Marshall Ramsey

If you’re driving south of Mobile,  you’ll drive right past the Thrift Shop.  Located near the Alabama Gulf Coast, it’s in a nondescript concrete-block building. But inside its plain walls are incredible secondhand treasures. (Proceeds from which help feed the poor and clothe the needy.)  But what no one knew was that one of the greatest treasures of all time was sitting on a dusty shelf in the back of the store between a Magic 8-ball and a Stretch Armstrong.

On May 11, 2012, the estate of Mr. Jacques de Molay was officially settled. His great niece and nephew had brought the last of his earthly possessions to the thrift shop in an old cardboard box.  There was a waffle iron, an alarm clock, a cat clock whose eyes moved with its tail, a book of French poems and an old, weathered chalice.

Jacques had lived a long and fascinating life. Living near Paris, he fled his beloved France with only the clothes on his back (and a small suitcase.) The Germans had invaded his home country and while many of his former classmates had chosen to join the resistance, he had decided to run. As he sat in a pub in a bombed out section of London, he spun a globe to pick a place to be as far away from the war as possible. His finger landed on the sleepy Southern port city of Mobile, Alabama.

But even half a world away, Jacques had a hard time escaping the Nazis. As his steamer approached the mouth of Mobile Bay, it became a target for a German U Boat.  Two of U-106’s G7 torpedoes ripped through the freighter and once again, he escaped with only the clothes on his back (and his small suitcase.) His lifeboat washed up (along with much of the ship’s debris) on what is now known as Orange Beach.  As burning debris flickered on the horizon, Jacques struggled to convince the Baldwin County sheriff that his accent wasn’t German. Jacques was lucky he wasn’t shot that night.

Seventy years passed quietly.  Jacques never married and lived modestly in a small bungalow near Point Clear. He was a Godly man who attended regular Mass and volunteered to work with the poor. His brother’s daughter had emigrated from France after the war and lived up the road in the small town of Fair Hope. She had married a boy from Wilmer and they had two children — a boy and a girl.  Both reluctantly looked after their aging great uncle after the niece and her husband passed away in a car accident on Hwy. 98.  And both children secretly hoped being named in their great uncle’s will would mean a big inheritance.  One night, he hinted at  “The greatest treasure of all time would be theirs to guard.” Greatest treasure? They fantasized about gold bars and lots of cash.  Their greed made them blind to the true fortune in their grasp.

Jacques suddenly died from pancreatic cancer.  In February, he was diagnosed. By April, he was lowered into the rich Alabama soil. His initial reaction to the dire prognosis was, “I’ve lived a long life and it is time to let go.”  And a few weeks later, his last words to his great niece and nephew were, “The cup.” They had no clue what he was talking about.

The day came when the two found out about their great fortune. They had inherited the grand sum of $13,432 each, his house and the possessions within. Both walked out of the lawyer’s office shaken and visibly angry.  They immediately drove to Point Clear and picked over his old bungalow for anything remotely valuable. They then threw the remaining items into an old box and drove as fast as they could to the Thrift shop.  Jacques’ great nephew slammed the box on the counter and said in a huff, “Gimme a receipt for my taxes.” The lady behind the counter, a red-headed woman who appeared to be close to 40, looked up from her Jane Austen novel and smiled. Miss Agatha Harkey said, “Yes sir. Thank you for your donation. You’ve really helped the sick and the poor.”

Little did she know how right she was.

The cat clock sold first.  Considered a classic, the couple from Atlanta had paid full price for it. (It was worth 10x what it was listed for and was quite a steal.)  A young married couple from Pensacola bought the waffle iron for a good price.  Agatha Harkey had bought the French book of poems for 50 cents. She was smitten with the French language and wanted to read her favorite poems in her favorite tongue. No one wanted the battered old chalice, but then again, who would? It’s beauty wasn’t on the outside.

It was a cloudy June afternoon in Orange Beach.  Agatha sat on the Gulf’s edge, reading her little book of poems.  The red beach flag popped against the dark gray sky.  Storms rolled just off shore, sending in rip currents and massive waves.  It nearly gave her the beach to herself — a rarity for a June Friday afternoon. She loved reading Jacques’ name in the inside cover. She loved how the words rolled off her tongue so effortlessly. And on that cool June afternoon, she noticed something strange on page 100. There, written in Jacque’s own hand, were the words, “Knights of the Templar.”  Pieces began to fall in place one after another.  Jacques de Molay had a secret.  A secret that almost went to the grave with him.

