It all began with Christmas. Well, actually, a Christmas tree. Now I know for a fact that there are many kinds of Christmas trees. I don’t mean whether they are pine or fir, plastic or aluminum. What I do mean is their purpose. You see, there are decorative trees that celebrate the season in so many ways. I’ve even seen a Christmas tree with nothing but old-fashioned tin cookie cutters on it. But the best Christmas trees of all are those cuddled with memories.
While decorative trees may have coordinated colors and ornaments, a memory tree has a mish-mash of all of them. Those ornaments can be anything, a handmade snowman carefully crafted in kindergarten, a purchased baby’s first Christmas ornament, or perhaps an antique glass miniature teapot given to someone by their grandmother.
Now, I know about such things because I am a fairy. Yes, kind of like the one that works for a mouse, and yet entirely different. My kind is often misunderstood in the old stories since we are really angels. Yes, I know angels are supposed to be these big, powerful, and bright beings. Some are. But not all of us. Most of us don’t make big announcements or battle evil; many of us instead look after the precious things in God’s eyes. My current assignment is Sammy.
You don’t know Sammy? My, that is unfortunate. Sammy is one of God’s special children. Oh my, what a pure heart he has. Quick to love, always forgiving, and seldom cross. Sammy, you see, is a 9-year-old boy that has Downs Syndrome. In some people’s consideration, Sammy is stupid, half-witted, and slow, but in the Boss’s eye, Sammy is a precious jewel. And so, it all started with Christmas, an antique ornament, and Sammy.
Oh, yes, I suppose you may need to know my name. My real name, spoken in Angelish (the language of angels), is unpronounceable for humans. So, we look to our assignments for a name. Sammy calls me Oscar. Well, actually comes out more like Okra, but since I am not a vegetable, we’ll go with Oscar.
A few days ago, Sammy’s family set up a Christmas tree in their front living room window. After hanging the last ornament, a miniature nativity made of wooden popsicle sticks, Sammy, Mom, Dad, and big sister Martha all stood back to admire it as it shone with hundreds of tiny clear lights. Sammy’s mother loved those, and their light played against dozens of memory-soaked ornaments. It was one of the best-decorated Christmas trees I’d ever seen, although I doubt the decorative tree snobs would give it a second glance.
On that Christmas tree, just left of the middle and up a branch, was a ruby red miniature teapot with painted white stars. It had witnessed many Christmases and had been recently given to Sammy by his Grandmother. With Mom’s help, Sammy hung it carefully on the tree.
Soon, brightly wrapped packages began accumulating under the tree. Long packages, small packages, and lumpy packages, all with colored paper and bows. Christmas Eve came, some packages left, and more arrived. Then, on Christmas morning, after Sammy’s dad read the story of Christ’s birth (I love the angel parts, one of my best friends was in the choir that night), the rest of the packages were given and opened. Sammy’s favorite gift that year was a spring-powered gun that shot foam darts. It was a family tradition that a nine-year-old boy would get a BB gun for Christmas. But since Sammy was Sammy, they thought it best to do something a bit safer. What harm could a piece of foam cause?
I suppose I should explain one more thing about my job. Only the youngest of children can see me. Oh, I am there, but something happens in humans; as they grow older, they lose the ability to see angelic beings unless there is special permission from above. But Sammy, and folks like him, keep that ability much longer. Some for their whole life. I guess that I’m Sammy’s best friend at the moment. We do all kinds of things together, including playing games.
That’s what we were doing the following day. To an outsider, it probably looked like Sammy was shooting his new gun at imaginary targets. Kind of like watching someone wearing a virtual reality headset. But in reality, Sammy was shooting at me as I flew around, always ensuring that nothing would get damaged by the flying foam. We ended up in the living room; after a close call with an old oil lamp, I flew into the Christmas tree and out of Sammy’s sight.
“That’s not fair, Oscar,” Sammy laughed. I don’t get too many direct orders from above, but as I hid in the tree, one came through. A confused but obedient fairy angel flew out of the tree and hovered right in front of the antique ruby-red teapot ornament. Sammy aimed and fired. The shot was, unfortunately, true and passed right through me, slamming against the teapot. I turned and watched the hook lose its grip. The teapot tumbled through the branches and crashed to the ground.
“What was that?!” Sammy’s mom shouted from the kitchen. Sammy fell to his knees and moaned. “Sammy, are you all right?” Mom yelled again. Sammy began to sob as he looked at the broken pieces of the teapot. “Sammy, are you okay?” Mom said as she sat down beside him. “Look, sorry,” Sammy sobbed. I felt awful, it’s my job to keep Sammy out of trouble, but orders are orders.
