A Child's Gift of Love

By D. Kinza Christenson

A daughter is a gift of love.
~Author Unknown

It always seemed like having traditions was a good thing. They create memories that will last a lifetime. So when our children, David and Darla, were preschoolers we started a family Christmas tradition. It was our tree-trimming party and it would be complete with eggnog and pfeffernüsse cookies.

The kids were excited as we hauled the freshly cut tree into the house. It smelled so good. The ornament boxes were brought up from the basement. We would turn on the Christmas carols and the tree trimming would begin. The routine was always the same: First the lights — oh, how they'd sparkle; then the ornaments — each child had favorites. This was followed by the precise (or not) draping of some beads, and topped off with delicately hung tinsel.

Our hearts seemed to dance to the merriment of the Christmas carols. The kids' eyes twinkled with excitement and anticipation. It was a heartwarming, cozy evening. When finished, we would sit sipping the eggnog and snack on pfeffernüsse cookies as we admired the beauty of the radiant Christmas tree.

Years later, when my daughter, Darla, was home from college, she offered to help trim the tree. I was so grateful. My husband and I were empty nesters now and I wasn't looking forward to trimming the tree alone. With our daughter, the tree trimming was delightful. We turned on the Christmas carols. It was just fun being together, laughing and sharing the latest news of friends and what was happening in our lives.

Before we knew it, the tree trimming was finished. It was a beautiful tree and its fragrance filled the room as its trimmings majestically reigned and heralded the advent of another Christmas. As we had every year before, I brought out the eggnog and the pfeffernüsse cookies for our traditional celebration. It was always the highlight of the evening and having my daughter home in itself was a Christmas present to celebrate.

Then, amidst the laughter, Darla suddenly got very serious and said she had something to tell me. From her hesitation and body language, I knew she was dreading it.


I sat down on the couch to prepare myself for whatever this college student was about to say. She sat down next to me. I could feel my heart pounding in anticipation. Then very gently and caringly, Darla looked me in the eye and proclaimed: "Mom, I've never liked pfeffernüsse cookies."

Whew, at first I was relieved. Then I realized the absolute magnitude of what she had just said. Why didn't she ever tell me? All those childhood years, rather than hurt Mom's feelings and spoil Mom's tradition, she had endured the cookies in silence. From preschool through teenager years she never said a word. I hadn't realized it at the time, but from a child's heart, year after year after year she had given me the gift of love!

The meaning of Christmas really touched me that year. I've always remembered that very special tree-trimming night when the Christmas tree lights twinkled and our hearts glowed and my daughter taught me life's very important lesson: The best gifts aren't always found under the Christmas tree.

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The Sweet Stuff

By Judy A. Weist

I stood beside the snack table that displayed the various holiday treats for my daughter's pre-kindergarten class. Cupcakes with thick frosting, cookies with colorful sprinkles, cakes of every shape and flavor. Balancing my two-year-old son on my hip, I added my bottle of apple juice to the array of items. Suddenly, I felt inadequate. Was I a bad mom for bringing the apple juice instead of baking? I promised myself, the next party, I would be like the other proud moms who stood closely beside their baked items as if to say, "See me? I baked. I'm a good mom."

The next party came before I knew it. As a working mom, I tried my best to squeeze in everything — quality time, play time, laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking — with work. Now I added cookies. I managed to bake some from a mix and brought them in proudly. I placed them on the table among the other baked goods. Immediately, someone turned to me. "Oh, cookies. Are they homemade?" It was then, I realized, there was a rating on the bake scale. From a box, low score. From a mix, just passing. From scratch... now that's topnotch. The same rule applied for church functions as well as large family gatherings.

Trying to keep up with the other moms with my family and my schedule was added stress I didn't need.

"Could you bring the cookies?"

I'd be baking at midnight.

"Could you bring potato salad?"

I'd be peeling those potatoes for hours.

