Sweet Christmas Message For Boyfriend
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(St. Joseph, Missouri)
Dear Harry,
This is the day before Christmas and I am writing a little note to tell you how much I love you this holiday season and for the future of our marriage. I know it will be tough when I get back home as my brother will want me back on the farm.
My plan was to send it to you if that happened. But now I’ll have to do something else and hope to find some way to continue with what we’ve started in St. Joseph. The other day when I asked you about your feelings for me, I got no answer.
Did you think I was trying to trick you? It just didn’t occur to me that you weren’t ready to marry. You were so shy, and I guess I thought you would come around once you know more about me. I hope you’re not ashamed of me or feel embarrassed because of all the fuss I made.
If there’s one thing I want to do more than anything else, it’s to see you. That’s why I’m writing this letter. There’s a train leaving at four o’clock today that should reach New York City by six. If you’d like to come up here and visit for a few days, you can take the night express and I’ll meet you there.
All you need to do is ask the porter where I’ll be staying, but don’t mention who sent you or how I know about you. I hope you’ll agree to this offer. I’m afraid you might think it silly of me to ask you to do this, but it’s my last chance at seeing you before I head home. So please don’t disappoint me and take advantage of my kindness.
Your sweetheart,
(Anna)
***
“It’s the end of the world as we know it,” he mumbled, holding his head with both hands and looking at the ceiling. He could feel Anna’s letter in the pocket of his coat, where he had slipped it out while reading it.
Now he was stuck in a strange land, having to rely on strangers to get him to safety, all the time wondering if someone would see through his disguise and realize he wasn’t who he pretended to be. It wouldn’t be much longer until his cover got blown.
He remembered his first morning in St. Joseph. After he woke up and dressed, he took a short walk down the street. He didn’t feel nervous about walking alone, but instead was thinking about how nice it felt to have such freedom.
A few other women and children were out, too, which made the scene more festive. There seemed to be so much less crime than in Chicago. The houses were bigger, newer, and better kept. And they all had fresh flowers on their front porches.
His stroll led him to a big brick house where he saw a sign advertising the services of a barber. While he waited for the shop to open, he walked into a small store and bought a few things, including a cigar. As he left the store, the bell jingled above the door and two young girls ran out carrying trays of baked goods.
They raced toward him with smiles on their faces. They each held a little box and handed one to him.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. St. Paul,” they shouted as they ran past him. “God bless you.”
He smiled, pleased to see people being so friendly and wishing everyone a happy holiday season. He kept walking and came upon a church. When he stepped inside, the building was decorated beautifully with holly, red berries, and a Christmas tree. The choir sang carols that sounded just like the ones back home. It felt so good to hear them again.
When the singing ended, a short man wearing a clerical collar came down to meet him. He gave a warm greeting to St. Paul, who was impressed with his friendliness. It made him realize that God must be in this place after all, and he hadn’t been mistaken about his decision to leave Chicago.
The man introduced himself as Rev. Charles Platt. After he learned about St. Paul’s situation, the priest led him to a small office where they talked over coffee. He told St. Paul how God had directed him to open a mission here in St. Joseph as part of the Society of the Holy Cross.
A few weeks ago, Father Platt received a letter from his mother telling him about St. Paul’s situation. His mother had found it hard to believe but believed his account of the shooting. She mentioned the name “Anna” and asked her son if the woman he loved was named Anna, too. After the first visit, the two became friends. They visited often and prayed together.
During their conversation, St. Paul asked the priest what he could do to help out his fellow Irishmen, many of whom were left homeless after the fire and now had nowhere to go. Father Platt suggested he volunteer at the mission to show his support for the people who’d suffered.
“That’s a fine idea,” St. Paul said. “I’ll have to see about getting the proper clothing first, but I’m eager to begin work.”
While he was thinking about all the things he would need to buy to start volunteering, Father Platt called for some men who had come to the mission after the fire and were looking for shelter. They all had nothing more than the clothes on their backs. They showed their gratitude to St. Paul and asked if he would help them get back on their feet.
