Marshall Ramsey

The airport was crowded with Christmas Eve travelers. Each was desperately trying to beat Santa (and the weather) to destinations all across the country.  The mother unbuckled her four-year-old little girl from her carseat and carried her across the airport’s crowded parking lot.  Giant jets took off and landed like metal pterodactyls coming to a prehistoric nest.  High pitched whines of jet engines and low-grumbles of diesel engines made an exotic sonic symphony to the girl’s little ears.  A light snow fell, unusual for the South. It threatened to halt airport operations.  The closest snowplow was 400 miles away.

The little girl noticed all the different people walking past them when they got closer to the front entrance. A man with a whistle and a gun stopped traffic so they could cross a street choked with taxis and vans.  He winked at the little girl and blew her a kiss. She blew him one back.  The cold snow stung her cheeks, making them nearly as red as the bows in her hair. People drug, rolled and carried their luggage toward the front doors.  She panicked as her mom walked quickly and directly at the closed doors.  But to her relief, they opened automatically, allowing them inside. The warmth of the heated building gave them a proper Southern welcome.

Her mother put her down and held her hand as they walked toward a bank of giant television screens. On them were a bunch of letters and numbers — but no Dora the Explorer.  Her mom sighed, picked up her daughter and headed toward a crowded restaurant where other families were waiting.  The little girl pressed her nose against the cold glass and watched the giant white and grey birds doing their nimble ballet on the tarmac.  Each one of those planes held people trying to get home to loved ones.  Her mom bought her a cookie and they had tea at the window table as they waited.

In a few minutes, her mom once again went to check the TVs. Still no Dora, but her mom’s mood darkened.  The little girl did not know what “Delayed” meant, but it seemed to be serious. The weather had started  to get worse and there was talk that the airport might close.  It was one of the few times her mother had ever seemed worried.  “I hope Rudolph works for the airline,” her mom said as they watched the board.

The little girl had never felt so short in her life. Soon there were dozens of other families crowded around the boards, all looking to see if their loved ones’ flights had made it.  An announcement came on about the airport closing in 15 minutes.  The crowd grumbled and scrambled to make other travel arrangements.  Flights had been cancelled or at least rescheduled all across the country because of this storm.  Now it was their turn. The mother rubbed her temples, feeling a migraine coming on and trying to think what she would do next.  Christmas was about to be cancelled.

Just then, a man in an U.S. Army uniform swung her around and kissed her.  The mother, surprised, started to struggle. And then awareness kicked in and she kissed him passionately back.  The man then let go of woman and crouched down. “DADDY!” the little girl yelled as she ran to him. She jumped into his outspread, loving arms.

Christmas had arrived on time on Delta Flight 1225 from Germany.  And no snowstorm in the world could have ever stopped it.

The two of them had entered the woods that cold Fall morning.  Only one came out. While the Sheriff said it was an accident, Jack was having no part of it.  Jack McArthur’s son Joey had died that day.  And in Jack’s mind, no one was to blame but himself.

Jack sat in the back of the church, unshaven and reeking of alcohol.  It was the first Christmas since the hunting accident that had taken the life of his precious boy.  He had hit rock bottom.  Hard.  The choir practiced their songs for the Christmas Eve extravaganza.  But Jack didn’t hear a single word.  The sound of a single gunshot repeated over and over in his tortured head.

The accident had torn his family apart. First, his wife and daughter had moved back to Atlanta.  Then the bank took their home.  Finally, his boss finally had to fire him — his drinking had gotten out of control.  He had made a bad decision when he pulled that trigger. And he had been making worse ones ever since.  Now he lived under the Main Street overpass and showered at the YMCA.  He worked odd jobs when he was sober enough to function.  But normally he chose not to be sober. Alcohol was the only way he could extinguish the fires of guilt.

One pull of the trigger. One bullet. One family destroyed.

Jack McArthur sat slumped on the back pew, silently, but he was screaming in pain.  Only God could hear his cries.

God. Where was God when he pulled the trigger? When Joey had run through the brush like a deer?  God had lost His only son. Didn’t He realize the pain he felt? “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” Jack cried.

He began to sob loudly in the back of the church. The choir kept on singing.

A stranger walked up and sat next to Jack. He took the broken man in his arms and held him like a father would a son. Jack began to cry even louder; he cried so hard he busted blood vessels in his forehead. The man just rubbed his back and held him tighter.  “It will be OK.  Joey is safe now.  It will be OK.  You are forgiven. And you must forgive yourself.  It’s the only way you can go on living again.  Your remaining child needs her father. Your wife needs her husband.  And your community needs you to get help.  You must go on living, Jack. You can’t waste the precious gift you’ve been given.”