For years I added more and more to my plate, excuse the pun. One Sunday morning, while preparing my meal for an after-church dinner, I found myself running behind. My daughter couldn't find her school shoes and her dress shoes were too tight. Now an unexpected run to the store was needed to avoid the embarrassment of wearing dirty sneakers with a dress. My mind raced. Would we be late? Would the food stay warm? Would it taste bad if it had to be reheated? I grumbled all the way, sighing as we hastily tried on shoes and raced to the checkout.

Eventually arriving at church, I smiled and handed my well-made dinner to the ladies in the kitchen. Then I glanced at my daughter, standing there quietly, teary-eyed with shiny shoes. What was I doing? I realized my homemade dinner was not worth what I gave up to make it. It was then I decided to de-stress my obligations.

The following week I received a phone call. "We're having a family picnic tomorrow. I forgot to call in advance. You are down for macaroni or potato salad."

I glanced at the clock: 6:30 p.m. Right then, my kids called from the other room where they were sitting, popcorn in hand.

"Mommy... the movie's coming on!"

I hung up the phone, snuggled next to my kids and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

The next day, the kids and I took our time as we got ready for the picnic. I helped them find their shoes, and I braided my daughter's hair. We sang silly songs in the car. On the way, I detoured and swung into the grocery store. I quickly bought two pounds of macaroni salad from their fantastic deli, dumped it into my yellow bowl, sprinkled it with paprika and covered it with plastic wrap. Done. We continued on, singing all the way.

I have continued this easy, no-stress way of cooking for every event since. Pre-made cupcakes from Sam's Club. Holiday pies from a bakery. It freed up my time, was stress-free, delicious and easy! Baking with the kids was fun and done more often due to the miracle of tub cookies, slice and bake, and pre-sliced in a tray. My kids loved how easily we baked and how good those warm cookies tasted.

My kids are now in college. They can recall childhood things such as movie nights, silly songs, and games at the fair. But honestly, they can't remember one cupcake or cookie from a school party.

Today my son called from his apartment. We only talked briefly before he announced, "I have to go now Mom. I'm baking."

"Really?" I asked, rather surprised, but happy. "What are you baking?"

"Cookies."

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I smiled. I was a good mom.

Heartbreak and Faith

By Michael John Sullivan

It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts.
~K.T. Jong

On a November night in 1983, my father tried to break down my bedroom door in a fit of rage. For most of my twenty-three years, my silence and refusal to take part in the sparring wars that took place daily in our household had made me an outcast. I had survived many nights by escaping to my attic room, shielding myself from the insults. When my mother — my protector — had lost her battle with cancer and was called home by God the previous year, I knew my continued existence in our Richmond Hill house was fragile.

My father told me to leave the next day. I found some shelter with a friend until he left to go home. I sought aid from a few other college buddies, but they couldn't help. On Thanksgiving Day, my aunt on Long Island said I could stay with her. But when I called the next day to see if they could pick me up at the train station, my uncle said, "Your father really lashed into your aunt. I'm sorry, but we can't help you."

Weary from the begging, I gave up and made the E train in New York City my home at night. I continued to seek employment, even landing a job interview. But I had nowhere to take a shower. I tried a nearby university, but the showers were being renovated. I had no other choice but to wash my hair in a toilet.

While riding the trains at night, I reflected on my motives, my goals, and most importantly, my faith.

Who was Jesus Christ to me?

I knew from rigid classroom teaching how history viewed Him. But what did He mean to me, huddled at the end of the subway car, warming my feet? I didn't know. I remember looking around the train, avoiding eye contact whenever possible, embarrassed over my dirty appearance and fighting off a nauseous feeling after truly comprehending that this was now my bedroom. I had nowhere to go. Nowhere.

And I asked the question over and over again: Where are you, Jesus?

Then I did what came naturally. I pulled a notebook and pen out of my green garbage bag of belongings and started to write. Was there something more to my relationship with Jesus than just reciting the Lord's Prayer?

