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The Tablecloth

12/23/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
The pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn, arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. The church was run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve.

They worked hard, plastering, painting, and repairing pews, and on December 18 were ahead of schedule. Then on December 19 a terrible driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.


On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church.  His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high.


The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, deciding the only thing to do was to postpone the Christmas Eve service, then, headed home. A local business was having a flea market sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church. By this time it had started to snow.


An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew while the pastor got a ladder and hung the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.


Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor," she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?"  The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria. The woman could hardly believe it. She explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria.  When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week.  He was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.


The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.


What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return.


One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, sat in one of the pews and stared. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall. It was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war. He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between.


The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.


Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 6 (2008).

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The Wonder of Christmas

12/22/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
As Christmas approaches, I am reminded of a story told to me by George Burn, a fellow chaplain from Pennsylvania:

When I was in CPE training at Presbyterian Hospital in Philadelphia, it was Christmas Eve and I was on-call and had made rounds. I was heading back to my on call room when I ran into an OB-GYN doctor who had promised me an opportunity to see my first birth. "Do you still want to do that, George", said Dr. Abigazali. The night was quiet and I gave an enthusiastic, "yes."


The doctor said that the expectant mother’s husband had dropped her off at the hospital since he had primary care of the couple’s other children that night. We asked her permission and she was gratified that I would be there since her husband was to be away. I slept in the on-call room in the OB-GYN area since she was further along in her delivery than we had first thought.


The moment finally came, and I was gowned and escorted to the room and held the woman's hand while she pushed and moaned. At last at midnight on Christmas Eve in a flood of fluid, her boy was born and cried immediately. There was a black board on the wall on which were recorded the baby's vital statistics, and after a while, the baby was brought to his mother's arms, swaddled and asleep for her to hold. We had tears in our eyes. 


That night in an inner-city hospital, three people from very different backgrounds − a Muslim physician, a white protestant chaplain and an African American woman − joined together to share the miracle of birth. I began to think about Bethlehem and the Christ child and the wondrous events that surrounded that birth. 


That was in 1972. I have often wondered what ever became of the child and whether he was told that a chaplain was present at his birth. I wondered about the blackboard of his life and who had written on it. I wonder if he has a family of his own by now. I wonder.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 6 (2008).


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One Day at a Time

12/18/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
There are two days in every week about which we should not worry; two days which should be kept free from fear and apprehension. 

One of these days is yesterday, with its mistakes and cares, its faults and blunders, its aches and pains. Yesterday has passed forever beyond our control. All the money in the world cannot bring back yesterday. We cannot undo a single act we performed. We cannot erase a single word we said. 
Yesterday is gone!

The other day we should not worry about is tomorrow, with its possible adversities, its burdens, its large promise and poor performance. Tomorrow is beyond our immediate control. Tomorrow's sun will rise, whether in a splendor or behind a mask of clouds. But it will rise, until it does we have no stake in tomorrow, for it is yet unborn.

This leaves only one day: Today.

Anyone can fight the battles of just one day. It is when you and I add the burdens of two awful eternities - yesterday and tomorrow, that we break down.

It is not necessarily the experience of today that disturbs one's peace of mind. It is oftentimes the bitterness for something which happened yesterday and the dread of what tomorrow may bring.

 Let us therefore live one day at a time.

 Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 7 (2009).


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Gold Wrapping Paper

12/17/2014

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Picture© Patty Fitts. All Rights Reserved.
The story goes that some time ago a mother punished her five year old daughter for wasting a roll of expensive gold wrapping paper. Money was tight and she became even more upset when the child used the gold paper to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree.

Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift box to her mother the next morning and then said, "This is for you, Momma."

The mother was embarrassed by her earlier over reaction, but her anger flared again when she opened the box and found it was empty. She spoke to her daughter in a harsh manner.

"Don't you know, young lady, when you give someone a present there's supposed to be something inside the package?"

She had tears in her eyes and said, "Oh, Momma, it's not empty! I blew kisses into it until it was full."

The mother was crushed. She fell on her knees and put her arms around her little girl, and she begged her forgiveness for her thoughtless anger.

An accident took the life of the child only a short time later, and it is told that the mother kept that gold box by her bed for all the years of her life.

Whenever she was discouraged or faced difficult problems she would open the box and take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.

In a very real sense, each of us, as human beings, have been given a golden box filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children, family, friends and GOD. There is no more precious possession anyone could hold.

Reprinted from Grace Drops, Volume 7 (2009).


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    Author

    John Fitts is a retired hospital chaplain and a contributor & publisher of Grace Drops. John lives in Palm Harbor, Florida with his artist wife, Patty. 
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