Marshall Ramsey

The sun rose over the sea of campaign signs in front of the church.  Like mushrooms after a rain, they had sprung up the day before the election. The election was now over but the signs remained.

In a hotel room twenty miles away, a candidate woke up with a killer headache. It had been a hard-fought campaign. He had traveled nearly 70,000 miles since the campaigning began and his body felt it. He was no spring chicken.  And today he felt fried.

But he had won.  That took away a lot of his fatigue.

He had won by promising his donors what they wanted. He had won by making cliched promises to the voters.  When it came to the art of pandering, he was Picasso.  Now he faced a more daunting task: Leadership. He had to lead.  As much as he wanted to just please the small majority of people who had voted for him yesterday, he realized he had to represent 100% of the people in his district.  It was the difference between being a leader and being a political hack.

His head hurt.

He walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and looked into the mirror.  Did he have it in him? Could he make Mississippi a better place?  Playing politics was so much easier.  Tackling historical problems like poverty and educational woes loomed over him.  What could he do to get people back to work? How could he attract jobs to an area that needed them like the desert needs rain?

He had won. He had achieved his dream. But like most dreams, he had to eventually wake up.  He had to wake up and lead.

He took two ibuprofen and made some coffee. The next four years would define who he was as a person.  It was time for him to rise to the occasion.

Maybe later. He laid back down and drifted off back off to sleep. He’d be in the Capitol facing problems soon enough.  It was time to once again bask in his victory.

His forefathers had nearly frozen to death and starved due to their decision to move. Thanks to the Native Americans, they survived. So today he was about to carve a turkey in their honor.

The sharp knife glided through the hot turkey.  They had gotten an extra big one this year.  More leftovers.  He stopped and smiled.  There was NOTHING better than leftover turkey sandwiches.  Well, maybe… but he loved turkey sandwiches.  And this year’s turkey’s breast would provide a bountiful crop.

A bountiful crop. Thank God for the bountiful crop in his life.

It had been a year since the move. And two since the event that caused the move.  He looked out the kitchen window at the mountains and reflected on the past couple of years.  It had been so hard on his family. Families all across America were being scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind thanks to the Great Recession. His was no different. He sighed and watched as the mist danced across the snow-capped peaks.

He heard the restlessness coming from the dining room.  The sound of a spoon clanking against a piece of crystal woke him from his trance. “C’mon, DAD! People are HUNGRY OUT HERE.”  He was holding up business.

He brought the plate of turkey into the dining room to a welcoming gasp, sat it down in the middle of the table and took his seat.  His wife, their kids and  both his and her parents watched as he tucked his napkin in his shirt.  Then they all held hands and he began to pray:

“Thank You for adversity.  Thank You for the gift of change. You gave this family a challenge and after only two years, we are now here together, stronger than before.  But we really didn’t find happiness until we realized that Thanksgiving was everyday.  So thank You for that insight. And thank You for all the blessings around the table.  Thank You for this food. Thank You for our health. And thank You for this family.”

The dad finished his impromptu prayer (He normally fired off ‘God is great’) and served his wife a piece of turkey.

Thanksgiving was more than a one-day event at their house.  It was served up every day of the year.  And judging the amount of turkey on the plate, so would turkey leftovers.

The little boy could see his breath as he chased after his father.  His father, whose legs were twice as long as the boys’, was a good ten feet in front of his son. In his right hand was a sharpened axe. In his left, a rope. It was cold evening and the sun was beginning to set west of the mountains. Their shadows spread a dark blanket on the lowlands below them — except for the hill the father and son were about to climb.  One foot after another the two quietly headed toward their prize: A Christmas tree.

It was a lone cedar tree, about five feet in height and perfectly shaped.  The dad sat the axe down, looked at his son and said, “So, is this one good enough?”  The boy, aged four, looked at the axe and then the tree and started to wail.  “NOOOOO!  You can’t kill this tree!”  The dad looked at the boy with a look of bewilderment and annoyance.  But even tall, lanky timber men have hearts.  “OK, Boy. We’ll save this one.  But let’s decorate it anyway. It can become our family tree.”

So a family tradition was born that early December day. Every Christmas Eve, the family would hike up the hill and decorate the tree, light a bonfire, drink hot chocolate and sing Christmas Carols. Each child would get to open a present on that hilltop.  And the family would hold hands and read the Gospel of Matthew to celebrate Christ’s birth.

Over the years, the little boy grew and so did his family. He was soon joined by a little sister and a little brother. Their mother got lovelier and their dad more proud.  And over the years, they would continue their Christmas celebration around the perfect tree. The family tree had grown bigger and stronger.

On that little hilltop in the East Tennessee mountains, love illuminated the surrounding valley.

One unusually hot and muggy December afternoon, a severe thunderstorm blew through the valley.  A rare tornado spawned and skipped its deadly finger though the woods and then into the settlement.  The father saw the funnel, quickly grabbed his family and threw them in a closet.  He dove on top of them right as the house exploded.  The sound of a thousand freight trains changed their lives forever.

Rescuers found the family safe underneath the body of the father. He had made the ultimate sacrifice for his children. The mayor and the editor of newspaper called him a hero.  That Christmas, he had given them the ultimate present of all.

The following Sunday, they buried the father on that hilltop in the shade of the family tree and close to the Lord.  And while the storm had damaged the mighty cedar, it hadn’t toppled it. Most of its right side was gone and it was scarred. But it wasn’t destroyed (much like the family itself.)  And that Christmas, the mother and the three children hiked up the hill, decorated the tree and held hands. They continued to celebrate their family and the birth of Christ around the mighty cedar on the hill.

The Family Tree.