The Christmas Bus Ride

The monthly shepherdess column

Bobbie Jane Van Dolson is an associate book editor at the Review and Herald Publishing Association, in Washington, D.C.

 

Dear Shepherdess: Christmas will soon be arriving. How we enjoy hearing from friends and loved ones! We are especially thrilled when a picture is en closed.

These messages of love bring warmth and memories. I read and reread them and many I put in a bulging file marked "Among My Souvenirs."

I would like to share one letter I have saved that we received several years ago from Pastor James Gray. It contains a message to you from my heart.

"Dr. William L. Stidger tells of spending Christmas with friends in the country, where there was a small boy who had a marvelous time. There was a wonderful tree, and presents, and a delicious dinner plus an afternoon service in the village church. Home again and supper eaten, the lad sat on his father's lap and his eyes shone as he looked at the tree and confided to the visitor that he never had seen anything so lovely in his whole life! Old-fashioned candles were burning on many of the evergreen branches, and as he watched their nickering light his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and finally he dropped off to sleep.

"After a time his father carried him upstairs, undressed him, slipped him into his pajamas, and tucked him under the covers—all without awakening him. But as he stooped low to give his son a good-night kiss, the boy stirred sleepily, threw his arms around his father's neck and said, without opening his eyes, 'Daddy, don't let the angel go away, and don't let the Christmas candle go out!'

"'Such a strange request,' remarked his father as he talked with the guest later. 'He must have been dreaming.' The next morning Mr. Stidger questioned the youngster and discovered that he not only had been dreaming but had remembered his dream. He saw an angel come into the softly lit living room, go swiftly to the Christmas tree, and, starting at the bottom branches, pinch out the flame of every candle except the one at the very top. That candle the angel took, flew over to the lad, handed it to him, and said: 'Here is the candle of Christmas love and good will. Never let it go out, my son, not all the year long. Keep it trimmed and burning always.'"

Only a dream! But it holds the secret of happy, fruitful living. The spirit of Christmas—good will, good cheer, lovingkindness, and charity—must be kept burning as a bright, shining candle all the year long.

And so, friend of mine, may the golden glow of friendship for God, and man, and right, like a flaming candle, lend rare beauty to your life and make not only this holiday season but the whole twelve months to come bright with real happiness. With love, Kay.

MACKINLAY KANTOR tells a heartwarming and true story of a Christmas bus ride that turned into a most memorable Christmas.

Dick and Sally Glendinning had traveled from Baltimore to New York to spend Christmas with Mom Glendinning. Now Sally was in the pleasant apartment kitchen making pies, and Dick, just back from a Third Avenue bus ride, was complaining angrily.

"You wouldn't have believed that ugly driver. And the passengers—I never saw such a grim-looking bunch."

It had been pretty bad. From the great sheets of rain that pounded into the sooty slush, one would have thought the weatherman was deliberately trying to sabotage Christmas Eve. The streets had been full of drab figures scuttling along under umbrellas. Occasionally there was a glimpse of a cold, sullen face peering over cheerily wrapped Christmas parcels—a study in contrasts.

"This scrawny woman got on just be fore Sixtieth Street," Dick continued, as Sally rolled out a neat, white circle. "She fooled around in her purse for a while, and then the driver growled, 'O.K., let's get going.' She made some nasty remark in return, and he moved off with such a jerk that she nearly fell."

"Didn't you get off at Sixtieth?" Sally was whipping up a fragrant brown mixture for the pie shells.

"Yes, and just before I got off I turned around and said loud and clear, 'You're the worst bunch of sourpusses I ever saw in my life.'"

Sally stared, unbelieving. "You're kidding."

"I certainly am not. That bunch deserved it. They deserved worse than that."

Sally put the pies tenderly into the oven, and the blast of heat from the open door warmed Dick's still-chilled face. "Oh, I'm sure they deserved it," she said. "But it wasn't a very nice thing to do. I'm sure those people can't be very happy. I wonder what would have happened if you had been kind to them, perhaps wished them a Merry Christmas instead of glowering."

Dick was a little startled, and to cover his chagrin, he strode off into the living room. A few minutes later he stopped at the kitchen doorway, overcoated again, and obviously ready to face the storm outside. "Just had an idea," he said, a bit sheepishly. "I'm going to try to make amends."

When the next bus came south on Lexington Avenue, Dick stepped aboard. It seemed impossible, but as Providence would have it, he found himself staring into the angry face of the same ill-tempered driver he had left an hour before. The bus he had caught earlier on Third Avenue had turned around and was now heading back down Lexington.

The driver's dark eyes narrowed. "Sourpuss yourself!" he snarled.

"I'm sorry," Dick began, but the driver turned away and the bus lurched for ward.