“Why not?” St. Paul said. “God will surely bless me for helping my fellow countrymen.”
He decided to buy a new suit as soon as possible, which he could wear when working with the homeless. While he was doing that, Father Platt came by.
“How is your health these days, Mr. St. Paul? It seems you are in good spirits, considering what happened.”
“My head hurts quite a bit, Father, but God must be using it for His glory somehow.”
“May He keep you safe wherever you go,” Father Platt said? “We need a priest at the mission so others can find the peace of God through His word.”
The next day, while St. Paul was looking through a tailor’s window, he spotted another sign: “God will show you the way.” As soon as he read the words, he realized the sign was an answer to his prayer. This wasn’t just a mission, but a place where God was truly present.
By the time he got dressed and walked back into the church, the sun was setting. The choir had finished its practice and was singing the beautiful song “Ave Maria.” A few people in the congregation left before they started the sermon.
One young man, who looked about eighteen or nineteen, came inside and stood behind him. He wore the same type of clothes as St. Paul but seemed taller, much stronger, and more confident. St. Paul noticed this as well.
It reminded him of himself before he became a member of the Society of the Holy Cross. The boy was wearing a wool hat and coat that appeared new. It was the only one he owned.
He gave the boy a smile as he passed by.
“Mr. St. Paul?” the boy asked when the priest had finished leading the mass.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my place again,” St. Paul said, embarrassed to have forgotten the reading for Mass. “If it’s too difficult, you can start without me.”
“No, it’s all right. Don’t worry about the reading. I’ll do it,” the boy replied. “It’s just that I have something to say about you.”
When the priest led them to the altar, Father Platt stepped forward. “As you can see, Mr. St. Paul is no longer among us.”
The young man gave a deep sigh, which made the hair on his neck stand up. The boy knew St. Paul wasn’t dead; otherwise, there would be a funeral.
“But he still has a lot to offer us, and so I thought I’d ask if you would help lead the men at the mission where St. Paul worked.”
St. Paul smiled and nodded in agreement.
“Mr. St. Paul, you are one of God’s chosen people,” Father Platt said. “Your help is urgently needed.”
“God’s will be done, Father,” St. Paul answered.
***
As soon as they were finished with the Mass, the young man left. St. Paul felt a little better now that he knew his fellow Irishmen were being cared for.
He decided to walk over to the tailor’s and purchase his suit. The tailor said he could make one for him within a few days. St. Paul gave him some money, then went next door to a grocery store and purchased enough food to last three meals for the homeless, who seemed eager to get settled into their new homes.
The boy’s voice came from behind him.
“Can you give me a hand with these boxes?”
“Certainly,” St. Paul replied, looking down at his feet. “You have a heavy load.”
“Thank you,” the boy said, smiling. “I hope we can be friends.”
When he got back to the mission, he noticed one of the men had already started painting a fence.
“That’s my friend John,” St. Paul said as he helped John carry a large box. “I think he might be in your class.”
John turned around and looked up.
“You’re St. Paul!” he said. He gave the priest a hearty handshake, which surprised St. Paul. John was an easygoing person, but he rarely showed such warmth.
“It’s nice to meet you, John,” St. Paul said. “We haven’t met before. You must be one of the older kids here.”
“Yes, I’m in the third grade, which is like first in the states.”
“I guess you’ll have to teach me some things about Ireland, then, if you want to know the things you need to know.”
They walked side by side while they talked.
“What do you know about St. Patrick?”
“I know he was born in England, and that he was baptized in a church in Dublin.”
“But what else do you know?” St. Paul asked.
“Not much,” John admitted. “We only learn about him for a few days each year. But that’s enough to tell us what we should do.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” St. Paul asked.
“My mom and dad will be coming to get me,” John answered.
“Then why don’t you come over to the mission? I’m sure all the children would love to meet you.”
John nodded enthusiastically.
“You’re one of the Holy Cross,” St. Paul said as they came to a door. “Come inside and I’ll show you around.”
St. Paul unlocked the door and then led them into the main room.
