Chapter 5, Part 3
Monty’s cell phone went off as the plate
passed. Jana snatched it from his hand and dropped it in, along with a check
that had one too many zeroes on it. Pastor returned to the pulpit and began a
talk about God interrupting the ordinary with news of the extraordinary and
something about soteriology and the clear Christocentrism of the early desert
fathers.
“What’s he talking about?” asked Dewey,
wishing the pastor would get back to the shepherds.
“I don’t know,” shrugged Grandpa. “I never
know what he’s talking about.”
Dewey looked back at the ushers as they
gathered the plates together in the back of the sanctuary. “How much did you
get?” he asked Grandpa. Fern shushed her son before Jana could reach him. “How
much did you get?”
Grandpa raised an eyebrow. “What do you
mean?”
“How much? From the offering plate?” Dewey
waved a bill in the air. “I got a twenty.”
Grandpa snatched the greenback from the boy.
“Give me that.” He looked about and discretely tucked it in his own jacket pocket.
Dewey began to color in the hymn book. “I
wonder what they’re going to do with my dad’s quarter?”
“What do you mean?”
“With the quarter my dad threw in the plate.
What do they do with it?”
“I don’t know,” said Grandpa. “Probably send
it to the missionaries or something.”
“How
do they send it?”
“What?”
“How
do the missionaries get it?”
“Huh?
Oh, in the mail, I suppose.”
“Oh.” Dewey’s brow wrinkled up. “But it takes
thirty-five cents just for a stamp. If they send it to the missionaries,
they’ll end up owing ten cents for each letter.”
Grandpa shook his head. “If everyone did
that, the missionaries would go broke in no time.”
“He should have given the missionaries
another dime.”
“Yeah. Cheapskate.”
Five minutes into the sermon Dewey dropped
the hymnal and crawled under the pew. “What kind of place is this, anyway?”
Grandpa pulled the boy up by the collar and
plopped him back in place. “It’s a church. A Christmas place. Now sit down and
shut up. They’re talking about God’s love.”
Dewey looked about. “If this is a Christmas
place how come I don’t see a single window with Santa on it? There’s not one
stinking reindeer in the whole building. They do have a Christmas tree,
though.”
“Plastic,” grumped Grandpa.
Fern shushed them both, then added, “You’re
not supposed to talk in church.”
“He is!” Dewey’s voice was loud enough for
all to hear. He pointed up at the preacher, who paused a moment and lost the
place in his manuscript.
Grandpa bent over the boy. “Let me explain
here. You know the origin of Santa Claus...”
“What’s
a origin?” asked Dewey.
“That’s
where he comes from.”
“Well,
du-uh! He comes from the North Pole.”
Grandpa shook his head. “No. Not the
fictionary peeping Tom in the red union suit Santa Claus. The original Santa
Claus was Saint Nicholas. He was a fine Christian man who cared for the poor
and gave food to the hungry and homeless on Christmas.”
“If they were homeless, how did he get it
down their chimneys?”
“He didn’t.” Grandpa’s blood pressure was
beginning to rise. “He doesn’t. He went from place to place helping real people
with real problems. And not just at Christmas, either. He helped them all the
time.”
“Why?”
“Because he was... he was... I don’t know. I
suppose he was grateful.”
“For what?”
Grandpa didn’t answer until the sermon was
over and the ushers began to hand out candles. “For life,” he whispered. Then
he whispered it again.
Dewey had forgotten the question. “What?”
“The real Saint Nicholas gave gifts to the
poor because he was thankful for life. Family. For all his many blessings. I
don’t know. Ask him yourself tonight when he shows up to bring your coal.”
Dewey paused, then returned to coloring pages
in the hymnal. “Was there a real Mrs. Saint Nicholas?”
“I
don’t know. I really don’t.”
“I
think there was,” said Dewey.
Grandpa forgot for a moment that he disliked
the boy. “Why’s that?”
Dewey didn’t miss a beat. “Because most old
men need a round old woman to keep them from getting too cranky.”
“You’re probably right, kid. You’re probably
right.”
The congregation rose to light their candles
and sing the closing Doxology. Dewey had heard this one before. He saved his
voice for the last phrase and belted it out loud above the congregation.
“Praise father, son and whole wheat toast!”
“Whole wheat toast?” thought Grandpa out
loud. “Inexpensive day old bread. With the jelly toast proclaim. Kid’s got some
kind of wheat deficiency.”
The worshippers sang out a final “amen” and
Jana ushered the family out before anyone had a chance to talk to them.
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