A Christmas Rose

 

I wrote this several years ago, but thought of it today...and thought I would post it again.

In the midst of a most trying year....I wish you a most blessed Christmas....

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As dogs go, he wasn't much of one.  Part Newfoundland Hound, part Springer Spaniel, and all ugly.  And, sadly, by any standard, he wasn't smart, but he had a smile that the little boy loved.  For as long as the boy could remember...nine years to be exact...the two had been inseparable.  The dog adored the boy, the boy loved the dog and,  until this Christmas, life had been good for both of then.

When the boy's father was drinking, which was often, he had a tendency to become a theologian of sorts.  He had a particular fondness for the prophets of the Old Testament and two hours after his birth, as his father was toasting the happy occasion for the sixth time, he decided on a name.  On the birth certificate, the boy's name was listed as Amos Ezekiel, but since his mother did not have quite the same regard for the prophets as his father, everyone called him Bud.

Standing outside the flower shop window, the dog watched the boy as he admired the roses through the glass.  With his hand on the shaggy, black head, Bud pictured himself walking to his mother's bed and laying the flowers in her hand.  He only needed two...maybe three.  It would make her Christmas so special and yet, the price was so much more than the few quarters jingling in his pocket.

There had been a time when he simply would have asked his mother for the money and she would have given it to him without much of a thought.  That was before his father had left, and it was before the cost of medication and treatment for his mother had swallowed what little money they had.  So, it was the dog, the boy, and his mother....and he had overheard the doctor tell his mother that this would likely be her last Christmas.

Running his hand through the dog's thick coat, Bud tried to envision life without his mother.  The thought brought tears to his eyes, but he had to stay strong, for he was the man of the family now.  His mother had told him that many times, and he tried to be brave, but Christmas without his mother....well, he just couldn't imagine it.  If this proved to be her last Christmas, he wanted to make it a good one.  The flowers would help, for his mother loved roses, but they were a luxury, and one thing they couldn't afford this year was luxury.

Using his coat sleeve to wipe the tears welling in his eyes, Bud took one more look at the flowers, and slowly walked on with the gray muzzled dog a step behind.  He glanced back, and the dog was looking at him with his tongue hanging out, displaying his typical lopsided grin.  The grin usually brought a warm feeling to Bud, but on this day before Christmas, even his dog's grin could not stop the cold fear growing in him.

The boy and the dog walked to the end of the block, crossed the road, and sat on the bench facing the Cathedral garden.  It was a small but beautiful garden, and a place where Bud would often come when he needed time alone.  The dog sat with his head on the boy's lap, as the boy gently rubbed the graying nose.  His eyes followed families rushing to finish their Christmas shopping, and people entering the Cathedral to prepare for the evening service.  But in his mind, he saw the roses in his mother's hand....only two or three....and they would make his mother so happy, for she loved roses.

A woman plopped down on the bench next to him.  She was the choir director from the Cathedral and Bud could tell that she was angry.  "Two months," she mumbled, partly to herself and partly to the boy.  "We've worked on it for two months, and they still can't get it right...it will be a disaster!  The tenors are tone deaf, the altos can't count, and the soloist is working up a great case of laryngitis.  This is the last year I'll ever do this."

"I'm sorry," said the boy, for he knew nothing about choirs and really didn't know what else to say.  "I'm sure it will go well." 

"There's no possible was that it's going to go well!" the lady almost shouted.  "Christmas will be ruined and I'll never be able to show my face in that church again."  With a sigh, she lifted herself from the bench and started back toward the building.  As an afterthought, she turned to the boy and said, "Have a good Christmas, young man."

Bud forced a weak smile and watched her walk away, but in his mind he saw his mother, and pictured himself handing her the roses....only two or three...and they would make her so very happy, for she loved roses. 

"It's going to be the worst sermon I've ever preached!"  the larger of the two approaching men shouted in a loud baritone voice.  He was addressing the chairman of the deacon's board and the two had stopped at the street corner next to the garden bench.  "I just haven't had time to work on it, and it reads like a bad novel.  It'll be a catastrophe!  Maybe I need a vacation." 

"I'm sure it will be just fine, pastor," came the reply.  "What really worries me is the music.  Have you heard that choir?  And even worse, Viola misses half the notes when she sings, 'What Child is This?'  She used to have such a wonderful voice, but she should have stopped singing years ago."

