Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered
their means and then never had enough for the necessities.
But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as
all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes
from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling
like the world had caved in on me, because there just hadn't been enough
money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted so badly that year for Christmas.
We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa
wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible.
So after supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in
front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was
still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a
mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible; instead, he bundled up
and went outside. I couldn't figure it out, because we had already done all
the chores. I didn't worry about it long though—I was too busy
wallowing in self-pity.
Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night, and there was
ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good—it's cold out
tonight."
I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for
Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly
reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't
think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like
this.
But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet
when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on
and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I
opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know
what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house
was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were
going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We
never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa
was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside
him.
The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. After I got on,
Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed.
He got off, and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he
said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I
wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were
going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.
When we had exchanged the sideboards Pa went into the woodshed and
came out with an armload of wood—the wood I'd spent all summer hauling
down from the mountain, and then all fall sawing into blocks and splitting.
What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked," what are you
doing?"
You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked.
The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband
had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the eldest
being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said," why?"
"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging
around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood,
Matt."
That was all he said, and then he turned and went back into the
woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him.
We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses
would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we
went to the smoke house, and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He
handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he
returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a
smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?"
I asked.
"Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks
wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got
the children a little candy, too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a
little candy."
We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I
tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly
standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was
left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks
and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us. It shouldn't have been our
concern.
We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded
the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes
to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack, and a timid voice said,
"Who is it?"
"Lucas Miles, ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a
bit?" Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped
around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting
in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any
heat at all.
Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.
"We brought you a few things, ma'am," Pa said, and set down the
sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack
that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out,
one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the
children—sturdy shoes, the best—shoes that would last.
I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from
trembling, and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her
cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it
wouldn't come out.
"We brought a load of wood, too, ma'am," Pa said. Then he turned to
me and said, "Matt, go bring enough in to last for a while. Let's get that
fire up to size and heat this place up."
I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and, much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes, too. In my mind I kept
seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother
standing there with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in
her heart that she couldn't speak.
My heart swelled within me, and a joy filled my soul that I'd never known before. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.
I soon had the fire blazing, and everyone's spirits soared. The
kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy, and Widow
Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a
long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the
Lord Himself has sent you. The children and I have been praying that He
would send one of His angels to spare us."
In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat, and the tears swelled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned
it, I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than
Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had
gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless
as I thought on it.
Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was
amazed when they all fit, and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.
Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would
make sure he got the right sizes.
Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up
to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug.
They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed
their pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.
At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted
me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The
turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get
cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals.
"We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some
little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a
spell." I was the youngest. My two older brothers and two older sisters
were all married and had moved away.
Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't
have to say, "'May the Lord bless you'—I know for certain that He will."
Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within, and I
didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and
said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your Ma and me have been tucking
a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for
you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a
little money from years back came by to make things square. Your Ma and me
were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I
started into town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little
Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny
sacks, and I knew what I had to do. So, son, I spent the money for shoes and
a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."
I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Just then the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children. For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the
Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought
back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night.
Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night—he had given me
the best Christmas of my life.
