Marshall Ramsey

• The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (my proof — love the cartoon, hate the movie).
• Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer (TV Show)
• Frosty the Snowman 
• It’s A Wonderful Life
• Charlie Brown Christmas 
• A Christmas Story
• Christmas Vacation
• Elf
• Santa Claus is Coming to Town
• Miracle of 34th Street (Natalie Wood version)
• Die Hard (I really don’t think it is technically a Christmas movie, but hey it has a tree in it and takes place at Christmas)

I went looking for Christmas yesterday.
In all the hustle and bustle, stress, change and challenges, I haven’t been able to find it this year. So I went on a quest to find it.

I didn’t find it at the Jackson airport. But I did see the Lord’s handiwork somewhere over eastern Mississippi as the sun broke the horizon. The plane dipped into the clouds, making us feel like we were doing a low-level trench run through mountain peaks. The normally white puffy nimbus clouds were painted orange to celebrate a new day.

A day I knew would be emotional.

But Christmas wasn’t on my Delta flight. I enjoyed my delicious Delta cookie and prepared myself for the soulless joy that is Hartsfield-Jackson airport. Maybe Christmas would be there.

Nope. It wasn’t. But I did see one of the stars of one of my favorite shows. And he did play Jesus once in a movie — so that’s kind of close. I rented a car and headed out onto Atlanta’s interstates.

Trust me, there is no Christmas spirit on I-285.

I pulled up to my parent’s home — a house where they have lived nearly all my whole life. I looked in the backyard where I played as a child. I closed my eyes and all my childhood dogs came running to the fence to greet me. Then as soon as my eyes opened, their ghosts were gone.

I opened the backdoor and walked in — you never have to knock at your mama’s house, you know — and was greeted by my dad. That he knew me was a special gift. My mom came out, too. She looked pretty in her reddish sweater. I hugged them and tried to lock that memory into my mind. But I’m learning that memories aren’t to be taken for granted. They can be stolen as easily as the Grinch steals a Whoville Roast Beast.

We went to my dad’s doctor’s appointment and then out to eat. Christmas carols played quietly in the restaurant. But Christmas wasn’t there for me. My mind was filled with worry. My search continued.

The afternoon flew faster than the plane I needed to catch and I had to say goodbye to my parents. I’ll see them in a few days — but as days go by, I realize what a precious commodity time really is. “A few days” might as well be a lifetime. I watched them as I pulled away — I know that I’ll soon be watching my own children pull away. I’m not prepared for that. I’m not sure my parents ever have gotten used to it, too.

A friend from high school called and said a bunch of them had formed a men’s prayer group and they were wrapping gifts for needy kids. It was on my way to the airport, so I stopped in for 15-minutes and saw many of my childhood friends. They’ve all grown into good, good men. I don’t what it was about my high school, but we turned out OK.

I headed back south through downtown Atlanta and on to the airport. I dropped off my car, rushed through security and ate some delicious airport food. My flight was crammed tight and I watched quietly as dozens of people, each with their own stories to tell, entered my life for our shared flight. Our plane pushed back from the gate and its engines roared to life (I was in the back by the engines — so they REALLY roared). I suspended my search for Christmas as the plane once again defied gravity.

Somewhere over Alabama, I mentally replayed my day. First, I thought about the sunrise on the morning’s flight. Then I remembered my dad’s smile when I told him about my son’s scouting achievements. I marveled at the beauty of the skyscrapers in downtown Atlanta. My heart warmed from the memories of my childhood. I thought of my old friends not just preaching their faith but actually living it. I saw kind acts in an airport that is too busy for kindness. I felt love for my parents. I was grateful I survived Atlanta’s rush hour. I found good in a sea of bad.

And as the Delta flight touched down in Jackson, Mississippi, I felt something I have not felt in a long, long time.

I felt peace.

I had found Christmas after all.