On New Year's Eve in 1983, as I walked through the streets I had biked as a kid, I started to cry. It was frigid, and the wind rammed its force into my face, fingers, and toes. I didn't want to spend another night on the dangerous subway. I walked quickly to a familiar church in the neighborhood. I got there before the last service of the evening ended, and hid in the back under a pew. I waited anxiously for everyone to leave, hoping no one would notice. They didn't. I felt a sense of relief as the doors were locked.

I was alone. The wind creaked eerily in the old church, the slightest sound echoing loudly, causing my heart to skip a few beats. But was I really alone?

I walked to the front of the church. There was a makeshift manger with the baby Jesus lying in a wooden cradle. I knelt beside it and said a prayer for my mom. Then I wrote and wrote and cried. I looked at the innocent baby; His life lay ahead with promise, hope, and dreams. I spoke softly, telling the baby how sad I was. I even picked Him up and kissed His cheek. He was so beautiful, with the dim light from above shining proudly on His face. I sat there for a couple of hours and reflected. This is who Jesus is. He was there for me whenever I needed Him. And in a dark moment, I discovered the nature of our relationship.

That spiritual conversation so long ago is what helped inspire me to send my characters in my novels, Everybody's Daughter and Necessary Heartbreak: A Novel of Faith and Forgiveness, back in time during Christ's life. Like me, the characters struggled with their faith and received an opportunity to truly understand what Jesus means to us all. It was a chance to understand God's greatest gift — the gift of time, the gift of each new day.

It wasn't long after that night that my aunt and uncle defied my father's wishes and gave me a place to stay. Later on, I married, and after helping raise two daughters, time allowed me to revisit the memories of my homelessness and my search for what Jesus really means to me.

Two years ago, I received an e-mail from Simon & Schuster requesting the publishing rights to my book. Since its publication, I have been fortunate to receive emotionally charged letters, phone calls, and e-mails from clergy, widows, a woman who lived in a car, those struggling with their faith, and those whose faith knows no limit. And just think — it all started with those three weeks on a train, and one incredible night alone in a church.

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Kaylie's Christmas Prayer

By Marilyn Phillips

If you count all your assets, you always show a profit.
~Robert Quillen

Another festive December is here but what is there to celebrate? Fighting back tears, I drive my courageous daughter to the hospital. Rebekah has cystic fibrosis and must be hospitalized often due to lung infections. You would think that I would be used to frequent hospitalizations by now. But it is so near the holidays and my daughter has never been quite so sick. Rebekah has pneumonia and bronchitis. Her doctor said, "Rebekah might be hospitalized throughout the entire Christmas holidays." So she needed to be prepared for a long stay. Rebekah must have strong antibiotics and receive numerous breathing treatments to clear her congested lungs.

But how can Rebekah be in the hospital during December? Distraught, I focus on all of the yearly family activities my precious daughter will be missing, including decorating our Christmas tree. Will Rebekah improve and get well enough to be out of the hospital in time for Christmas Day?

December is a time of celebrating. My family has wonderful traditions. But since Rebekah is in the hospital, how can we participate? My daughter will miss family parties, school festivities, last-minute shopping, driving around and looking at Christmas lights, decorating our traditional holiday cookies and the Candle Light Christmas Eve Celebration at our church. I am depressed as my husband and I carry Rebekah's luggage to the small sterile room that will be her home for at least the next two weeks.

Although the situation is dreary, Rebekah has an amazing attitude. She openly shares her faith in God with each doctor and nurse. She is a college senior and will graduate in the spring. However, this semester was physically demanding and has taken a toll on her fragile health. She is unable to sleep without sitting up. And, she coughs constantly.

Although Rebekah is positive, I focus on the negative. Our house is not ready for Christmas... no tree, no lights, no treasured decorations are displayed. And because I have a new full-time teaching position, I have not even purchased one single gift for Christmas. As I sit outside the hospital room, my tears flow freely.

My amazing daughter makes the best of the situation. Rebekah plays Christmas music in her hospital room, reads the Bible, and watches Christmas videos. But I keep focusing on all that we are missing due to the hospitalization.