“Well, let’s pick up the pieces; perhaps it can be mended. It doesn’t look that bad,” Sammy’s mom comforted. And as I looked at the wreckage, it did look that bad; the handle had broken off, and the top bit where the silver cap once sat was shattered. As Mom carefully picked up the pieces, a small slip of paper fell out of the inside of the ornament.
One side of the fragile paper proclaimed in heavy gothic lettering, “Du hast gewonnen!” The other side, printed in a more normal typeset, said, “Lauscha Glasschmuck, Lauscha Germany,” the second line, “Distributed by F. W. Woolworth,” and the third line read “1932.”
“I wonder what Du hast gewonnen means,” Mom said. Sammy just shrugged. “Gary, come here and bring your laptop,” she shouted. The clank of a recliner’s footrest lowering was heard, followed by muffled footsteps. “What happened,” Dad said as he sat down on the sofa opposite the tree. “Sammy broke that antique ornament your mother gave him with that stupid gun that wasn’t supposed to hurt anything,” Mom replied.
“Okay, so we need to set some boundaries for the gun; I never cared much for that old ornament anyway,” he replied. “So, why did I need to bring the laptop?”
“This was inside the teapot, can you look up what it means?” Mom asked. “Du hast gewonnen?” Dad muttered, “sounds German or perhaps Swedish. Let me run it through a translation website.” Dad clicked some keys on the laptop, “Well, that’s interesting.”
“What does it say?” Mom asked.
“Basically, you won.”
“You won what?” Mom asked.
“That part is a mystery; let me do some digging; I love a good mystery,” Dad said, settling into the task. “For the time being, don’t throw anything away.”
After a supper of “get what you want” leftovers, Dad gathered the family on the sofa in front of the tree. In a small padded box on Sammy’s lap were the pieces of the broken ornament. “Here’s what I know so far,” Dad began. “The ornament was made in Germany, which we knew, but it was imported by F. W. Woolworth and Company somewhere in the early 1930s. My mom’s grandmother probably bought it at the Woolworths that was on the corner of Adams and Fulton. I still don’t know what “You won” signifies other than the obvious translation.”
“So it is a worthless, broken antique after all,” Mom said, “there hasn’t been a Woolworth’s around for years.”
“True and not true,” Dad replied. Sammy was getting bored. I couldn’t do anything about it; Sammy had concluded that I had betrayed him, and he was still ignoring me. “Eventually, after years of selling off assets, what was left of Woolworths eventually became Footlocker, so there may be some old company records hanging around somewhere. I emailed their consumer affairs department with pictures of the ornament and the note. It’s anyone’s guess whether we will hear anything.”
“Did someone say Footlocker? There’s one of those in Grand Prairie,” Martha, the teenager, interjected. “It’s pretty sick.”
“Sick is cool now?” Dad whispered to Mom.
“Too bad Google doesn’t have a translator for teen-speak,” Mom whispered back.
“I doubt they could keep up,” Dad softly replied.
“You know I can hear you,” Martha whispered with a perfect teenage eye-roll.
The next day Sammy and I went about as if nothing had happened between us. That’s the way it often is with Sammy’s kind. Time passed. A few days later, the tree was dismantled and put away. The box with the broken ornament went on the shelf in the hall closet under some blankets and was soon forgotten.
A few months later, after the winter frost had left the ground, everyone remembered the old ornament again. “Guess who I heard from today?” Dad asked at supper. “The Easter Bunny?” Martha asked. “Nope, Footlocker,” Dad replied. “And?” Mom asked.
“And, it seems there was a contest in 1933 using German Christmas ornaments. If you were the lucky person to find the slip of paper, you won $100.00. The lady at Footlocker said with inflation figured in, that’s about $2000.00 today.”
“Wait, you talked to someone?” Martha asked.
“Yep, initially, she said it was just a curiosity thing for her. Linda, that’s her name, likes researching Woolworth’s old files. They originally thought, just for goodwill, to offer a $100.00 gift certificate for Footlocker.”
“That’s sick!” Martha exclaimed.
“But once they saw Sammy’s photo with the ornament…”
“You sent pictures?” Mom asked.
“Linda asked for some photos to show the history of the ornament; I think they wanted them for some internal publication. Anyway, I sent them that picture of mom handing the ornament to Sammy. Once they saw Sammy, with that fantastic big smile of his, they wanted to do more. They didn’t say what. I guess some senior executive has gotten involved.”
A few days later, Dad had more news after supper. “How would you all like to spend Thanksgiving in New York?”
“What about…” Mom started.
“I talked to Linda from Footlocker again. They’d like to bring us to New York for a presentation, and they like the idea of tying it to Christmas. We’d get a tour of the city, maybe see a Broadway play, ice skating at Rockefeller Center, maybe even do a bit of TV.”