Dear Santa,

You remember me. I was the kid who looked like Ralphie from The Christmas Story. I was a good kid — I had a few quirks, but who didn’t in the 1970’s. Yeah, yeah, that’s me. The one who asked for the Six-Million-Dollar Man action figure (with bionic eye), Stretch Armstrong, Evil Knievel action figure and black Huffy bike with a speedometer. Thanks — you delivered on all of them. Not sure what my folks told you, but I appreciate you making them all happen. I think we still have the bike in my parent’s basement. Anyway, you rock.

Well, it’s forty years later and I have a new wish list. I’d come sit on your knee, but I’m 215 lbs. and would snap your leg in half. Mrs. Claus wouldn’t be happy with me. And I don’t know if you have Obamacare at the North Pole. So I’m going to ask you right here, right now.

1. Please be my family members who are ill. They need a Christmas miracle or two. Thanks.

2. Be extra nice to my sisters. The last time we saw each other I wouldn’t have admitted it, but I have the best sisters in the world.

3. Help me make Christmas special for my three boys. I know. I want them to have great memories in forty years, too. And could you bring something really nice for my wife Amy. She’s the reason we’re even HAVING Christmas at my house. (I’ve been tuned out.) She has been REALLY good this year.

4. I know you’ve been busy, but things in Mississippi are kind of sad these days. Been some horrific crimes and some tragic deaths. Could you bring some cheer our way, too?

5. And please, please, bring me some Christmas spirit. I’m totally out.

I still believe,
Marshall

P.S. And could you bring me some nice exercise clothes?

Dear. Santa,
Thanks for your quick reply. I’m honored to be deputized as an honorary elf. And I agree, most of the stuff on my list is up to me to make happen. But I do appreciate the promise of the exercise clothes. Have a Merry Christmas and a safe flight.

I still believe,
Marshall

Banjo the great

It has been a couple of years since ol’ Banjo died but his spirit lives on. It lives when I get a note from a parent telling me how much their child loves my book Banjo’s Dream. It lives when I see a picture of a child reading it. It lives because I know he’s still hard at work doing what he did best — loving everyone around him. Sometimes kids ask me about his death and I say, “Banjo’s not here anymore but he’s right here,” and I point to my heart. Because that’s where he will forever live. Banjo comforted me when I was at a low point in my life. Like a good dog, he stood by me as I dusted myself off and started dreaming again. I love hearing kids say, “I’m going to dream like Banjo.” That’s who my old farty brown dog was. He was the little dog who could.

I don’t think it was a coincidence that Pip was born at the same exact moment Banjo died. She hasn’t filled the hole left in our hearts when Banjo left. No, she created her own spot. It would be easy to compare her to him — but I don’t because she’s definitely her own dog. I do think, however, she was sent at the exact moment she was needed. And in that, she has done her job well. She makes us laugh, yell, chase her and curse. She answers only to “treat” and steals socks. She has sucked up to my wife and sleeps pressed up against the back of her legs. Pip is an alpha dog who thinks SHE is in charge. And at times, she is. (I don’t call her “Queen Bossypants” for nothing.) As I get more comfortable with her personality, I’ll be able to write in her rather loud voice.

Pip the great

Never underestimate the healing power of a good dog. They listen when no one else does. They greet you like you’ve liberated Paris every time you come home. They love you when you’re unlovable. DOG spelled backwards is GOD. A good dog will remind you of that every single day.

Thank you Banjo and Pip for your spirit and for bringing joy into my family’s lives.

I don’t know about you, but yesterday’s headlines punched me in the gut.  I can’t remember a more depressing day — well, I can. 9/11 was horrible.  But this is the Christmas season. We should be feeling “joy to the world” and all that stuff. Yet, it seemed like everything was going wrong. And as a layer of poop icing on the cake, I have some really sad things to deal with family-wise.  By the time I got home, I was beaten down. I felt no joy.  But then, my wife got well-deserved award and recognition. My son played in his first band concert. We had a moment in the van as a family when we just laughed.  I can’t control all the crap going on the world.  But I guess I can look for the good where it is and hang onto it for dear life.