Finally two days before Christmas, Rebekah has improved enough to be released from the hospital. But, she still has the IV PICC line in her arm and is required to administer daily IV medications for two additional weeks. Once we arrive home, we hurriedly unpack Rebekah's luggage and my family quickly puts up the evergreen tree and a few decorations. Due to time constraints, we only put on the minimum amount of lights and tree decorations.

The next day, my husband and I go shopping and buy all the presents in one day and frantically wrap the gifts and put them under the tree. I look at the remaining unused decorations and one box marked FRAGILE. I know what is in the box... it is the Nativity set. But there is no time to unwrap and set out our beautiful Nativity figurines. Memories flood my mind as I gaze at the box. I recall that each year since my two children were small, we read the Christmas story from the Bible on Christmas Eve. Each child would move a figurine as my husband read Scripture describing the beautiful angels, hard working shepherds, and baby Jesus. Exhaustion sets in. I decide the contents of the box can wait as I slide it in a corner. I go to bed exhausted.

Although Christmas Day arrives, I feel no joy. We go to my sister-in-law's lovely home for lunch. As always, her house is beautifully decorated. Christmas music plays in the background and our entire family is there, including my niece and her children.

We sit down to a festive meal with all of our holiday favorites... roasted turkey and cornbread jalapeño dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, green beans and a variety of desserts including pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and fudge. The table is beautifully set with gorgeous Christmas china and scented candles. My daughter is so happy and grateful to be part of this holiday event.

Before we begin to eat, my husband is asked to say the prayer. But to our surprise... my niece's spunky four-year-old daughter, Kaylie, proclaims, "I want to say the prayer." So, we all giggle and give her permission to pray thinking Kaylie will be praying for lots of toys for herself. However to our delight, Kaylie says, "Thank you God for Christmas because we can celebrate Jesus' birthday." Suddenly, I fight back tears as I realize that I haven't even thought about the birth of Jesus this entire Christmas season.

I smile and silently thank God for Kaylie's heartfelt prayer which focuses on the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. But, Kaylie isn't through. During the meal, she proceeds to ask each adult, "Did you know that we are celebrating Jesus' birthday today?" And in response each adult laughs and says, "Yes!" To our amazement in the middle of the meal, Kaylie proclaims, "Let's sing 'Happy Birthday to Jesus' to celebrate." We each swallow our mouthful of turkey and dressing quickly and begin singing a loud and off-tune version of the "Happy Birthday" song to Jesus. Kaylie's sparkling eyes watch gleefully to ensure that each adult is singing. We pass her approval. Later in the meal, Kaylie requests that we sing to Jesus again. And so we do. Kaylie's holiday wish is granted.

Finally, the dinner is over and all presents are unwrapped. We hug relatives and leave. Once at home, we unload our Christmas gifts and goodies and I sit to ponder the day's events in front of the fireplace. I notice a box in the corner. I open the box marked FRAGILE! I gently un-wrap the Nativity figurines and place them on the coffee table. And I realize that during the hospitalization, I was busy dwelling on negative thoughts and the activities that we were missing. Instead, I should have been thinking about all of God's blessings. Gazing at the nativity scene I suddenly have an overwhelming peace and I experience the joy of the season. I pray and praise God for the blessings of my family and Rebekah's improving health but most of all I thank God for the gift of eternal life. The prayer of a four-year-old child helps me again focus on the reason we celebrate Christmas... the birth of Christ... and I whisper, "Happy Birthday, Jesus."

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Quarters of Hope

By Malinda Dunlap Fillingim

A wise lover values not so much the gift of the lover as the love of the giver.
~Thomas á Kempis

My daughters, Hope and Hannah, have been blessed with many things: loving parents, keen intellect, great humor, athletic abilities, and beauty... inwardly and outwardly. My home is full of ribbons, medals, certificates, and various other awards they have accumulated over the years.

But the one thing they have never had in abundance is money.

