his world changed when he was nine years old. It changed tragically for him and his Mother, and it was due to his father’s unexpected death. “His heart,” said the Doctor in Polish to his distraught Mother as she wept and sobbed, “no one knew about his heart,” the doctor said to her once again.

 

His father was laid out in their living room, and he can remember the villagers coming to their home with food. “He was a good man,” said the Priest as he placed his hand on the dead man’s head. The Priest’s tone of voice lacked the sincerity needed to console his Mother’s grief.

 

He never forgot his Father’s burial and the number of people that came to the cemetery because they too loved his father. His Mother’s brother stood next to them as his Father’s casket was lowered into the ground.

 

His Uncle stayed with them for a few months. He helped his sister convert the front part of their home into a bakery shop.

 

“I wish my Father was here to see what we did to the house,” he told his uncle, “why did he have to die?”

 

“His heart had so much love that it put a strain on his physical heart,” his uncle told him, “he loved immensely, and that love is always with you. Your Father will always be with you - in spirit. When you talk to him, he will hear you.” As a young child, he accepted his uncle’s explanation after all the doctor told them that his father's heart had stopped beating.

 

His mother baked and sold various pastries and bread to the villagers. His uncle attracted people to the shop by playing a small mandolin and singing songs. Staush was fascinated by his uncle’s talent and beautiful voice. His uncle eventually taught him the same songs and how to play the mandolin.

 

One night his Uncle came to him, letting him know that he had to return to his own home. “I will be back to visit my favorite Nephew,” he told him. Before his uncle left, he placed the mandolin on their kitchen table.

 

“Did he leave it for me?” Staush asked his Mother excitedly.

 

“I suppose so,” said his Mother, “he must love you very much because you know how your uncle loves that mandolin.”

 

The bakery shop paid off, sustaining them financially. As his Mother baked throughout the day, she listened to her son play the Mandolin to his heart’s content. He also sang the songs his uncle taught him.

 

As a child, he took his time learning the Baker’s trade and the art of entertaining customers. However, this period in their life was short-lived because a flu epidemic hit Poland when he was eleven years old. He watched his Mother lying in bed pale and weak.

 

“Don’t die, momma,” he said to her in Polish, “I don’t want to be left here alone.”

 

“You are never alone, Staush.”

 

“Please don’t go,” he said with tears rolling down his face.

 

“An angel is watching over you,” she told him once again in a weak, frail voice, “you are a great person destined for great things. You just have to believe in your angel, and everything will be alright.”

 

“I don’t want to be here alone,” he repeated.

 

“Trust and believe what I tell you,” she told him slowly, “great things will become of you.”

 

She held his hand, “You will never be alone,” she said in a slow whisper, “Your Angel and I will always watch over you.”

 

He laid his head down on his Mother’s chest as he wept. He felt the life within slowly leave her body. He cried until he could cry no more. The pain of his Mother’s passing consumed him. He was now an orphan, and he was sent where orphans are sent.

 

The orphanage was very large and old and the building housed approximately four hundred children. It was located on a large hill roughly a mile from where he lived with his parents. There was a section for boys and a section for girls, and they slept in large dormitories. The only time the boys and girls commingled was in three large eating areas on the ground floor. During the day, they went to school on the second floor, where they learned to read and write. The girls stayed with the girls, and the boys stayed with the boys.

 

The orphans were also assigned chores, and Staush was assigned to the kitchen.

 

“What are you doing?” the cook asked him as he smacked him in the back of the head.

 

“I am spicing up the food,” he said, “it tastes like dry wood.”

 

“So you are a food critic?” the cook asked, “I cook for over four hundred people, little people, with no homes, no families. This is no restaurant, and I am no chef.”

 

“Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t spice the food up a bit.”

 

“What do you know about spices and cooking? You homeless child,” the cook asked.

 

“I wasn’t always homeless; my Mother and I owned a bakery before she died.”

 

“Well, then show me how you can cook for four hundred people and still find the time to spice up the food.”

 

Each day Staush went to work, the food never tasted better. In the evening, he played his mandolin and sang songs. The girls heard his voice through the dorm's open windows, and many of them assumed they were listening to a phonograph playing in one of the boy’s dorms.

