filling station owner interrupted his Christmas celebration to open his station so we could have gas in our tanks in case the roads became passable.
Late in the afternoon, word arrived that one lane of a road had been cleared, so our family decided to try completing the journey to Indianapolis. After a harrowing six-hour drive on slippery roads, we arrived at our grandparentsâ home late Christmas night. Although it was not the holiday we had planned, we all knew it was one we would remember when all the other ones were forgotten. We received a gift that could not fit under a tree, wrapped in the caring compassion of those church members. They put aside their own comfort and traditions to welcome us at their âinn,â not just with food, but with cheer and loving concern. We witnessed the true spirit of Christmas, of giving instead of receiving, by a congregation who set their own celebrations and enjoyment aside to care for strangers in their tiny town of Morocco, Indiana.
Martha Ajango
Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi © 2007 Mark Parisi.
In Touch with My Inner Elf
It was three weeks before Christmas, and my life looked pretty bleak. I was cold. I was broke. And I was worried.
My small film production company was on its deathbed.
My business partner left for Berlin to visit her lover.
Everyone was shopping and leaving for the holidays. But I had big plans, too. No, I wasnât traveling back to New York or visiting my parents in Florida. I was going to stay in Nashville, go to my office every day, stare at the phone that never rang, and feel tremendously sorry for myself. I mean, did I really have any other choice?
One morning, I was pacing in front of my desk, scanning through the newspaper, and right in front of my face was a help-wanted ad. UPS needed Santaâs helpers to sit in the little jump seat next to the driver. When the driver made a delivery stop, the Santaâs helper would deliver a package. This appealed to me. It seemed like an interesting job. It wouldnât be overwhelming. It would be Zen-like, nice and simple. When there were no more packages, and the back of the truck was empty, the workday would be over. It would be a gig that was totally different from my usual job. I wouldnât have to be creative. I wouldnât have to deal with crazy clients. I wouldnât have to fulfill a million responsibilities. All I had to do was lift a maximum of sixty-five pounds, run up to someoneâs front door, and deliver Christmas packages to people who would be smiling and anticipating my arrival with joy. Plus, Iâd make $9.50 an hour.
That morning I drove to UPS to apply for the gig. I could hardly contain my excitement. I walked in, dressed from head to toe in black Italian designer wear. The woman at the desk looked at me quizzically. I told her I was applying for a Santaâs helper position. She asked me if I was sure and looked at me like I was crazy. I told her I was never more certain of anything in my entire life. I told her about my company, how it was on the verge of bankruptcy. I told her that my business partner was in Berlin with her lover. I told her I was forty-five-and-a-half, but I could easily lift sixty-five pounds, and I pushed up my sleeve and flexed my biceps. I explained to her how much I needed this job at this moment in my life, that this was more than a job to meâit was the key to my sanity. I put aside my pride and dignity, and I begged her to please let me work as a Santaâs helper. When I finished my plea, she was practically in tears. Then she smiled at me and said those three magical words: âWelcome to UPS!â I immediately got fitted for my uniform. Even though I would have preferred that the jacket and pants were more fitted, and I knew that brown was definitely not my color, I felt like a million bucks.
Bright and early the next morning, I was riding shotgun in a huge UPS truck filled with 175
Late in the afternoon, word arrived that one lane of a road had been cleared, so our family decided to try completing the journey to Indianapolis. After a harrowing six-hour drive on slippery roads, we arrived at our grandparentsâ home late Christmas night. Although it was not the holiday we had planned, we all knew it was one we would remember when all the other ones were forgotten. We received a gift that could not fit under a tree, wrapped in the caring compassion of those church members. They put aside their own comfort and traditions to welcome us at their âinn,â not just with food, but with cheer and loving concern. We witnessed the true spirit of Christmas, of giving instead of receiving, by a congregation who set their own celebrations and enjoyment aside to care for strangers in their tiny town of Morocco, Indiana.
Martha Ajango
Reprinted by permission of Off the Mark and Mark Parisi © 2007 Mark Parisi.
In Touch with My Inner Elf
It was three weeks before Christmas, and my life looked pretty bleak. I was cold. I was broke. And I was worried.
My small film production company was on its deathbed.
My business partner left for Berlin to visit her lover.
Everyone was shopping and leaving for the holidays. But I had big plans, too. No, I wasnât traveling back to New York or visiting my parents in Florida. I was going to stay in Nashville, go to my office every day, stare at the phone that never rang, and feel tremendously sorry for myself. I mean, did I really have any other choice?
One morning, I was pacing in front of my desk, scanning through the newspaper, and right in front of my face was a help-wanted ad. UPS needed Santaâs helpers to sit in the little jump seat next to the driver. When the driver made a delivery stop, the Santaâs helper would deliver a package. This appealed to me. It seemed like an interesting job. It wouldnât be overwhelming. It would be Zen-like, nice and simple. When there were no more packages, and the back of the truck was empty, the workday would be over. It would be a gig that was totally different from my usual job. I wouldnât have to be creative. I wouldnât have to deal with crazy clients. I wouldnât have to fulfill a million responsibilities. All I had to do was lift a maximum of sixty-five pounds, run up to someoneâs front door, and deliver Christmas packages to people who would be smiling and anticipating my arrival with joy. Plus, Iâd make $9.50 an hour.
That morning I drove to UPS to apply for the gig. I could hardly contain my excitement. I walked in, dressed from head to toe in black Italian designer wear. The woman at the desk looked at me quizzically. I told her I was applying for a Santaâs helper position. She asked me if I was sure and looked at me like I was crazy. I told her I was never more certain of anything in my entire life. I told her about my company, how it was on the verge of bankruptcy. I told her that my business partner was in Berlin with her lover. I told her I was forty-five-and-a-half, but I could easily lift sixty-five pounds, and I pushed up my sleeve and flexed my biceps. I explained to her how much I needed this job at this moment in my life, that this was more than a job to meâit was the key to my sanity. I put aside my pride and dignity, and I begged her to please let me work as a Santaâs helper. When I finished my plea, she was practically in tears. Then she smiled at me and said those three magical words: âWelcome to UPS!â I immediately got fitted for my uniform. Even though I would have preferred that the jacket and pants were more fitted, and I knew that brown was definitely not my color, I felt like a million bucks.
Bright and early the next morning, I was riding shotgun in a huge UPS truck filled with 175
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