In fact, with parents who work as ministers, they will never get a lot of money from home. They have worn hand-me-downs, thrift store clothing and have done without many things because of our low income. They never complained, never cried out for something we could not afford. In fact, I think they are more appreciative and well rounded because their feelings of worth do not come from external things.

When my older daughter Hope was five years old she was looking for a gift to give me for Christmas. Not having any money of her own, Hope went to different neighbors and asked if she could do odd jobs to make some money. I don't know how she did it, but that Christmas she gave me a gift I will never forget.

Because money was so tight, I had not been able to subscribe to the newspaper. Reading a newspaper is one of my pleasures, and I would gather one at doctors' offices or anywhere else a free one might be found.

Hope knew this as we often read these freebies together. Thus, her gift.


It was wrapped tightly in bright festive paper and taped together with several layers of clear tape.

Small enough to be held in the palm of my hand, I questioned the contents of this precious gift.

Hope laughed, "You'll love it!"

Inside were two quarters.

"It's for a newspaper," she said. "We can go get one fresh out of the machine!" I held those precious quarters in my hand and knew then that I was a vey rich woman.

That was many years ago. Hope is in college now. When she left for college, I gave her a jar of quarters, a reminder that her love was priceless to me. It was a reminder that love costs nothing, but means everything to a mother and her daughter.

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The Christmas Cat-astrophe

By Christy Westbrook

Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts.
~Janice Maeditere

"She's not coming, is she?" I knew by the look on my mom's face as she hung up the phone that my grandma wasn't coming for Christmas. Ever since we destroyed her decorations last Christmas, things just hadn't been the same.

It all started last year on Thanksgiving Day. We had just finished stuffing ourselves full of turkey. The twins were wrestling over the large end of the wishbone when my Aunt Melinda walked in carrying one of Grandma's old hats.

"Everyone needs to draw a name. That's who you'll buy a present for this Christmas."

"What?" Uncle Dan hollered.

"Listen," Aunt Melinda explained. "Our family has grown so large that it's hard to buy something for everyone. We thought this might help relieve some of the burden."

"Burden!" Aunt Mary Beth snarled. "I realize that I have more children than the rest of you," she went on while motioning to the twins who were still duking it out on the floor and her three daughters who were slowly lowering their cell phones to listen in on this conversation, "but I never realized that we had become a burden."

"Now, now," Grandma stepped in. "Never have any of my darlings been anything of a burden. It's just that... well... I'm not getting any younger, and you all are always so busy. Your sister just thought it might be easier on all of us if we didn't have to buy quite so much this year."

"Well, I've never heard of such a ridiculous idea," Uncle Dan bellowed. "No offense, Mama, but I thought Christmas was supposed to be a time of giving... to all, not just one person."

"So... who gets to buy Mama's present?" my mom asked.

"Well, whoever draws her name," Aunt Melinda answered.

"Humph!" Uncle Dan snorted as he pushed back from the table, knocking over half-empty glasses of water and sweet tea. Grandma's favorite cat, Snookums, had been sleeping under the table and shrieked as someone stepped on her tail. She scurried into the kitchen. My cousins and I snickered as Grandma flew after the cat, yelling, "My sweet little dumpling! I'm so sorry."

"Dan, watch what you're doing!" Aunt Mary Beth yelled, snatching up the fallen glasses and dabbing at the spills with her napkin.

"Dan, I just gave Mama that tablecloth for her birthday. Now it's ruined. Why do you have to be so difficult?" Aunt Melinda yelled.

"You know what?" Uncle Dan replied. "I'm done with this. Happy Thanksgiving everyone." He turned and walked toward the door.

"Dan, you haven't drawn a name yet."

"Oh, whatever, Melinda. Just pick one for me. I don't care."

"Fine," Aunt Melinda huffed.

"Love you, Mama!" Uncle Dan called as he stormed out the front door.

Christmas Eve arrived, and we all came to Grandma's house with our "one" present. Everyone, that is, except for Uncle Dan. He showed up with a truckload of gifts. He brought something for everyone and even a few extra, which was great since Aunt Mary Beth's girls brought their boyfriends.