 

The more he played his mandolin, the better he got, and the more he sang his songs, the better his voice got. To keep his mind occupied, he wrote down some words that sounded good with his improvised mandolin chords without realizing he was writing new and original songs.

 

He also read books at night, and he enjoyed reading. But something was lacking in his life. He was lonely; he felt as if he was all alone and unloved. He felt forgotten by the people in his village.

 

At times he was picked on and bullied by the older kids. He was just unhappy and depressed most of the time. He missed his mother and father. He missed the village where he grew up, and the happy times working in the Bakery Shop. He kept a small black and white photograph of his parents. In the photo, his mother held him when he was just a baby. He kept the picture under his pillow at night to keep them close.

 

In his melancholy nights when he felt alone and depressed, he would be reminded by his Mothers memories that a special Angel is watching over him, guiding him along in life. The thought of that Angel gave him the strength to continue. With the hope of a better future filled with love and companionship.

 

He was surprised one afternoon when his Uncle returned. It was shortly after he turned thirteen. “I kept your Mandolin,” he told his Uncle.

 

“That is your Mandolin,” his Uncle replied, “you play it much better than me.

 

His Uncle took his favorite nephew back home to the Bakery Shop, and they made a fresh start at their business. Once again, they were successful, and Staush enjoyed entertaining the customers to his delight. He seemed happy most of the time, but he never forgot his experiences at the orphanage.

 

At the age of twenty-five, he began to market his success and eventually owned five other bakery shops in the surrounding villages. He hired others to run them, but he visited the Shops often. He made sure that the products were baked and sold to his specifications so that the quality can never be lost.

 

“So, what is your secret, Staush?” A female customer asked, “why is it that everything you bake tastes better than what the other shops bake? What is your secret recipe?”

 

“I have no secret recipes,” he said, “everything I bake is a labor of love. I put in a dash of this and a dash of that, and I just whip them together as I go along. The things I bake are guided along with the ingredients, and I add the ingredients at the appropriate time.”

 

“Well, you have to have some kind of recipe,” she said.

 

“I follow my gut and heart when I bake,” he said, “no secret recipes needed, and besides, I never wrote anything down. I just add what needs to be added at the right time in my baking process. It is simply my labor of love, and it is my way of reaching out and connecting with my customers. When my customers are happy, I am happy.”

 

“Well, I am a happy customer Staush,” she said, “I don’t know what your secret is, but I will keep coming back.”

 

“My secret is this,” he said, “I don’t rush the baking process. I take my good old time. I make sure what I bake is just right because it is my labor of love,” he said once again, “I give a part of myself to my customers when I bake for them.”

 

When he was twenty-seven, he looked at the abundance he had gained in life through his success as a baker. But something was still lacking in his life.

 

He found himself thinking, more and more, about his experiences at the orphanage. He was constantly being reminded about the unhappiness he felt in that lonely place.

 

“The children,” he thought to himself, “the ones who are living at the orphanage now, perhaps I could make their lives a little better.”

 

He knew he could not change his past, but perhaps there was a way he could make the children's lives a little better. Baking, playing the mandolin, and singing were his ways of reaching out and connecting with others.

 

“I will share my gifts and talents,” he said out loud as he was making a loaf of bread for a particular order, “with the children,” he said once again.

 

He hired more bakers’ helpers, and they baked throughout the night. Early in the morning, they loaded the horse-drawn carriages from his five bakeries with small loaves of bread. They then delivered the bread through the orphanage’s back kitchen entrance. They placed the small loaves of bread next to the children’s beds as they slept.

 

He continued this routine every night. He also would stop by the orphanage in the late afternoon or early evening, play the mandolin, and sing them songs. The children grew to love Staush as he entertained them and baked for them.

 

He told them stories that reminded them of how special they were and how an Angel was watching over them.

 

“The Angel,” he said, “is placing small loaves of bread next to your beds at night. She does this so that you never go hungry because you all have an extraordinary mission in life.”

 

“An Angel,” said a suppressed little girl.