For the first time, they noticed Bud.  "Smile, my boy, it's Christmas Eve!"  boomed the pastor.  "Why are you sitting here with that glum look?  You should be home with your family."

"I'm a little sad," said the boy as he looked away from the men and down at his dog, "My mother's not feeling well," was all he could say. 

"Why don't you and your mom come to our Christmas Eve service tonight?" offered the deacon.  "It might cheer you up."

"Splendid idea," said the pastor, as he reached into his coat pocket for a flyer.  "All the information is on here," he said as handed the paper to Bud.  "Now, I really must get to work on my sermon."

"And I need to pick up a few things before the stores close," added the deacon as they hurried away in opposite directions.

The flyer slipped from the boy's listless fingers and settled in the snow.  He barely felt the dog lick his chin.  In his mind, he saw his mother, and pictured himself handing her the roses...only two or three...and they would make her so happy....for she loved roses.

Two women walked from the church and crossed the road.  "The tree started to die a week ago.  There will only be brown needles left by tonight," one whispered to the other, as they waited at the corner.  "And have you ever seen such pathetic looking wreaths?" 

"I told you they started decorating too early," came the reply.  "The whole thing was poorly planned from the beginning.  Well, I'm tired of telling them.  Just let them be embarrassed tonight.  We'll be a laughingstock, but maybe they'll do it right next year.  If I wasn't so busy, I'd do it myself!"

A whine from the dog, drew their attention to the boy.  Bud was absentmindedly scratching behind the dog's ear, and the dog loved it.  He whined again, completely content with life.

"What a cute dog," the lady lied.  "But shouldn't you be home getting ready to open your presents?  All you kids seem to think about these days is what you'll get for Christmas.  You've lost sight of what the season is all about."

Bud sat quietly, staring at his hands.  He hadn't even thought of what he might get, but he did know that it wouldn't be much.  Before he could say anything, the woman was digging through her purse.  "Here," she said, handing him a tract she had pulled from the bag.  "This explains what Christmas really means."

"Thanks," was all the boy had a chance to say before the women hurried across the road.  Bud read the title, "Putting Christ Back Into Christmas," but he couldn't get much further.  He just didn't feel like reading.  The tract soon found a place next to the flyer.  In his mind, he saw his mother, and pictured himself handing her the roses...only two or three...and they would make her so happy, for she loved roses.

A man in an expensive suit hurried across the road and collapsed on the end of the bench.  "Two months," he almost shouted at the startled boy.  "For two months we've been shopping...we have dolls, doll houses, doll dresses, and doll cars....we have board games, computer games, a play station, and clothes....we can barely walk through our bedroom.  And this afternoon, the brat decides she wants a puppy for Christmas.  A puppy!  My wife chases me out of the house and tells me not to come back without a puppy.  Why am I telling you this?  You're just a kid and all you kids are just alike....spoiled rotten and always after something for nothing."

Bud looked at the grinning dog on the ground next to him.  An uncomfortable thought was inching its way into his mind, and it kept advancing, regardless of how hard he tried to push it back.  He stared at the stupid, lopsided smile, but all he saw were the roses...the roses in his mother's hand.  Oh, how his mother loved roses, and he only needed two or three.

"Mister," the boy's voice was barely audible, as he kept his eyes on the ground away from the dog.  "I'll sell you my dog."

Laughter burst from the man and the belly beneath the expensive suit jiggled.  "Son, I appreciate the offer, and I'm sure he's a fine animal, but if I brought that mutt home, my wife would divorce me."  He looked at the dog and giggled again.  "Where can I find a puppy on the day before Christmas?" he spoke to himself as he stood and began to walk away.  "Have a merry Christmas, kid."

Bud was ready to go home, but the dog had climbed up with him, and was sleeping soundly with his head in the boy's lap.  Just as he was about to wake him and leave, an old man staggered across the road and dropped unceremoniously onto the bench.  Fumes of whiskey enveloped the area as the ragged man shouted with a smile, "Merry Christmas, youngster," and gave him a slap on the leg.  The drunk ran his hand through the thick hair of the sleeping animal and told the boy that he had a unique looking dog.  "What do you make him out to be?"  he questioned.