Aunt Melinda was fit to be tied when she saw Uncle Dan come in with an armful of presents. She started snatching boxes and throwing them under the tree.

"Hey, watch it, Melinda!" Uncle Dan hollered. "Some of those are breakable."

"Oh, excuse me, Danny Boy. I didn't mean to ruin all your fun."

"Oh, build a bridge and get over it, Smelly Melly."

"We were having a nice time until you got here. Why do you always have to stir something up?"

"Me?" Uncle Dan yelled. "I'm not the old Scrooge who decided to be stingy with the gifts."

"Come on, you two," my mom interrupted. "It's Christmas Eve. Can't you at least try to get along? Look at the example you're setting for the kids."

"I guess you're right, sis. I'm sorry," Uncle Dan answered.

"I'm sorry, too... Danny Boy," Aunt Melinda chided while Uncle Dan glared back.

The rest of the night, Aunt Melinda sat in the corner pouting while everyone "oohed" and "ahhed" over Uncle Dan's gifts.

My dad and my uncles spent most of the night setting up the new surround sound that Uncle Dan bought for Grandma. Mom and Aunt Mary Beth sat in the kitchen discussing what to do about the neighbor who Grandma suspected was stealing her Sunday papers. Aunt Mary Beth's daughters flirted with their boyfriends. We did our best to avoid collisions with the remote-controlled helicopters the twins flew all over the house. I pretended to listen as Grandma showed me our family album for the one-hundredth time.


Dad turned on the surround sound but didn't realize the volume was on high. The blast from every corner of the room caused Grandma to wail and fling the family album into the air. It landed on Snookums, who'd been resting at Grandma's feet. The poor cat let out a howl like I've never heard before and leaped smack dab into the Christmas tree. As the tree toppled over, the red and gold angel that stood peacefully atop Grandma's tree for as long as I could remember took flight and landed right in the middle of the fireplace. It went up in flames as we all watched in horror.

The adults started fussing and blaming each other while trying to clean up broken ornaments and salvage family pictures. We just tried to stay out of the way. Finally, Grandma told us to leave. We hadn't had a family gathering since then.

So here we were a year later, and it didn't look like Grandma was coming to Christmas.

"Well, is she coming or not?" I asked again impatiently.

"Grandma... had a heart attack," my mom answered, her voice beginning to quiver. "She collapsed in the grocery store, and the paramedics are rushing her to the hospital. Go get your coat while I call Uncle Dan."

When we got to the hospital, most of the family was already there. Everyone was hugging and crying and trying to figure out what had happened. Uncle Dan rushed through the door just as the doctor came in.

"Is she going to be alright?" Aunt Melinda asked.

"Yes," the doctor answered. "We're running some tests on her heart to determine the extent of the damage. She hit her head pretty hard when she fell and has suffered a mild concussion. She's resting now, but a few of you at a time can go in to see her."

Uncle Dan and Aunt Melinda stepped forward at the same time. The rest of us held our breath. And then, do you know what happened? They looked at each other and said, "You go first."

Grandma ended up spending Christmas in the hospital, but believe it or not, we all got along. We brought presents to Grandma's room, and Uncle Dan snuck Snookums in when the nurses weren't looking. Don't get me wrong, the tension was still there just under the surface, but we all realized something important that year. Although we may have our differences, we are still family, and we need each other. We may have to work a little bit harder at getting along, but if it makes Grandma happy, it's worth it.

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Sure Bet

By Mary Knight

When you make a bet, you're saying something.
~Al Alvarez

In the last few years of his life, my father loved going to the horse races. My brother, Mike, and he would discuss that day's racing form and off they'd go to one of their favorite tracks near Cincinnati. At the time, my son Zach and I lived in northern Michigan, and we'd join them every time we came to town.

