Christmas Cards
MEET ME IN THE CITY
by Van Varner
When Christmas comes to the city, same as everywhere, some of us do some peculiar things. One year I sent a Christmas card to a shopkeeper. But first let me explain...
You see, New York City is really a large collection of small villages. We reside in tiny territories with boundaries shaped by the shops, churches, schools, cafes and movie houses that we frequent. it doesn't take long to recognize the face behind the counter at the dry cleaner's and the open-’til-midnight deli. Soon the news vendor by the subway is saying "HI," and after a while, the florist throws in an extra stem or two. We're not overly friendly with one another, but I think in our little city-spheres, familiarity breeds contentment.
When I lived in another part of the city, however, there was one shopkeeper who was not only unfriendly, he was downright mean. He sold lumber (I was always building bookshelves and things in those days) and he'd cut it to exact sizes. He never looked at me when I'd present my order and any replies were always curt. He'd grunt and grimace and act as if he were doing me a big favor. I didn't like going in there, but his was the only lumber shop in the neighborhood.
To this day I cannot tell you specifically why, but one year as Christmas approached, I sent him a Christmas card. (And something you should know about me-I never send Christmas cards.) "Thank you for the good lumber you sold me this year," I wrote on it. Then mailed it and promptly forgot about it.
Months later I needed to go to the lumber loft again. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised-the man was the same. Cold. Not a word was said and again he didn't look at me. I watched him draw a two-by-four from the stacks, cut it and tie the pieces together. Then he took my money and gave me my receipt. I was almost out the door when I heard, "Mr. Varner..."
I turned, startled to hear my name. The shopkeeper was standing by his cutting machine. This time he was looking straight at me. At last he spoke.
"Come again," he said softly.
Didn't I say we do peculiar things at Christmas? We seek out relatives who bore us. We spend money we do not have. We send cards to people we don't like. Why? Because we are not ourselves at Christmas. It is one brief time when we become what we want to be, but are too busy or too stingy or too embarrassed to be the rest of the year: sentimental, forgiving, forbearing, generous, overgenerous, thoughtful, appreciative of others.
Jesus came, He said, that we might have life and have it more abundantly. And this is so at Christmas, the anniversary of His birth, when in some beautiful, mysterious way, we live beyond ourselves.
by Van Varner
When Christmas comes to the city, same as everywhere, some of us do some peculiar things. One year I sent a Christmas card to a shopkeeper. But first let me explain...
You see, New York City is really a large collection of small villages. We reside in tiny territories with boundaries shaped by the shops, churches, schools, cafes and movie houses that we frequent. it doesn't take long to recognize the face behind the counter at the dry cleaner's and the open-’til-midnight deli. Soon the news vendor by the subway is saying "HI," and after a while, the florist throws in an extra stem or two. We're not overly friendly with one another, but I think in our little city-spheres, familiarity breeds contentment.
When I lived in another part of the city, however, there was one shopkeeper who was not only unfriendly, he was downright mean. He sold lumber (I was always building bookshelves and things in those days) and he'd cut it to exact sizes. He never looked at me when I'd present my order and any replies were always curt. He'd grunt and grimace and act as if he were doing me a big favor. I didn't like going in there, but his was the only lumber shop in the neighborhood.
To this day I cannot tell you specifically why, but one year as Christmas approached, I sent him a Christmas card. (And something you should know about me-I never send Christmas cards.) "Thank you for the good lumber you sold me this year," I wrote on it. Then mailed it and promptly forgot about it.
Months later I needed to go to the lumber loft again. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised-the man was the same. Cold. Not a word was said and again he didn't look at me. I watched him draw a two-by-four from the stacks, cut it and tie the pieces together. Then he took my money and gave me my receipt. I was almost out the door when I heard, "Mr. Varner..."
I turned, startled to hear my name. The shopkeeper was standing by his cutting machine. This time he was looking straight at me. At last he spoke.
"Come again," he said softly.
Didn't I say we do peculiar things at Christmas? We seek out relatives who bore us. We spend money we do not have. We send cards to people we don't like. Why? Because we are not ourselves at Christmas. It is one brief time when we become what we want to be, but are too busy or too stingy or too embarrassed to be the rest of the year: sentimental, forgiving, forbearing, generous, overgenerous, thoughtful, appreciative of others.
Jesus came, He said, that we might have life and have it more abundantly. And this is so at Christmas, the anniversary of His birth, when in some beautiful, mysterious way, we live beyond ourselves.
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