"I guess he's pretty much of a mutt," the boy answered.  "But over the years, I've grown kind of fond of him."  The dog was dreaming and his grin grew even more goofy and lopsided.  Bud rubbed the nose as he had so many times over the years.  Again he saw the roses in the hand of his mother, and almost without thinking, he turned to the man, "Mister, I'll sell him to you for six dollars.

"Now, why would you want to sell a fine dog like that for six dollars?"

The question caused words to flow from Bud like they had never flowed before.  He told the inebriate about his mother...about her illness....about the roses, and his mother's love of roses.

When the boy had finished, the gray haired old man had a far away look in his eye.  Somehow, through his alcohol muddled mind, he had traveled back more than half a century.  Clearly, he saw his mother and he saw a child handing the woman a small bouquet of wild flowers.  He recognized the child as himself, before the world had beaten him into the man he was today, living from drink to drink, waiting only for death to remove the pain.

His hand went to his pocket and he felt the well worn ten dollar bill he had hoarded to buy the whiskey that would make Christmas Eve and Christmas Day bearable, or at least help him sleep through it.  He looked at the dog, then at the boy, and he saw himself all those years ago.

Standing slowly, and with much effort, the grizzled old man took the bill from his pocket and laid it on the bench.  "Keep the dog," was all he said, as he slowly walked away.  Bud jumped to his feet startling the dog.  The boy grabbed the bill, and ran after the retreating figure.  When he caught up to him, the old man smiled through the tears in his eyes, "You'd better get to the flower shop before it closes."

In his joy, the boy hugged the old man and turned toward the store.  The man watched him go.  "Kids nowadays," he said to himself as he turned toward his little shack on the edge of town.

Bud raced into the house with the grinning dog close behind him and three beautiful roses in his hand.  Slowly he walked to his mother's room, looked inside, and made his way to the side of the bed.  Her eyes opened slowly, and a smile crossed her face as she saw her son place the roses on her arm.  She was to weak to speak but the smile, and the tears slowly moving down her cheek told Bud that his gift had touched her.  He went to the other side of the bed, crawled in next to her, and held her hand.  As he began to doze, he dreampt that the hand would always be there for him to hold.  The peacefulness of the dream shattered when his eyes slowly opened.   To him, she had always been the most beautiful woman in the world, and in death she remained so.  While he had slept, she had pulled the roses onto her chest, close to her face as if to catch their fragrance.  Her other arm was around Bud's shoulder, pulling him close.  As he looked at her, through his tears, he pushed a wayward strand of hair back into place.  He kissed her cool forehead and let the tears flow freely.  The dog put his head on the edge of the bed, his eyes on the boy, and for the first time the boy could remember, the stupid grin was gone.  In the background he heard the gentle music from the radio, "So this is Christmas....and what have you done...another year over....and a new one's begun..."

On the edge of town, the old man lay under his blanket on a small, rickety bed.  He was starting to shake as his body demanded whiskey that he could not supply, and he knew it was just the beginning.  The night would be a sleepless one and Christmas Day would be dreadfully long, but he remembered the joy on the kid's face and had no regrets.

In another house, closer to the center of town, a little girl had brought two months of shopping to an end in fifteen minutes.  Wrapping paper and half used toys were scattered everywhere.  The mother carried the little girl to bed while the father went to the kitchen to make a place for the puppy.  It would be a long night for him as well.

As the Cathedral bells chimed, people began to file from the church.  It had been an extraordinary service, by all accounts.  The pastor had preached one of his best sermons in years, and was receiving the congratulations due him.  The choir absolutely brought the music to life, and even Viola sounded twenty years younger.  In the candlelight, the oldest members had to agree that the setting was the most beautiful they had ever seen in the church.  It had been a most memorable Christmas indeed.

On the first Christmas Eve, a young woman prepared to give birth to the greatest thing to ever set foot on this spinning pile of dirt. The Creator God, wrapped in human flesh and taking human form would step from eternity into time.  The Creator touching his creation.  Some two thousand years later, as pastors preached, choirs sang, and gifts were exchanged, that same Creator was still touching his creation.  He was gently wrapping his arms around a little boy....a boy holding three beautiful roses and hugging an ugly dog, as they sat through the darkest of nights.  And, perhaps to the dismay of some of the more religious, He was also in a lonely shack on the edge of town, sitting close to the bed of a shaky old man who had given a few moments of Christmas joy to a young stranger.