His job was to guard something.  But what? She read the book and found another clue — a folded piece of yellowed paper. It was a poem by the 12th century French poet Chretien de Troyes. She read it and her jaw dropped. It was about the Holy Grail.  Could Jacques have been guarding the Grail?  Could that be why he fled Europe during the war?  Was that why he ended up near Mobile, Alabama?  Was he afraid it would fall into Nazi hands?

The Holy Grail, the chalice used by Jesus during the last supper was sitting in the Thrift Shop!  She slammed the book shut and ran back to her car.  She had to get back to the shop — and now!  The tourists checking out of their rental properties and clogging the highway would just have to get out of her way.

Agatha Harkey became an honorary member of the Knights of Templar that day. She swore on her life that she’d protect the cup.  She bought it for $5 and kept it safely in a safe in her home.  And while she continued to work at the Thrift Shop, she also began volunteering at the Children’s Hospital.  Every day after work, she and her old cup would visit the terminally ill children.  And every day after work, miracles happened for kids who truly needed a one.

Jacques de Molay‘s cup was indeed the greatest treasure of all time. And only someone as good as Agatha Harkey would know the true power of the chalice in the Thrift Shop.

The severe storm’s strobe lightning turned night into day.  Loud thunder rocked the house, rattling the windows and china– but the boy continued to snore lightly.  On the cusp of being a teenager, the young man’s body was growing right before his weary father’s eyes.  It seemed like every night when the dad got home from work, the kid had grown another inch.  Time was rapidly accelerating.  The father sat in his son’s room, unsuccessfully trying to grab time and hold it in place.

It was like trying to stop a speeding train.

The father couldn’t sleep. The violent storm outside had woken him up. The storms of life had kept him awake.  He walked from the master bedroom to where his son’s room. He sat on the floor next to a sea of video game cartridges and old toys.  The kid was sleeping soundly through the storm. The boy was at peace.  The father wished it could be that way all the time. But being a preteen wasn’t easy.  It was something the father knew all to well.

It was 3:02 a.m.  The sunrise was still three hours away. And the storm was intensifying.

The one thing every newborn should have stapled to his or her leg is an instruction manual. This boy was the child the father had made all his mistakes on. And he had made some whoppers. But now, though, he knew couldn’t fail him.  There was little margin for error. The teenage years are too important. Too influential. Like drying concrete, this was the time when his self-image would set for life.  The father knew it all too well.  But the only guide he had was his own teenage years. And that was a flawed manual at best. He prayed a lot about this.

Another clap of thunder shook the house.  Lightning had hit a tree down the street, causing a small fire before the heavy rain doused it. The electricity flickered, but did not go out.

The father watched as his son’s chest rose and fell. He remembered the stories he used to make up for his son when he was little.  The ones that he told him while sitting in this very spot.  About the little boy and his dog traveling across the great mythical land of Tejas. How they fought dragons and took on bandits.  The father would weave moral stories into the tales, little life lessons that he hoped would take his son through life.  He wished he had written them down.  He hoped that his son had listened.

Lightning struck nearby again, causing the son to turn over and mumble something incoherently under his breath. The father thought that he was going to have to slip out of the room — but the boy soon fell back into a deep sleep.   The father relaxed and continued to think about his boy’s journey to manhood and his role as a father.

The rain pelting the window sounded like water hitting a car in a carwash.  The pines in the backyard danced a hypnotic dance as the lightning continued to illuminate the inky sky. But the thunder’s bark was more distant now. The storm was beginning to move on.

And then it occurred to him. As the father watched his beloved son, he realized that he didn’t need to give him advice. He just needed to give him his undivided attention. The boy needed his father’s time. The epiphany illuminated the father’s heart like the lightning had the night.

Standing up, the father’s knees cracked.  Another sign that time was moving too quickly. And as he began to walk gingerly out the door, he heard his son’s voice call out, “Dad, whatcha doin’ in here?”

“Just checkin’ on you,” the dad said quietly.

“Oh, OK.  And Dad…”

“What?”

“Happy Father’s Day.”

The father looked at his son’s sleepy face and said the only thing he could,”No, thank you. I wouldn’t be one without you.”

And with that, the storm was over.