The Tree of Life
A reflection by Bart Wingblad
First I heard the laughter, and then I felt the children brush past me as they ran into the Sanders store, negotiating the narrow entrance with the man waiting at the counter. Their mother entered immediately behind them barking orders to “Put that back,” and “Watch your sister.” I smiled as I watched the five children, ages from about four to nine, three girls, and two boys, all dressed up for their picture with Santa.
Their excitement took me back to days long past when my sister and brother and I would walk the two blocks from Grandma’s house to visit the Sanders store – all three of us getting chocolate malts at the counter and some rock candy to bring back to Grandpa. Somehow, we hoisted ourselves to the top of the stools, which towered over all three of us. It was a different time, and it seems a hundred years ago.
I was waiting for the chocolate malt I ordered when the kids ran in. I couldn’t help but notice how happy they all seemed; without a care in the world, and about to get in line to see Santa. Outside the store, the line was long, with all the kids eagerly awaiting their turn, until it actually became their turn, and then their carefree laughter from just moments earlier was overcome by apprehension.
As I waited, a man appeared with a walker, the kind you can sit on when you need to stop and rest. He shouted out to the mother, his wife, as to why they were not yet in line as he sat on his walker and struggled to remove his jacket. It had not yet occurred to me that this was a relatively young man with a walker.
When I left the store, I walked to our Tree of Life display and took my post at the table, ready to greet anyone who might approach. As I continued to watch Santa’s line grow, I noticed that some parents seemed more excited than the kids, while others looked like they would gladly sell their kids in exchange for just a short nap.
The line seemed to grow beyond the capacity of what Santa might be able to accommodate in just one evening, but eventually all the kids found their way to the lap of the bearded man in the red suit, large black boots, and white gloves. As each family had their turn to visit with Santa, they would exit the Santa Castle, and circle around to head off in the direction of the mall.
It was some time later that I observed the mom and her five kids heading off to the mall. As they passed our display, the kids looked me over along with the red and green angels on the table and the Christmas trees all lit up immediately behind me. It was then that I saw their dad turning the corner, trailing far behind his family. He, too, was heading off to the mall in the direction of his family, when he looked my way and stopped.
I watched him through the corner of my eye as he read our large sign. Then he turned about forty-five degrees towards the table. I stood to greet him, as I would anyone, but this encounter was to be very different. When he reached the table, only then did I notice his oxygen nasal cannula, and his need for the walker.
He looked at me, hesitated, and then began to speak. His first words to me were, “I have ALS. They gave me nine months. I have five kids.”
I spoke with him just briefly, but it seemed much longer. I said all the right things. I chose my words carefully, and they were sincere and heartfelt.
As the man left, I felt his comfort in being able to share; being able to express his fear; his anger; his hope -- all to a stranger who would not judge. As I watched him slowly move away, disappearing into the Christmas crowd, I thought of his kids, and how this night might very well become one of their most treasured memories. I softly whispered a prayer that this night not be what I fear may be the happiest they’ll ever know. I wish and hope for them to know countless nights, each being ever more hopeful, special, and beautiful than this.
Their excitement took me back to days long past when my sister and brother and I would walk the two blocks from Grandma’s house to visit the Sanders store – all three of us getting chocolate malts at the counter and some rock candy to bring back to Grandpa. Somehow, we hoisted ourselves to the top of the stools, which towered over all three of us. It was a different time, and it seems a hundred years ago.
I was waiting for the chocolate malt I ordered when the kids ran in. I couldn’t help but notice how happy they all seemed; without a care in the world, and about to get in line to see Santa. Outside the store, the line was long, with all the kids eagerly awaiting their turn, until it actually became their turn, and then their carefree laughter from just moments earlier was overcome by apprehension.
As I waited, a man appeared with a walker, the kind you can sit on when you need to stop and rest. He shouted out to the mother, his wife, as to why they were not yet in line as he sat on his walker and struggled to remove his jacket. It had not yet occurred to me that this was a relatively young man with a walker.
When I left the store, I walked to our Tree of Life display and took my post at the table, ready to greet anyone who might approach. As I continued to watch Santa’s line grow, I noticed that some parents seemed more excited than the kids, while others looked like they would gladly sell their kids in exchange for just a short nap.
The line seemed to grow beyond the capacity of what Santa might be able to accommodate in just one evening, but eventually all the kids found their way to the lap of the bearded man in the red suit, large black boots, and white gloves. As each family had their turn to visit with Santa, they would exit the Santa Castle, and circle around to head off in the direction of the mall.
It was some time later that I observed the mom and her five kids heading off to the mall. As they passed our display, the kids looked me over along with the red and green angels on the table and the Christmas trees all lit up immediately behind me. It was then that I saw their dad turning the corner, trailing far behind his family. He, too, was heading off to the mall in the direction of his family, when he looked my way and stopped.
I watched him through the corner of my eye as he read our large sign. Then he turned about forty-five degrees towards the table. I stood to greet him, as I would anyone, but this encounter was to be very different. When he reached the table, only then did I notice his oxygen nasal cannula, and his need for the walker.
He looked at me, hesitated, and then began to speak. His first words to me were, “I have ALS. They gave me nine months. I have five kids.”
I spoke with him just briefly, but it seemed much longer. I said all the right things. I chose my words carefully, and they were sincere and heartfelt.
As the man left, I felt his comfort in being able to share; being able to express his fear; his anger; his hope -- all to a stranger who would not judge. As I watched him slowly move away, disappearing into the Christmas crowd, I thought of his kids, and how this night might very well become one of their most treasured memories. I softly whispered a prayer that this night not be what I fear may be the happiest they’ll ever know. I wish and hope for them to know countless nights, each being ever more hopeful, special, and beautiful than this.
Submitted by a very humbled Angela Hospice Volunteer
December 2016
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