 

“Yes,” said Staush, “a very special Angel. You are all loved and carried for. You only have to believe in your Angel, and everything will be alright.”

 

The children looked forward to his daily visits, and Staush grew more and more attached to the Children. He told them stories that made them laugh and smile. He wrote songs that corresponded with stories he told, and the children loved singing along with him. Their faces would beam and light up every time he entered a room. They would then run up to him so they could be close to him. The children pulled on his heartstrings, and he loved the children.

 

When Staush reached the age of thirty-one, the Nazis invaded Poland, and the Village where he was living became occupied by German soldiers. Many high-ranking Nazi officers took over people's homes. Staush was forced to bake and cook for the German Soldiers.

 

In December of 1940, he learned that the Nazi Hierarchy would move the Children from the orphanage and take over their building. But he was unable to learn where the children were going. He did not trust the Nazis, and he knew in his gut that the children would most likely be abused or killed outright, and he could not let that happen.

 

He went door to door and talked to everyone he met, and he told them about the fate of the children.

 

“What can I possibly do?” said an elderly gentleman, “I am a poor man with minimal means to support myself, let alone a child.”

 

“All the child needs right now is a roof over its head,” Staush told him, “right now, your decision will determine whether a child lives or dies.”

 

The old gentleman stared at him, “and if this child is caught in my home, what is to become of me?” he asked Staush.

 

“You lived your life, old man, let this child have a chance at life,” he told him.

 

“I suppose I could give him chores to do around the property,” he said to Staush.

 

He jotted down names and addresses as he spoke to various people as if taking bakery orders.

 

“If you get caught,” his Uncle told him, “the Nazis will kill you.”

 

“This is something I have to do, Uncle,” Staush said, “I could never live with myself knowing I sat by and did nothing to help them.”

 

On Christmas Eve, horse-drawn Carriages from all five bakeries pulled up to the orphanage’s back kitchen entrance. They began secretly putting the children in the carriages and covered them up with canopies. They made ten trips that evening, dropping children off at various homes throughout the surrounding villages. Some families took in more than one child.

 

He and his baker’s helpers had many close calls with the Nazi patrols that night.

 

“Let me see your papers,” said the Nazi patrol officer in German, but Staush nor his helper could speak a word of German. They routinely handed over their papers that provided the Nazis with their name, address, and occupation. Staush then handed the two German officers two small loaves of bread. He told them in Polish with a big happy smile on his face, “shove this where the sun doesn’t shine,” the two German soldiers not understanding a word of Polish graciously took the bread from his hand. They went through that routine more than once that Christmas Eve, and by early Christmas morning, every child had a new home and a family to watch over them.

 

It wasn’t long before the Nazis discovered that Staush and seven coconspirators were behind the disappearance of four hundred children. They were quickly arrested and placed in a concentration camp. The only thing that saved their lives was their trade, but their baking skills were never utilized.

 

He soon realized that his fate was most likely to die in that camp. The winters were brutal due to the bunks being unheated. The food rations were meager, a little water and some bread in the morning, and that was it. The prisoners would pull the clothes off of dead bodies to give themselves extra layers to stay warm.

 

It wasn’t long before Staush’s well-nourished frame took on that of the other prisoners, the skin and bones of the malnourished, the living skeletons, and the walking dead.

 

He soon discovered that some male prisoners would crawl under the bunkhouses towards the women’s bunks and lay with the woman at night. They did this to share the warmth of their body heat. One night he followed their lead, and he too crawled into a woman’s bunk bed.

 

When the sun rose in the morning, he gazed at the woman’s face and into her eyes. Her face took on the characteristics of the painting that his mother gave him when he was a child. She had the same deep blue eyes of the Angel in the painting and a gentle angelic face. Every night he laid with her, “we are going to live,” he said, “we will not die here.” That woman gave him the will and purpose to live.

 

“What is the purpose of all this,” she asked him.

 

“Sometimes my Angel plays hide and seek,” he said, “when I think I am all alone in the world, others come into my life. My Angel guides them, like you, and she brings them into my life. We need each other now, and we will live because goodness always triumphs over evil.”