There were a number of empty seats, but Dick chose to share one. His partner was a boy in his early teens. Dick took a deep breath and began to sing "Jingle Bells" out loud. In fact, it was very loud, ringing above the strident cacophony of the bus. The boy looked surprised, and said, "We had that in school."

"Well, sing along then."

And he did, his clear young voice blending pleasantly with Dick's some what uncertain baritone.

Two women a couple of seats ahead turned and stared for a moment. Then, smiling, they joined in. Other people hummed or came in on the chorus. Ahead, the bus driver twisted around, blinked, and then turned back, shrugging his shoulders. Dick watched the back of his head, and it looked like he was singing.

"How about this one?" a young woman called out from across the aisle. She began, "The first noel the angel did say . . ."By the time they got to the second chorus, almost everybody was singing.

At the various stops pedestrians looked first as if they couldn't believe their ears, then started smiling. Dick heard one fellow explaining to his wife that this probably wasn't a regular Lexington Avenue bus. "Must be a chartered deal," he said. "They wouldn't sing like that unless they belonged to the same club or something." Both he and the woman waved, and she blew a kiss.

Then they came to the southern terminus. "End of the line," the driver called pleasantly above "O Little Town of Bethlehem." "Merry Christmas, everybody. Hey, Sourpuss," he added good-naturedly to Dick, "aren't you get ting off?"

"No, I'm going back to Sixtieth Street." Then Dick explained how it all came about, how he'd wanted to make amends for his accusation. "Say," he added, "did you know we belong to the same club?" And he told the driver what the man had said to his wife back on one of the corners.

"Well, maybe we do," the man laughed. "We might call it 'The Great Human Club.'" Dick agreed that it was a pretty good name. The two chatted while the bus filled for the return trip.

The driver spoke of a long-ago Christmas in Germany, when he, a tough master sergeant, had basked in the hospitality of a pleasant couple whose dead son's picture looked benignly down from the mantel. They had tried to teach him German carols while he munched fragrant Christmas cookies.

"Well, we gotta start now. I can't talk while I drive. O.K., everybody," the driver boomed, "get on with the singing."

It was as though those who had participated in the earlier songfest had left a contagious something behind. This time everybody was singing as they went happily through "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks," "Good King Wenceslaus," "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen," "Silent Night, Holy Night" and everybody was loving it. Everybody except one woman in a worn fur coat. There was a refinement about her, in spite of her shabbiness. Her eyes rolled over the carolers as she listened, and Dick noticed that a crumpled handkerchief was squeezed into her closed hand. He saw her crying for just a moment—and she didn't join in the singing.

The bus bounced to a stop at the corner of East Sixtieth and Third Avenue. Dick waved to the other passengers and shook hands with the driver. "Don't forget the club," he said.

"So long, Sourpuss, and a Merry Christmas to you," the driver said, grinning.

Dick stepped down. Then he noticed the woman in the shabby coat hurrying forward. The bus had begun to move, but she spoke to the driver and he stopped and opened the door again.

She stepped down and stood beside Dick as the bus pulled away. "Excuse me, sir. I usually get off a block up, but I wanted to speak with you."

She touched Dick's arm with her gloved fingers. "You see, I was strengthened by the singing—helped very much, in fact. But I couldn't join in . .." She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. "My granddaughter—there was a car accident and . . . she was buried this afternoon. I just wanted to tell you why I couldn't sing."

Dick's voice was shaky, but he asked whether he could walk her home. "Thank you, but no, I'll be better alone right now."

She walked away quickly, but turned and called, "It really helped a great deal." Then she hurried away, walking tall. For a couple of minutes Dick Glendinning couldn't see anything.

 

Prayers From the Parsonage

By CHERRY B. HABENICHT

In a few minutes we'll be off across the drifted plains to deliver this box of food to Old John.

I wonder whether a recluse celebrates Christmas. Alone by choice, he'll have some visitors tonight. Old John looks poor, whether he is or not. He'll appreciate the canned goods collected by the schoolchildren, but I like to think of his pleasure when he sees the fresh bread, bright apples, and home-grown cabbage we added. And won't he smile into his coarse beard when he opens that little package and finds pieces of yule-log cake!

Christmas Eve is definitely the right time to make our surprise call, but how will we locate his dugout in the dark? What if he's too suspicious to open his door? Docile though his black Labrador seems when he and Old John hitchhike to town, he'd probably attack strangers.

Dear God, please guide us safely to this strange character's home. What ever his attitude, may our friendliness prove that we're not just one-time do-gooders out disturbing his peace.


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Bobbie Jane Van Dolson is an associate book editor at the Review and Herald Publishing Association, in Washington, D.C.

December 1977

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