A few days before Valentine's Day 1993, Mike told me that Dad was dying from stomach cancer, with no more than a month to live. I sent Dad a dozen red roses with a note that read, "To My Favorite Valentine." When Dad called to thank me for the flowers, he asked if I could make the trip to Cincinnati to help my stepmother Jane take care of him for the next few weeks.

"We need you, sweetheart," my father said in his gentle, matter-of-fact voice.

"Of course," I said. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

When I arrived at Dad and Jane's apartment several days later, a nurse was giving them an overview of at-home hospice services. Her name was Mary Angel. True to her name, Mary filled the room with compassion and gave us the confidence we needed for the difficult days ahead.

During the first week of my stay, Dad could still sit up in his favorite chair and carry on a conversation. His chair occupied a space just a few feet from a glass patio door through which we watched the snow fall, collecting flake by flake on the trees that lined the ravine below. A bright red cardinal often perched on the tree branch closest to the window, the one bold spot of color in an otherwise gray and white landscape. The cardinal seemed to peer intently through the glass, singing his heart out just for us. To this day, I cannot see a cardinal without thinking of my father.

Eventually, a hospital bed was set up in the living room to maximize Dad's comfort at night and to help us in our care for him. I slept on the couch beside him to assist with trips to the bathroom. During the last few days of his life, Dad had whittled his vocabulary down to two essential phrases: "It doesn't matter" and "I love you." The first usually referred to some human drama going on around him; the latter was spoken to anyone who came into his presence.

One morning, we moved my father to the hospice center near the hospital. We left him later that afternoon resting comfortably, watching a golf tournament. Jane and I kissed him and said "Goodbye" and "I love you," never dreaming those would be our last words to him. The weather channel forecast a winter storm that night, so we thought it best to get home.

In spite of the inclement weather, my brother Mike made it to see Dad later that evening. Mike recounts sitting by Dad's bed, stroking his thin white hair at the temples. Drawing from their times at the racetrack, Mike sighed and said, "Oh, Dad... This is one 'long shot' I don't think we're going to win."

That morning around three, the phone rang. It was a hospice nurse telling us that Dad was about to make his transition. "He seems very peaceful," she whispered. "His breathing is slow and shallow."

I told her to tell Dad how much we loved him and that we would be there as soon as we could. Before we could make it out the door, however, the phone rang again.

"Mary," the gentle voice on the other end of the line said. "He's gone."

Several days later, after finishing some preparations for Dad's memorial service, Jane sat down to read the paper while I went into Dad's study to work on an article for a local magazine. I was staring at blank paper when I heard Jane's startled voice coming from the living room.


"Mary? Is this yours? Where in the world did this come from?"

I rushed to see what she was talking about. There she stood in the middle of the living room, holding a two-dollar bill.

"No, this isn't mine," I said tentatively as I took the bill from her hand and examined it. "In fact, I haven't seen one of these in years."

The bill was crisp, clean and absolutely flat, as if it had just come off the printing press. Neither she nor I could imagine how it got there. The only other person who had been there that morning was a man who delivered a plant from a nearby florist shop. No currency had been exchanged.

I laid the two-dollar bill on the table next to Dad's chair and didn't give it another thought until Mike called later that afternoon to see how we were doing. After discussing dinner plans, I remembered the two-dollar bill.

"Mike, the strangest thing appeared in the middle of the living room floor today," I said and proceeded to tell him about Jane's mysterious find. "It's brand new," I added, "like it's never seen the inside of a wallet."

There was a palpable silence and then my brother finally spoke. "It's a two-dollar bet."

"Oh, my God," I said, breathlessly. Every nerve in my body tingled. If our father were to choose a sign out of all possible signs, this was the one the whole family would understand. Two dollars is a traditional bet, two being the common denominator at the racetrack.

"It's a sign," Mike said. "Dad's telling us he's okay."

As we grieved the physical loss of our father over the months that followed, that two-dollar bill became a touchstone of comfort for everyone.

Life after death is not such a long shot after all, Dad was telling us beyond the grave.

It's a sure bet.

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