 

One summer, he noticed a young boy coming towards his bunkhouse. He quickly realized that it was one of the boys that he helped escape from the orphanage. He learned that a Jewish family took in the young boy, and being mistaken for a Jew, he shared his adopted family’s fate. The young boy found some comfort when he discovered that Staush would be there with him.

 

“Don’t worry,” he said to the boy, “we will get through this.”

 

“I know,” the boy said.

 

He tried to find the strength and the will to help the boy by engaging him in conversation. Staush’s health was failing though he was frail and very weak. Each day more and more people were dying from hunger and starvation. He was too weak to leave his bunk bed, and one morning he heard the voice of the young boy speaking to him up close in his ear. “Staush,” the young boy said.

 

He slowly opened his eyes and saw a small piece of bread next to his bed. “An Angel placed it here because she wants you to live,” the young boy said with tears rolling down his face, “you have to complete your important mission in life,” said the boy as he handed him the piece of bread. Slowly Staush ate it and drank a little water.

 

He lived to see Poland liberated from the Nazis by the Russian troops. The Russians released the prisoners, and he and his young friend survived. The woman who shared her body heat during those brutal winter months also survived the inhumanity.

 

He adopted the young boy from the camp and gave him a home. The woman with the deep blue eyes and the Angelic face soon became his wife. The Russians, after the war, took over Poland, and their country became part of the Soviet Union. The soviets had a brutal side to them as well. Life at the hands of the Soviets was both cruel and harsh. But Staush went on baking well into his eighties. He and his wife had four children after the war. His granddaughter is now running the Bakery Shops.

 

He lived to see the fall of the Soviet Union, and when he was eighty-two years old, an unexpected visitor came to the Bakery Shop. That unexpected visitor was Poland’s Prime Minister. He came to let Staush and his family know that their Government was converting the Old Orphanage into a School for the performing arts, and the School was going to be named after ‘Staush’ the Baker.

 

“That is nice. I can play my mandolin and sing there once again,” he told the Prime Minister, “I would like to perform there for the students and tell them about how the Angel helped the children and me during the war. My wife and my adopted son also survived the war.”

 

Shortly after the school opened, he played his mandolin and sang a few songs for the students. While he was performing, another unexpected visitor came to the school. That unexpected visitor was the Polish Pope, John Paul II. While the Pope was looking over the school, one of the students had the painting that was given to Staush by his Mother. The painting of the Angel was placed on the wall in the school’s Dinning area. The student also put a picture of Staush with Poland’s Prime Minister on the wall near the school’s main entrance.

 

“Well,” Staush said to the young student, “we are going to have to find a place to put a picture of me with the Pope.”

 

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” the young student said as the sound of camera shutters and flashing camera lights went off around them.

 

“I wish there was a way I could get a picture of me with my special Angel,” Staush said to the Pope.

 

“That would be nice,” the Pope said to him in Polish, “from what I hear, you have a remarkable way with children.”

 

“Well, when you enjoy the company of others, others enjoy your company,” Staush said, “it’s not rocket science or theology, it is merely being completely there for them.”

 

“You would have made a great Priest,” the Pope said

 

“I think my wife would disagree,” he said, “you are a great man and a great Pope. But I am not a religious man, and I have a deep spirituality, and I do my best to let it guide me. My Mother, when she was alive, told me an Angel was watching over me, and to this day, I believe her. My mission in life was helping the children, and I am still being guided along on my life’s mission.”

 

“I wish my Priests had that same faith and certitude that you have,” the Pope said, “we would have a much stronger church.”

 

“I believe my life’s mission is simply to love and to be loved,” said Staush.

 

“I too believe that,” the Pope said to him, “and from what I see, you are truly loved.”

 

“Angels at times will help us along by guiding others toward us,” Staush said, “they guide others toward us because we are sharing the same path in life. We are never alone in the world; we may feel alone at times. We may feel as if we came into the world set apart from others, but humanity is intimately part of us. In times of need, humanity becomes our greatest resource. If we could accept the fact that we are all here for one simple reason, and that is to love and to be loved, the world would be a much better place.”

 

“Yes, it would be a better place,” the Pope said, “and from what I see here, you are helping your corner of the world become a better place.”