“This is where you’ll find the other children. There’s only a few of us right now, but I’m sure more will come soon.”
The boy looked down at the floor, embarrassed to have so little furniture. It seemed a sad sight to St. Paul who had lived through the Great Famine in Ireland. He took a quick look at each child in turn. Each one gave him a friendly smile.
“My name’s Michael. Would it be all right if I called you Father Paul, just like everyone else?”
“If you like,” St. Paul answered.
Michael went on his way, and St. Paul thought to himself how fortunate he was to have these children to help. They were a source of joy for him.
***
When he came back to the mission, he found Mary standing next to a cot that held a small man with long, dirty, disheveled hair. The man wore a worn-out coat that had obviously been patched many times, and a shirt that looked too large.
“That’s Father Joseph,” St. Paul said as he watched the priest wash the old man’s feet with water from a dipper.
Father Joseph washed the man’s feet for some time, and St. Paul stood back, admiring the way the priest worked the cloth in an up-and-down motion. When Father Joseph stopped, the man’s feet looked clean and fresh.
“How about if we eat now, Father Joseph?” St. Paul asked. “We have enough food to feed about twenty people.”
“All right,” the priest answered. “Bring out the bread first, and then I’ll get the soup.”
As they ate their meal, Father Joseph asked about the mission.
“I heard there were two churches here, but not one,” Father Joseph said.
“The other church is over in the blacksmith’s town.”
“Are you going to build a new church?” Father Joseph asked.
“Yes, if God allows.”
Father Joseph turned to a boy sitting on the floor, who happened to be named George.
“George, what do you think?”
The boy gave it a moment’s thought before answering.
“Well, I guess we need a bigger church so more people can come.”
“Is that why we’re building this one?” Father Joseph asked.
“Yes,” George answered. “Our parishioners have grown.”
Father Joseph nodded. “Then you should come and see us sometime.”
St. Paul thought for a moment and then said, “Perhaps we will. But first I’d like to talk with the mayor of this town.”
***
A few days later, St. Paul was walking down a dusty road toward the blacksmith’s town. He was carrying an armful of books he had borrowed from the school library.
“There’s some good reading in these,” St. Paul said to himself.
He knew the blacksmiths would be busy at work on the day after Thanksgiving. There wasn’t much else to do on the long holiday, so they stayed home and worked on their tools and implements.
When he arrived at the town, he found it almost deserted. Most of the blacksmith shops were open, but not all of them. The ones that weren’t open usually had a sign hanging over the door saying: closed today. A couple of the blacksmiths were sitting on their cots smoking pipes.
“Do any of you want to read my books?” St. Paul asked. “We’ve got a nice big table in our room at the mission, where we’ll be staying the next two weeks.”
Most of the blacksmiths were too busy working to answer him, so St. Paul went back to his room at the mission and showed Mary what he had.
“I don’t know if these will help you in your work,” he said. “But maybe some of the younger children will like them.”
Mary laughed. “You’re going to need every book I have for the little ones. We’ll probably have fifty of them by Christmas.”
***
The last day before Christmas arrived, and the children at the mission gathered to sing carols.
St. Paul stood near the front door and watched them as they sang. He could see how much they appreciated the songs about Christ’s birth. The older boys and girls played the harmonica and the flute, while the others clapped their hands to the beat of the music. The older women also joined in and sang some songs they had learned from their mothers and grandmothers.
He had taught them many different carols over the past few months. When it was time to leave, he looked at Mary with a sad expression on his face. “It was wonderful to hear your children sing. But I can’t stay here after Christmas. I’m not supposed to have anything to do with Christmas.”
Mary turned to a boy named James, who had been learning to play the piano. “James, will you play this song for us?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The boy took his seat at the piano.
A moment later Mary brought her guitar in and began to play. It was a slow, soft song, and the children sat still and quiet to listen. Mary had picked out some simple tunes to teach the children. The last tune she played was one of the most popular songs in the mission: ‘Jingle Bells.’ The children loved it. Some of them even whistled the tune as Mary strummed the chords.
The End