Elwood the Elf

I have a friend, who lives at the North Pole and works for the big jolly man himself, St. Nick.  His name is Elwood.  He is an elf, Chief of the Elf’s (the COE is what they call him at Santaland), with an office directly across the hall from the wife of St. Nick and next door to Ernest, Chief of Production (the COP of Santaland-not to be confused with Citizens on Patrol, which is our version of COP).

Elwood stands a little taller than five feet, which is large for what an Elf actually measures in height.  He has a reddish complexion, a touch of gray hair, and big, brown eyes that seem to draw you into a conversation with him as he smiles and nods, making little notes on a TouchPad.  Four months out of the year, September through December, he wears a red and white suit, with a Santa tie, as he wonders around Santaland checking on all of the work going into the last minute production of toys, games, clothes and candies for all of the good boys and girls around the world.

My friend spends the first two months of the year taking it easy.  He has a condo in the Florida Keys and a cabin in Gatlinburg.  January is spent in Gatlinburg; February he lazes around the pool in the warm sun on the coast of Florida. (Actually it was in Florida where I met Elwood-I’ll have to tell you that story at another time)

March he heads back for a high-level meeting with St. Nick, Earnest and several of the other top dogs from Santaland, at a swanky little resort in the Alps, which Santa inherited from some long lost relative, who owned a toy company which he sold to Mattel.

After two weeks in the Alps, Elwood and all the elves go into high gear as they begin taking notice of who is naughty or nice; going through complaints from those who write or email about some small problem they may have had with the gift they received; and producing new and exciting toys, games and even candies.

Needless to say Elwood is an extremely busy man, but since we are friends, I have his phone number and we talk through out the year. 

We talked by phone today and he was asking about the kids in our area.  He knows that since my Savannah is ten years old and as pastor of the county seat church, I have a keen knowledge of the children in our area.

“Do you know this kid,” Elwood asked, “that goes by the initials S.T., lives up in the Goodwater area?  He wants some pretty big stuff this year.”

“I am not sure who he is but I’ll see what I can find out,” I replied.

“While we are talking, there are several kids I have not heard from yet,” Elwood says as I hear him turning pages in a notebook.  “I’ve yet to receive letters from the McCain children, the McDonald grandchildren and there is one here named Journey, who lives in the Hanover area.  Jumping beetles, even Savannah has not sent a letter to the North Pole yet.  Jeff, what’s up?”

 “Savannah has not sent a letter yet, but I reminded her the other day that she needs to write soon.  What is the cut-off date?”  I asked hoping that we still had a little time.

“December the 15^th is the day all letters need to be in the Post Office here at the North Pole or received by email.  After that date, we will have to do what we can.  We are talking about thousands of children around the world who have yet made any attempt to write Santa.  Man, these kids need to get those letters in as soon as possible.  I’m talking yesterday!”  Elwood was sounding exhausted.

“Elwood, get a cup of coffee and settle down,” I said, “It will all work out, my brother.”

“Earnest was in here just a minute ago,” Elwood said, “And he was trying to get a fix on the list.  He said that the whole baby doll line went down this morning, and they are trying to get it going again.  Then Mrs. Claus called, from across the hall-I mean she could have walked over her, but no she called me and not her secretary.  Said she wants to meet with me at 1500 hours for a look-see at the list.  If that is not enough, we all have been summoned to the Big Guy’s Conference Room this evening at 1800 hours for a pre-flight planning meeting with supper.  This means I will miss church tonight!”

“It sounds busy there, and I am praying for you…” but I was not going to finish my sentence, as Elwood interrupted me, and bells and whistles were sounding through the phone.

“Preacher, sorry but I have to run, something is happening downstairs in the boiler room.  Talk to you later…”

With that we were disconnected.

Mrs. America-A Favorite Lady from my past

On Sunday mornings is when I miss her the most.  Even though I have been through several churches since she was a part of my life, and I have come to love and cherish several great ladies along the way, she was one of those who truly placed an imprint on my life.

America Armstrong was a striking lady, one who always looked as if she had just stepped out of the beauty shop.  She was the daughter of an Italian emergent named “Valentine” who found his way to America and settled in Dadeville, Alabama on Lake Martin.  Her father was a businessman, family man and raised two boys and one girl to respect, love and honor America. 

She would smile and light up a room.  She loved her name and was with much affection called Mrs. America.

I guess that is how she gained an unusual name.  Mrs. America played the piano for the crowds that would gather in the restaurant in Dadeville.  From what I was told, she could rattle the house and pleased the people.

When I met her, I was the Youth Minister/Associate Pastor at Dadeville’s First Baptist Church.  She became a fast friend and one who stood by me with her whole heart.  She was loud, vocal and did not mind getting in a conversation.  She could hold her own.

Every Sunday morning she played the piano for the Men’s Sunday School Class, which was located across the hall from the Nursery in the “Chapel” just inside the north side of the educational wing and normally they would sing for about ten minutes before starting class.  Her Ladies Class, which she attended met across the hall from the men and all classes started at 9:45.

