We were friends when her mother died. It was sudden. I don't know what killed her—I was too young. I knew it was something with her liver.

It wasn't a well-attended funeral. Her mama looked strange in the casket. Permanent smile. Waxy skin. Open caskets are hard for me. Always have been.

I needed air.

I went outside to sit on the sidewalk, head in my hands. Daddy found me. He sat down and said, "Was wondering where you went off to, Ace. You alright?"

No, I wasn't. Seeing my friend's mother in a casket—the same woman who made us grilled cheeses—turned my stomach to vinegar.

He loosened his necktie. “I know it ain't easy, but you gotta be there for your friend, she needs you."

While he spoke, she came outside. She was a small girl. Freckle-faced. Toothy grin. She wore a black dress. She sat beside my father. She didn't feel like talking.

So he did.

He told stories. He talked about growing up, about tractors, eating chicken brains for breakfast, the Br'er Rabbit, and about walking on iron

beams for a living.

He made quarters fall out her ears. He even swallowed his tongue for us—one of his best tricks.

For a grand finale, he recited Johnny Cash's “Boy Named Sue.” When he got to the swear word—my favorite part of the song—we laughed.

My friend giggled so hard it made her cry. The girl leaned onto his shoulder. She lost it. Snot everywhere. I saw Daddy's eyes water. He choked them back.

“What about heaven?” she said. “Is it real?”

Daddy held her tighter. “If heaven isn't real, darling, I refuse to take part in it.”

"Can I go there?"

"Not today, honey. But in a little while."

A little while.

That was a few lifetimes ago. She left to live with her aunt in Virginia the following year. And as it turned out, Daddy gave…

This is not my story, I just wrote it down. It was told to me by a preacher. His name was Jacob, but people called him, Brother J.J.

When Brother J.J. visited our church, he was already white-haired and elderly. He was as tall as a telephone pole, and unlike most preachers, soft-spoken.

I once saw Brother J.J. fill a church during a Christmas-season service. He sang hymns and played his fiddle for two hours. Before we lit candles, he told a story which has never left me. I wish I could tell it like him.

But this'll have to do:

THE 1930's—A TENNESSEE TOWN OUTSIDE FRANKLIN. Wintertime. It was the worst time in rural America. A fourteen-year-old girl became the victim of a terrible mistake—the kind of mistake that makes a baby.

Nobody knew who the father was, but rumors claimed her uncle had abused her.

This was the old world. The only thing worse than being a pregnant adolescent, was being one in a small town.

People were vicious. In town, no

one made eye-contact. At school, the teacher asked her to stop coming. Her mother called her a whore. Her father made her sleep in the shed.

The shed.

When her father sold the timber rights to his property, a truckload of loggers arrived to clear-cut the family land.

That night, the migrant workers slept in the same shed she did. And even though the girl had a belly as big as a washtub, one man made lewd advances.

Another man came to her rescue. He fought off the offender with his fists and a furniture leg. The next morning, both men were fired. But before her hero walked away, he asked her to come with him.

As his wife.

“Why would you wanna marry me?” she…

May you kiss a baby today. A fat one. Maybe press your nose against a soft, newborn scalp and smell heaven.

And I hope you eat—food, not the baby. I hope you shovel in so much Christmas cooking it makes your vision blur and heart race.

Afterward, take an after-dinner stroll with someone special.

Maybe look at stars and think things like: how big is the universe? What color is happiness? Or: how many cups of sugar does it take to get to the moon?

Find someone to kiss; you'll have your answers.

Today, I pray you look over your life without pain. May you remember things that shaped you—good and bad. Things you lost—great and small. People who hurt you—friends and greasy pricks.

May Nancy feel the spirit of Mitch, her late, Cajun husband of fifty-two years. And may the family of the deceased two-year-old believe in goodwill toward men.

May under-confident boys discover fishing. May over-confident ones discover catching jack squat.

May your television stay off. And I pray your smartphone spends the holiday on a nightstand—unless,

of course, you're talking to someone important.

Each year on Christmas Eve, my father used to open an address book. He'd make phone calls to distant family, old friends, plumbers, electricians, coworkers, neighbors, enemies.

I attempt the same thing during the holidays, but I'm terrible at it. I'm not good on the phone.

Last year, I texted an old fishing buddy. We weren't close. The response was: “This is his son. Don is no longer with us. Merry X-mas.”

That hurt.

I also texted my old boss. He replied: “Thanks for reaching out, Sean! You were always my favorite employee!”

Favorite.

I'm touched. Maybe his favoritism is what compelled him to give me two pay cuts and buy himself a brand new, showroom-quality, one-ton truck.

May you accept things. Happy things. Unhappy things. Simple things which confuse you. The sorts of…

I had to work in Marietta, Georgia two days before Christmas. It was god-awful. The money was good,—real good—but that was the only thing good. It was Christmas Eve. I was far from home, cold, tired.