“You look handsome.”
Rusty Randolph’s mother used spit to try to tame his cowlick. The seven-year-old’s wild blonde hair shot toward the cold, night sky.
“C’mon MOM!” Rusty protested. It was really more than having spit used as hair product that bothered him. It was Christmas Eve and he was in the worst place possible for a kid. He was in church.
Minutes seemed like hours. Hours, well, it was just taking too darn long. His mom said they were there for the true meaning of Christmas. Rusty had yet to see Santa Claus.
Finally, a priest walked up to the front of the church and began to speak. To Rusty, he sounded like Charlie Brown’s parents. “Waa Waa Waa Waa.” But then his words came through remarkably clear, “It is better to give than receive.”
What?
It was a message that was totally lost on a seven-year-old boy.
As they finally walked out of the cathedral, Rusty looked up at the night sky. There, near the moon, was a blinking red light.
“RUDOLPH! MOM, WE HAVE TO GO HOME NOW! THERE’S RUDOLPH!!”
The passengers on the Boeing 727 above were oblivious to the little boy and his dreams of presents.

Forty years later.
“DAD! Did you fix my lunch? Russell Randolph looked around the kitchen for his oldest’s son’s brown paper lunch sack.
“I think so.”
Getting the kids out of the house in the morning was like invading France on a daily basis. D-Day was every day. And this morning they were fighting a losing battle.”
“I got my shoes on.”
Russell looked down at his seven-year-old. The kid had put his shoes on the wrong feet.
“Jesus Chr….” Russell caught himself. He knew his blood pressure must be in the Stratosphere and he didn’t want to tempt fate and a heart attack by using Jesus’ name in vain.
He reached over and flipped on the kitchen TV. War. Check. Murder. Check. Racial strife. Check. Plane Crash. Check. Terrorism. Check. Extreme weather. Check. Russell felt the acid rising in his throat. In five minutes he had gotten a quick reminder what a screwed up world his kids were inheriting.
Now he knew he’d have a heart attack.
“You seen my keys?” Russell’s wife Becky screamed from the garage. Becky taught at the local elementary school and was, once again, late.
“They are in your car.”
“Oh. Bye!”
Between their jobs and schlepping the kids around, he couldn’t remember the last time he and Becky had had a conversation other than about the kids or running the household.
“Oh, did you pay the water bill?” she yelled from the running SUV.
Russell felt a wave of stupid wash over him. “DAMMIT,” he yelled. His kids stopped and looked at him. Dad NEVER cussed.
“Let me guess, yet another thing you forgot,” Becky scolded him. Sometimes it was like she had four kids, not three. Russell slinked back into the kitchen, frustrated and defeated.
Russell’s mind had been slipping. Like the beach during a hurricane, life’s woes and problems had surged over his brain, leaving him mentally flooded.
“Um. I’ll get to it.”
He looked over at the Christmas tree that was in living room. He then looked at the credit card bills on the counter. He hated Christmas. The fuss. The expense. The stress. Even putting up the tree was a pain in the butt. Peace on Earth, goodwill to man was such a crock of bull. He was over Christmas. He flipped off the TV. The little boy from 40 years ago was no more.
It was cold, dreary December day. Russell backed out of this driveway, noted the piles of leaves and felt his chest tighten again. He headed out of the neighborhood and tried to think of everything he had to do. It was the last day of work before Christmas vacation and he was slammed. There was going to be another round of layoffs and he didn’t know if he’d survive. Everyone in the office was on edge and there wasn’t much Joy to the World at work either. He spent the next ten hours in a cubicle sitting next to fear.
He felt much older than his 47 years.
On the way home, Russell listened to the talk radio host. He normally loved the guy — who loved to give the President hell. Russell loved to get worked up on the way home every day. But Russell noticed something for the first time tonight. The man was trying to scare him. Fear was pouring out of the radio. And Russell felt afraid.
So he put on his blinker and took a sudden left. He drove across town to the cathedral where his mother had drug him 40 years ago. The car stopped in front of it and he trudged through the rain to the steps.
He stopped and refused to go in.
So he just sat there. Like Moses on the edge of the promised land, he looked at the entrance and knew he couldn’t enter. He sat in the dark as the cold rain poured down on his head. Darkness wrapped his body and soul — all except the faint multicolored light from the stained glass.
And if you had looked closed enough, you’d have noticed that rain wasn’t the only water trickling down his face.
“You’ll catch pneumonia out here, son.”
The voice sounded familiar. Russell snapped out of his pity party and looked around. His eyes could barely make out a figure walking out of the shadows holding an umbrella. “Since you don’t want to come in, I thought I’d come to you.”
Russell looked at the older man’s face. A moment of recognition jolted him. It was the priest from his childhood.
“Christmas getting you down?”
Russell nodded. “Yes, sir. And the rest of life. I can’t see anything good about the world.”
The priest laughed.
“Son, if you can’t see good in the world, be the good in the world.”
Russell was a lousy poker player. He glared at the father with a look of confusion.
“You’re almost as thick as you were when you were seven.” Russell was shock he remembered him. “Oh yes, I remember you. You had that cowlick that your mother was always trying to tame with spit.”
Russell sat up straight. He looked at the priest and started to talk. “But we live in a broken world…” The priest cut him off.
“Rusty, the world is the world. Like a stone hitting a still pond, you have a way to change it. You can change it with your actions. Those actions can be good. They can be bad. Or they can be nothing at all. You have the power but it starts here, ” the priest pointed at his heart, ” here, ” then his brain, ” but most importantly here, ” he pointed toward heaven.”
Russell looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped and the clouds began to part. A full moon and stars peeked from behind the clouds.
“Russell, be the good in people’s lives. Give them a Christmas present they’ll never forget. Like I tried to tell you so many years ago, “It’s better to give than receive.”
The priest slowly got up and started to walk back toward the darkness. “Merry Christmas Rusty.”
Russell smiled and said, “And to you, father.”
He sat for 15 more minutes and then stood up and walked into the cathedral. On a side hall, near the bathroom was a framed photo of his priest.