Each Sunday morning Mrs. America was fashionably late.  She would come through the doors around five minutes before ten and pass the hall where she was suppose to go and come down to my office.  No knock, no pausing at the door; she would come right in and announce that she was in the room:

“Good morning,” she would say loudly and clearly, “Bro. Jeff, how do you like my dress?  I selected it for the men and so the women could see it.”

She liked bright colors, and applied them with precise care, matching and accessorizing just right.  Even though she was up in years by that time, she was a beautiful woman, aging with much class and grace.  And play the piano-oh, could she ever!  I so enjoyed listening to her play.  Not only would I stand outside the chapel door and listen to her play, I would stand beside her as she would play monthly for our seniors meeting we hosted for the local hospital in our Family Life Center. 

The patriotic songs she played always thrilled me more than anything.  She would take those fingers, which were swollen with arthritis, and touch the keys ever so lightly; making it sound as if there were a band inside those wooden covered harps.

I not only took a liking to her, my wife also loved her immensely.  At that time we were developing our relationship, as she worked in Alexander City at Belk’s Department Store.  Tina says that she could be anywhere in the store and know when Mrs. America walked in the front door.  Mrs. America would stop and call out, “Tina!  Where is my Tina?”  Tina would hear her and come to meet her at the door.  Then she would spend the next hour or so helping her select dresses and accessories or giving her advice on how to winterize her wardrobe. 

If Tina had experienced one of those long difficult days, with no break to eat, America would leave, go home to Dadeville, prepare food for Tina and return with enough food to feed the entire crew.  But she was stern, “This is for you and you only; you need to eat, dear.”

As Mrs. America’s health began to fade, I would stop by to visit with her.  What a joy it was to sit and talk, listening to the stories of her past, and being assured of her future.  She planned her services, bought the dress she would be buried in from Tina and Belk’s.  She was ready to meet her King when she left this world.

Of course that was almost twenty plus years ago now, but I still think about her every Sunday morning.  I still see her walking into my office, twirling around like a school girl and asking for a complaint on her beautiful attire.  She was an amazing woman and yes, one my favorite ladies who entered my life and left an imprint.

Thanksgiving

Giving thanks should be second nature.  Oh, no, not to be taken for granted; but so common and so easy that in everything you give thanks.  That is thanksgiving as second nature.

            Thankfulness should be part of our everyday life.  It was in 1863 Abraham Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving a national holiday.  With that being the case, it wasn't until 1942 that it was made a legal holiday- the fourth Thursday of every November.  It is interesting that both of these moves came when our nation was in the darkest days of two wars-Civil War and World War II.  The time to think of God and be thankful is not just in a time of crisis, but as a part of our everyday life.

            In the midst of the mundane things of life, it is easy to overlook the opportunity to give thanks.  No matter if it is a crises of world portions or a small situation at home, there is something to see as an opportunity to give thanks.  A friend with cancer told me that he really did not have that much to be thankful for, except that he had the pleasure of seeing another sunrise.  That is second nature thanksgiving.

            In an article entitled “Remembering to Say ‘Thank You’ dated January 17, 2000 the story of Peter Cummings is told as follows:

            “When Peter Cummings was a little boy, his mother told him how important it was to write thank-you notes. So it became second nature to him. And when he became chairman of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra in 1998, he began writing personal notes to anyone contributing $500 or more to the orchestra.

            His habit made news recently. When Mary Webber Parker donated $50,000 to the orchestra, Cummings sat down and composed a note to her. Two weeks later, she wrote back and promised another $50,000. Cummings wrote her again. The upshot of the exchanges was a donation of $500,000 a year for five years a most generous $2.5 million boon to the arts in Detroit.”

            Such a small, little thing as a note of thanks paid off with great dividends.  All of us who have had have been had someone in our lives who taught life's "little things."  But we tend to lose sight of them as we grow up, pursue our adult life goals, and focus on life's big things. We neglect them. Life grows a bit coarser. And we grump about today's young people and their lack of civility and good manners.

            There's nobody to blame but ourselves. What has happened is we have lost that second nature of thanksgiving.  Therefore we need to quit pointing fingers at teenagers and scolding our own children or grandchildren. Instead, pay attention to the little things that collectively compose and define life. A good beginning point is gratitude.

            Make it a point to today to thank someone for something.  Whether a person you know well or a stranger you are likely never to see again, respond to the man or woman who renders you a service, helps you with a project, or makes your world a bit more pleasant with a smile.  Do not do it in hopes of getting a Peter Cummings-like reward for being considerate or appreciative. Do it simply because it is right.

            Does your wife or your husband start the morning coffee?  Do you work for a good boss or have a loyal assistant?  Do you like the way the laundry does your shirts?  Do the people who service your car do it well? Does your Sunday School teacher do a good job with the class?  Then say so to that person. Or tell that person's supervisor or his or her company president about it.

            Even if you do nothing more than smile and nod to someone who holds a door for you or say thanks to the postman or UPS driver who delivers something to you, that moment of contact builds community.  It affirms another human being. It connects two people who may never know each other's names.

            Or maybe as with Peter Cummings there will be a reward in it for you.  It could even be something more valuable than money. You could make a friend or become a partner with God in nourishing a soul made in his own image.