And at that moment, Jack heard the choir was singing the second chorus of O Holy Night!:

He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Before Him lowly bend!

The stranger smiled and said to Jack, “Merry Christmas my tortured friend. Forgiveness is my present to you. Now turn around and give it to yourself.”

At the moment in the back of a small Mississippi church, Jack McArthur began to forgive himself and the difficult job of rebuilding his life. But before he did, he and the stranger sang with the choir to the top of their lungs.

Somewhere north of Kosciusko, Mississippi along the Natchez Trace Parkway, two deer grazed in a frosty, moonlit field.  The smaller of the two bucks lifted his head and said, “Bubba John, you ever wanted to be something more than you are now?”

Bubba John just kept munching his grass without an answer.

“Seriously, have you ever wanted to be more than just a deer?”

Bubba John stopped and looked at the smaller buck, “Winston, we are deer. We’re born. We grow. We eat. We mate. We end up as a hat rack and sausage.”

Winston sighed. He knew he was supposed to be more than just a deer — He had the gift of self awareness. Of course, most days it seemed more like a curse.  Tonight was one of them.

“You know Winston, you probably ought to stop all this crazy babble.  The other deer are making fun of you.  I’m your brother. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“You’re just embarrassed.” Winston told his brother.

“Well — and that, too.”

And just then, a meteor screamed above the field and flew into the nearby trees.  CRASH!!!

Both deer scrambled and then paused. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it completely intrigued the deer.  Bubba John and Winston ran over toward the glowing woods.  What they saw would change Christmas forever.

There, in a wrecked heap were eight unconscious reindeer, a crumpled sleigh and a moaning man lying on his back in a pile of pine straw.

“Son of a doe!” Bubba John shouted. He and Winston walked over to the man and Winston nudged him with his nose.  His cold, wet nose woke the fat man up.

“Stop it Rudolph. Stop it.” Santa began to groggily squirm. “Rudolph. Er…. You’re not Rudolph. He’s back home. What happened?!?”

The two deer looked at the fat man as he tried to sit up. “MY SLEIGH! MY TEAM!”  Santa saw the the reindeer casualties and yelled. Bubba John, spooked by the man, ran into the nearby brush.  But not Winston. He just stood there looking Santa.

“Why hello there my friend,” Santa said. “And what’s your name?”

Winston just stared at him.

“I can understand you.  I’m magic, remember?”

“My name is Winston.  I live here.”

Santa brushed his pants off and walked over to the reindeer. Pancer, Dancer and Vixen began to stir.  Soon all the reindeer were on their feet — All except Cupid.  Santa turned his attention to the crumpled sleigh.  “Can you help me?” he said to Winston.

Winston lowered his head and walked over to the sleigh.  Santa tied a rope around his neck, patted him on the hind quarters and said.  “Pull my little friend. I’ll push.”

Three tugs and the sleigh was righted.

Santa gathered up the scattered toys and carefully loaded them back in the giant brown sack.  “What happened?” Winston inquired.

“Comet became airsick.  He threw up over New Orleans. Actually,  he threw up ALL over New Orleans. I suspect he ate some bad reindeer food.  He got weaker as we headed north.  By the time we hit Jackson, we started losing altitude.  Where are we anyway?”

“Kosciusko,” Winston said.  He had heard the two cyclists mention the name a couple of days ago as they peddled up the Trace.

“Ah. Guess I’m going to have to figure out how we can get out of this mess. I can’t fly with seven reindeer,” Santa said with concern in his voice. Comet threw up again and just moaned.

“Comet rhymes with Vomit!” Donner and Vixen laughed.

Comet was mad at his friends’  joke but was too weak to protest.

Santa got an idea.  He paused, rubbed his chin and then smiled. “Winston, how are you at flying?”

Winston’s eyes lit up.  But then immediately the light went out and his head dropped.  “Never done it, sir.”

“Have you ever thought you can be more than you are right now?” Santa said.

Winston’s eyes lit back up. “Yes sir.”

“You put in the effort, I’ll provide the magic.

Santa hooked back up the team and slipped a harness around Winston’s neck.  Santa walked over to the brush and said, “Bubba John, take care of Comet. I’ll be back to get him as soon as he’s well. Make sure he doesn’t end up as a hat rack and sausage.  Take care of yourself, little buddy.” Santa patted Comet on his aching head.

Comet vomited one more time.

Santa hopped in the sleigh, put on his goggles and picked up the reins. He took out a small bag and sprinkled magical golden dust on Winston.  Seven reindeer and one whitetail deer then pulled Santa’s sleigh up into the cold Mississippi night.

They took two laps around the field and then headed north. And on that Christmas Eve, Winston the Mississippi deer became more than just a deer. He became a legend.