In memory of
Father Joseph Hurley
1935-1979

May ye rest in peace.

Russell’s jaw dropped. He stood there, stunned and staring at the man’s wizened face. He then looked around. The building was empty. No one was around.

It was at moment Rusty Randolph realized he had been given one of the greatest Christmas gifts of all.

I have a lot of jobs. I draw pictures. I speechify. I blab on the radio. But the hardest job I have — and the most important, is that of a dad. Why a dad, you ask? Because my legacy won’t be the pictures or words I leave behind. My legacy will be my sons and their heirs.

It’s sobering, really.

We go to school to train for our careers. We even go to driver’s ed to learn to drive a car. But being a parent? Well we might pick up a book if we’re curious. Or we’ll ask a friend or a pediatrician for advice. But most of us look to our own upbringing as the gospel of raising kiddos. I know I have. I was really never around a kid before I had my first born.

Oh the mistakes I have made.

The first big mistake was that I wasn’t supportive enough for Amy. I was completely overwhelmed with our little guy when he came into this world. You see, he didn’t come out with an instruction book stapled to his little butt. Come to think of it, neither did his brothers. It was trial and error. And I’m surprised my errors didn’t lead to a trial.

But babies are tough. And so are mamas. I think Amy might have forgiven me by now. I don’t know. But I do know my next two children were equally challenging in their own way. And still are.

I’ll tell you right now, I have been blessed with very good boys. They are polite, studious and fun to be around. They don’t get in much trouble. So my challenge as a father is a little different than I would be in they were hellions.

No, my challenge is having the energy and the time to invest in them. All three are full of potential. My job as a father is to make sure they fulfill it.

My sons.

They are my legacy. They are my most important job.