Holidays | Norma L. Brumbaugh

Good Will to Man

I love the Christmas Carols. I like the secular and the sacred Christmas songs. I love hearing them, singing them, and saying their lyrics. My Grandma Weigold had sheet music of Christmas songs on her piano. I loved singing as I played them. That’s where I learned “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack frost nipping at your nose.”‘

A few years ago I thought that Christmas was going to be a thing of the past. Happy Holidays was in vogue and competing for dominance. I remember thinking that it would be a shame for generations of children to not know the cheery greeting of “Merry Christmas” and was sad to think people would shamed from saying it in greeting.

I don’t have a problem with Happy Holidays, that’s not it. It’s just that people should be given the freedom to say which ever greeting they wish to say. I tend to skip the Santa stuff, and that’s my prerogative.

So, I’m going to share a little story. It was told to me in 2014 by someone I met. First, a little about her. She was a concierge at an elder care facility. She said that the employees at the facility were told to not greet visitors with “Merry Christmas” unless the visitor greeted them first with a “Merry Christmas.” We talked on Sundays when I came by to visit my aunt. She shared the following story with me.

Here is the story that she told me with my reflection concerning it.

. . .

MINISTERING “ANGELS”

Her smile is beautiful.

Some people go through life like angels on a mission. They show up where God leads them and say what He gives them. They march to a different drummer, one that is known only by them.

These ministering people are like angels among us. Their lives are filled to the max with divine appointments arranged by God. Every day is an adventure for these lovely giving people.

I talked with one such ministering angel. She volunteers in a hospital ward where there is much pain and suffering — where there is dying — where one goes at the final stage of life’s journey.

This dear woman starts her volunteer shift by asking God to lead her to whoever needs comfort and to guide her to say the right words. She does not plan this out. She leaves that to the Master Designer.

Some evenings the people she visits are nearing death. She says her name and that she is with them. She chats about this and that; kind, gentle talk. Her presence comforts. While she visits, she prays silently for the patient.

Each divine appointment is precious for those who, like her, are responsive to the prompting of the Spirit. Their lives have unusual encounters and astounding occurrences orchestrated by God. Sometimes the conversations she has with the patients are meaningful.

Last night’s chance meeting with this woman of faith made me realize something I had not thought of before. She lives in the “eternal” spiritual realm more than in this present earthly realm. Her steps are ordered by God.

Angels minister in the quiet places.

. . .

NO RESPONSE

The patient had arrived earlier in the day.

The woman’s body lay completely still. Her eyes stared forward. The bed sheets were smooth. The woman had not moved, tossed, nor turned. She appeared as if death had already claimed her spirit, but for her shallow breathing.

The volunteer, the ministering angel, entered the woman’s hospital room. She sat on the chair next to the bed. The woman gave no indication of any awareness of the volunteer’s presence. Nothing.

The volunteer’s fingers lightly touched the apparently dying woman’s arm. “My name is ‘Suzie.’ I’m going to sit with you for a few minutes.” She removed her hand. Suzie then made light comfort-type conversation.

Suzie sat there a while in silence and then touched the woman’s arm again. She spoke quietly to the patient, “I’m going to leave now. I want you to know I’m praying for you. I’ll stop by to see you again before I leave.”

Suzie completed the rounds and then she returned once more to sit next to the woman. Nothing had changed. The woman still had not stirred. There was no indication of any awareness of Suzie’s presence.

. . .

“J-E-S-U-S”

Again, Suzie touched the unresponsive woman’s arm.

“It’s Suzie. I’m back with you now. I’m going to sit here for a little while longer. I want you to know that I’m praying for you.” She sensed God wanted her there as a comforter. She continued to pray in the silence.

Then suddenly, the woman sat up and raised both arms. She looked up at the ceiling. With her arms reaching up, the woman expressively spoke a single elongated word, “J-e-s-u-s.”

Then the woman lay back down, her body still, her eyes closed. Shallow breathing was the only indication that she was still in the present. Shivers coursed through Suzie at what she had just witnessed.

Suzie was stirred by what she had seen. She thought of what the woman had just said, “J-e-s-u-s.” Suzie prayed; said goodbye; and then she left. She wondered what the morrow would bring.

The following evening Suzie returned to volunteer again. The woman was not there. Suzie inquired about her. The evening before, soon after Suzie had left, the woman’s earthly journey had come to a close.

And that gives me a shiver.

. . .

My father is a good father. He has lived his life honorably. Not every one is as lucky as I have been. I am cognizant of that fact. Today I want to honor my father by remarking on his life and what he means to me.

We lived on a farm. There were many opportunities to learn the meaning of work and how to do an acceptable job. The expectation of what Dad wanted was known to us children, and we worked hard to meet it. Everyone worked in our family. Farming life involves the whole family. No one was a slacker. Slacking off was inconceivable to us. I didn’t resent farm work, but I did enjoy the winters when there wasn’t so much to do.

Long ago my sister Lois related a story to me. A professor had just asked a provocative question. “What if you were slated to die when someone stepped in and offered to die in your place. Who would that person be?” She thought about who would be willing to die in her place, when the answer came to her. She knew that Dad would die in her place. That was saying a lot, and I’ve never forgotten it.

Something in my father changed when we lost Lois. Dad became softer, more expressive and demonstrative. Being demonstrative had not been the way of my parents. After that, Dad greeted me with a hug, and hugged me whenever I had to leave. He and Mother would stand outside and wave at me as I drove away (as they did with all their family). Dad still does this. He walks me out of his apartment and down the hall. He hugs me outside and then waits until I’m in my car. As I drive away, I wave at him and he at me. Residents and staff have remarked about it. It sets Dad apart, and it is a blessing me.

My father taught me how —

to ride a bicycle,
to drive a tractor at age 9,
to work hard and do well,
to think for myself,
to treat people right,
to tell the truth,
to do my best,
to save money,
to love my neighbor,
to honor God.
and to live honorably

Dad, thank you for blessing me.

Dad and Mom with their great grandson (my grandson) at Christmastime, 2010.

Life is different for Dad today.

We all interact according to what we can do.

Juanita, my sister from Idaho, calls Dad often. They talk about family and they read scripture together and talk about it. Dad reads a portion, and she reads a portion.

Marilyn, my sister from Washington, frequently calls Dad (my sisters alternate). Dad and she talk about places, people, and things in his history plus family, farming, and machinery.

Paul, my brother from near Red Bluff, almost an hour away, visits Dad weekly. He takes Dad out for a drive to places Dad enjoys. Sometimes they eat at In-N-Out, which Dad loves.

I, Norma, live a mile from Dad. I visit him a few times a week and take him to most of his appointments and take care of the daily stuff.

Of course, there are other things we graciously do for our father.