Lonely.

They gave us complimentary motel rooms. It was a dump. It's the first and last time I've ever stayed in a motel that smells like eggs. The place was a sheep pen off the highway.

I went to my room and called my wife. There was something sticky on the phone handle. She didn't answer.

I cussed.

Thus, I laid in bed and watched Andy Griffith. One of my favorites was on. Aunt Bee makes pickles. They're so bad Andy switches them with store-bought. You know the rest. Andy learns a valiant life-lesson about truth, justice, and the Mayberry way. Everyone hugs. Roll the credits.

I was hungry. Nowhere was open on Christmas Eve. Even the Waffle House had its lights off. I drove to the gas station for supper. Pork and beans, salt peanuts, Budweiser.

“Merry Christmas,” said the cashier.

Sure it is, lady.

Back at the motel: my coworker was smoking in the breezeway, talking to his kids on the phone. When he saw me, he wiped his face.

I shut my door and cried on the bed.

When did people start working on Christmas? Why in the hell would I leave my wife on a holiday? All for few extra bucks?

My uncle once said, “Only an idiot wastes his health making money so he can waste his money on health insurance.”

But nobody put stock in what he said. He worked in a fertilizer plant. Folks in the family called him a loser. Maybe he was, but at least he was home on Christmas.

I dialed my wife again. No answer.

More cussing.

I tried the newspaper to cure my loneliness. Bad choice. Nothing good happens in Atlanta news.…

Christmas afternoon. I drove my truck down a familiar gravel road. It's a road I can see in my sleep. I hadn't made that drive in many years.

I pulled over on a small bridge, flipped on my hazards. I crawled underneath the bridge. It was muddy. Creek water flooded my boots. I dug with a hand shovel.

This was ridiculous.

My childhood Christmases were simple. Each member of my family received three gifts—which was a rule of Daddy's. Growing up poor changes a man.

One gift was practical. Blue jeans, slacks, or, God forbid, underpants. The other two were fun.

One year I got an LP record,—“Stardust,” by Willie Nelson—a cap gun, and khakis.

Mama opened her gift. It was a booklet I'd made from colored paper, entitled: “Mama's Coupons.” Inside were various pencil-written discounts. “One free kitchen sweeping,” or, “Seventy-percent off hugs,” and my personal favorite, “Free ice cream supper.”

She never cashed in on the last one.

Daddy's gift was was a bathrobe. Mama made it. It was a sweet gesture. Except, of course,

my father didn't wear robes. He crawled out of bed fully dressed with boots on.

He slid it over his clothes, anyway.

Our gift-opening took ten minutes, tops. Then, I ate so much at lunch my feet swelled and my ears rang.

After lunch, Daddy asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I'd expected him to say that. Daddy couldn't sit still for more than a few blinks, not even on holidays.

So we walked. We followed the creek. The small water cut through through the woods. We marched through the undergrowth until we came to a concrete bridge.

We sat on the railing, legs dangling. I reached into my coat and handed him a wrapped box the size of a butter stick. The gift-tag, covered in my sloppy handwriting.

“To: Daddy,” it read.

He made a face. "What's this? Why'd…

The day of our wedding, it was a blizzard. And in North Florida, that means: fifty degrees and overcast.

I was supposed to be nervous—that's what everyone told me. They said I'd feel sick, that my knees would shake.

But no shaking.

The chapel was within spitting distance of the beach. I had time to kill, so I parked near the Gulf. The sun was setting. The sky looked like orange sherbert.

I squinted at the chapel in the distance. Headlights filled the parking lot. Half of Brewton, Alabama was attending the wedding.

A few nights before, my pal asked if I wanted a bachelor party. No, I answered. I hated bachelor parties worse than bachelorhood.

“What about a cigar?” he'd suggested.

I don't care for them.

So he gave me a pouch of Red Man chew and a racy Congratulations card. They both sat on my dashboard, unopened.

I don't chew. But, since I had nothing better to do, I tried a cheek-full. It had been a long time since I'd touched the stuff.

As a boy, my father

gave me my first pinch while we sat on his tailgate. It made me dizzy, but not sick—which impressed him.

Few things impressed him.

"Whatever you do," he'd said. "Don't swallow your spit.”

Times have changed. A father could go to jail for doing such today.

I spat on the sand. I wished he were alive. I wished someone would've been around to toast me at the reception, to show me how to tie a bowtie.

Wedding-time: I arrived at the double doors and saw the preacher on the sidewalk. The first thing he did was straighten my tie and remind me not to lock my knees.

“No matter how tough you think you are," he said. "Everyone's knees shake.”

Not me. Mine were oak limbs.

I stood at the altar— it was decorated with lit Christmas trees. The piano…

Atlanta, Georgia—these kids are playing baseball in the community park. They've lost their minds. This is winter. It's forty outside.