 

“I met my wife in a great time of need,” he told the Pope, “without her I would never have survived the concentration camp. My adopted son came to me in a great time of need, and without him, I would have died in that camp. I believe an Angel put them on my path so that we can share that path in life, so that we could be there, completely there, for each other.”

 

“You are a good and kind man,” the Pope said, “you are also a man of great faith. The students are blessed to be in a school named after you. They are especially blessed to have met you in person. I am glad I met you as well.”

 

He lived to be eighty-nine years old and toward the end of his life. He became frail in body, but he was still strong in mind and spirit. His eyesight and hearing began to fail him, but he could still play his mandolin and sing his songs. But most of all he maintained a great love and affection for his family, community, and the students at the school.

 

His Mother was correct when she told him that he was destined for great things because his destiny was rooted in his kind actions. He also overcame the obstacles in life by simply believing that a special Angel was watching over him. She guided him along so that “I could complete my life’s mission which is to love and to be loved.”

 

He could not believe the attention and affection shown towards him in his old age.

 

“We all have the capacity,” he said to the students, “to do the right thing when the right thing needs to be done. Draw on what you know in your heart to be true, at that spontaneous moment in time. When the right thing is called upon, follow through with it, simply do it.”

 

“Why couldn’t the Nazis do that?” a young girl asked him.

 

“The Nazis, believe it or not,” he said, “had in their hearts compassion, love, and kindness, but they ignored their heart and soul. They suppressed their own humanity, but we can now learn from their inhumanity and atrocities. We now know what not to do, and we must never allow such atrocities to occur again.”

 

“Why is it that you survived and so many others died?” another female student asked him, “was it an Angel? If it was, why then didn’t the Angel save the others as well?”

 

“I don’t have those answers,” he said, “for me, I simply followed my instinct, my intuition, the small still whisper within. I was guided along on my life’s path.”

 

“Why you?” a male student asked, “what did you have that caused you to overcome and survive?”

 

“Why there weren’t more survivors,” he said, “I do not know, and that has bothered me for many years. Perhaps the Angel my Mother spoke of in my childhood helped me. But for those of you who do not believe in angels. The capacity for kindness, compassion, and love is an intimate part of our humanity.”

 

“A lot of good and caring people died,” a young female student said.

 

“Yes, I know,” he said, “perhaps, I survived because I reached out to others and others reached out to me. In the end, the inhumanity surrendered to our humanity.”

 

“Do you believe in survival of the fittest?” A female student asked.

 

“Yes, of course, I do,” he said, “we see it in nature, and we see it around us. But the Nazis took that theory to an extreme. We must always understand that our humanity is an intimate part of who we are as human beings. Throughout history, madness and insane regimes have terrorized good and innocent people. But in the end, our humanity and goodness triumph over evil. Perhaps that knowledge and understanding helped me overcome the nightmare.”

 

“So you were more fit psychologically,” the young female student asked.

 

“Well, let me put it this way,” he said to the students, “I knew the Nazi regime would soon come to an end. It had to end because, throughout history, the tyrants were destroyed. They were destroyed because they were tyrants. They are internally weak unstable, and they crumble in the end. Our capacity to love, care, and our ability to reach out to those of the least influence are what keeps humanity strong. That is why I believe in the survival of the fittest. My wife and an adopted son I met in the concentration camp also gave me the will to survive. I had something to hope for but most of all to live for.”

 

“You are a great man,” said a young girl.

 

“We are all great in our own way,” he told her, “you just have to believe in your greatness and live up to what you know in your heart to be true.”

 

“Play your Mandolin,” said a little girl as she placed her arms on his lap.

 

The music filled the room as the students smiled and sang along with him. Every Wednesday up to his eighty-ninth year, he met with the students to play his mandolin, sing his songs, and tell his stories. He enjoyed their company, and in turn, they looked forward to his company.

 

He cherished the attention and affection that the students, his family, and the community have shown towards him. He, in turn, returned that affection in greater fold. The reason being, as he eloquently told the Pope, “my mission in life is simply to love and to be loved.”

Always with love from Suzhou, China

Thomas F O'Neill

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