They're wearing yellow and red T-shirts, running the bases. These little athletes come in different shapes and sizes. High-schoolers, grade-schoolers, boys, girls.

One boy has an undersized leg. Another has an implanted device behind his ear. The pitcher looks like somebody's father.

A few parents sit in the bleachers, bundled in coats. I ask a lady nearby what we're looking at.

“Special needs team," she says.

One coach yells, "GOOD HUSTLE!" It's the familiar way ball-club managers have been hollering since the dawn of Cracker-Jacks.

The lady says, "We started this team for Downs kids. But other kids started asking if they could play, too."

She points to her son who's punching his mitt. He's a freckled boy with Downs syndrome. The shortstop fires the ball to him. He drops it.

“GOOD HUSTLE!” comes the onslaught of shouts.

The lady goes on, “We got one player with CF, one with polio, you know, we're open for whatever.”

And whomever.

Like the

girl exiting the dugout. Her woven hair hangs from underneath her batter's helmet. The lady tells me this girl has no special needs, but her middle-school coach told her she was too overweight to play.

Well, not here.

This is an inclusive group. Informal. No championships, no trophies. Only Goldfish and Gatorade.

This community baseball diamond is well-used by Little League teams during the summers. During the winters, the yellow and red shirts get to use it.

“It's our fourth year,” she says. “It all started because a few of our boys wanted to learn baseball."

PING!

We're interrupted by an aluminum bat. It's the girl. She hits a bloop to left. The ball bounces. You ought to see this child run. Her dreadlocks wave behind her. Her helmet falls off.

She's magnificent.

“GOOD HUSTLE, Adriana!” people shout.

She…

“I'm not allowed to say, Merry Christmas at school,” she said. “It's harder than it sounds. You grow up saying it, it's part of you.”

She's an elementary teacher in Middle Alabama. I can't tell you her name, so I'm going to call her, Murdess—since I love that name.

I had a hillbilly aunt named Murdess Delphinia. She used to sign stationary with: “Dietrich, M.D.” Everyone got a kick out of that.

Anyway, Murdess—not my aunt—usually begins rehearsing her Christmas pageant in August. It takes months to teach kids how to dance and sing.

On the second week of December, her class performs in a musty gymnasium for several hundred parents.

Her students come from all backgrounds: African, Korean, Mexican, Hindi, Islamic, and average suburban Southerner.

Because of this, the school had outlawed Christmas. Sort of.

"There're all sorts of Christmasy words I can't say,” Murdess went on. “Can't talk about mangers, wisemen, shepherds, or even Santa.”

Some consider Saint Nicholas a symbol of Christianity.

There's also a list of blacklisted songs. “Silent Night,” was first to go.

Also: “Noel,” “O Come All Ye Faithful,” and “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

The authorities decided Murdess should call her production, “The Winter Festivity Concert.”

And instead of using characters like Saint Nick, they encouraged her to use one named, Mister Winter. A jolly young man with a brown mustache, who stuffs children's stockings with hand sanitizer and recyclable water bottles.

Murdess followed the rules. Her children sang songs nobody's ever heard. She paid tribute to Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, and read a passage from the Quran for her Muslim students.

At the end of the production, she sent her children to their seats. The lights dimmed.

And she recited:

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them,…

Walmart, 5:04 P.M.—this place is a nuthouse. There are so many folks here it looks like the walls are buckling. Nearly sixteen thousand shoppers with full carts, elbowing for a place.

There are two checkout aisles open. Two.

I'm standing in a line that stretches back to the Czech Republic.

I stopped in this hell-hole to buy more cheap Christmas lights for our tree. Our current lights are junk. Every time a bell rings a strand of lights goes out on our tree.

In line ahead: a young woman with two kids. She's dressed in a fast-food uniform, holding a baby.

Her infant is screaming. She's rocks the child back and forth, whispering. The baby locks eyes with me. Her crying stops. She smiles, then laughs.

The mother says in a thick, Alabamian accent, “Reckon she likes you.”

The young woman smiles her few teeth at me.

"Maybe she just smells my dog," I say.

She brings the baby closer. This child has the biggest brown eyes God ever made. Bigger than Barbara—our childhood Arberdeen heifer, who had eyes like

basketballs.

I didn't expect to feel this way while staring at a child, but something's happening to me. My voice is high-pitched. I'm making mouth-noises like an outboard motor.

The woman says, “You wanna hold her?”

“Me? No, that's okay, ma'am..."

At this stage in life, I've discovered that people like me weren't intended to hold babies—we're meant to watch everyone else have them.

But it's too late. The girl hands the baby over.

So, here I am, baby against my chest. She's light. She smells like flowers. Honest-to-goodness flowers. Her bald head is the softest I've ever touched.

The child locks eyes with me again. When she does, the world disappears. She smiles and it's summertime. She lays her head on my shoulder and falls asleep, drooling.

I was a wiseman in my grade-school pageant. Supposedly, three of us…