“Statue of Liberty?” Sammy asked.
“Yes, I’m sure we can do that too. It seems their VP of marketing has a heart for Down Syndrome kids. And somehow, they’re tying this all together to raise support for the Special Olympics. Anyway, they’re figuring that the ornament and Sammy’s story have some PR value. And since Sammy is technically the owner of the ornament, he wins, drumroll please, $5000.00 with an equal amount going to the Special Olympics, and we all get to go the Big Apple for Thanksgiving.”
“What’s Sammy going to do with five thousand dollars? Shoes for life would have been a better fit,” Martha said.
“That’s a good question. What is Sammy going to do with the money?” Mom asked.
“That was the one stipulation that they made; Sammy has to decide what to do with it and no one else. Well, Sammy, what will you do with all the money?” Dad asked. Sammy looked at each one and even at me. I shrugged, and then he shrugged. “Well, I guess he has some time to figure it all out.”
The trip was a whirlwind of events and sightseeing. Sammy was amazed at seeing the huge helium-filled balloons float by during the Thanksgiving day parade. He was even more awed at the size of the Statue of Liberty. But he was overwhelmingly saddened by the street people they encountered. Those out panhandling, the bag ladies pushing their carts, the many lost in the oblivion of drugs and alcohol. He didn’t really understand all of it, but it powerfully stirred his compassion. It was amazing to watch.
The next day was the big presentation at Footlocker, and the pressure was on for him to answer the one big question. What would Sammy do with the money? That night, Sammy and I had a conversation. He knew a few things; he wanted to buy some special Christmas presents for his family. Dad needed a new laptop. Mom really wanted a larger and more powerful mixer. Sammy had his eyes on a new phone for Martha. He refused to spend any of it on himself. That left about three thousand dollars.
“I feel bad for the people we saw,” Sammy began.
“The homeless folks?” I asked.
“They need help.”
“That’s a great thing to feel, Sammy, but I doubt your three thousand will go very far,” I said.
“Sammy, who are you talking to?” Dad said, walking into the room.
“Oscar.”
“Oh, okay,” Sammy’s parents knew about his imaginary friend. “I think you should just put the money in the bank until something comes around that you really want.”
“No,” Sammy said firmly with a bit of anger.
At that moment, some orders came from above. Oh my, this hasn’t happened in 600 years.
In a blink, I became visible to Sammy’s dad. “Don’t fear; I’m Oscar, Sammy’s special angel friend.” Dad rubbed his eyes with unbelief as I hovered there at nose level. “You look more like a fairy,” He replied.
“Yeah, I get that, but I have a message for you and Sammy. This whole adventure was planned from the beginning. I was the one that made sure that Sammy broke the ornament. Others of my kind helped Linda discover the history and encouraged the executives to be generous. Sammy’s heart is to help the homeless, not just here in New York City but also your hometown. He simply can’t articulate it very well.”
“Sammy does have a big heart,” Dad agreed, “but his money won’t go very far.”
“But it can if it is amplified, which is how you and your family can help….”
During one of the nationwide morning news shows, the Footlocker executive tells the story of the Old Christmas Ornament contest. He presents a check to folks from the Special Olympics and then to Sammy.
The bubbly female anchor asks Sammy, “Well, Sammy, what are you going to do with all that money.” Sammy didn’t say a word but looked at his dad. “Um, Sammy asked me to answer that one,” Dad started. “Last night, Sammy told me about his deep compassion for the various needy folks he met here in New York and some that he knows at home. After buying some Christmas presents for his family, Sammy wants to start a fund to help those he can, and he’s inviting everyone to join him. Later today, he will launch Sammy’s Fund on GoFund with the proceeds going to help those in need, especially those without family or a home.”
“You don’t want anything for yourself?” the anchor gently asked. Sammy shook his head in a way that left no doubt. “Well, Chip,” she said, beginning the handoff to another show segment. “Hold up just a second, please,” the Footlocker’s executive interjected. “I’m very moved by Sammy and his selfless desire to help others. We would all do well to be more like him. Put me down for a thousand dollars, and I encourage others to join Sammy’s Fund.” And that was just the beginning.
In the early morning hours, a few days after returning home, Dad stood in front of the memory-wrapped Christmas tree. “Oscar, if you can hear me, thanks.”
Sammy groggily padded into the room, “Dad, Oscar says he’s just a messenger sent by God; thank Him instead. Oh, and Jesus loves you.” With that, Sammy padded towards the kitchen, never realizing the cosmic earth-shattering importance of what he had said or how Sammy’s Fund changed the lives and hearts of many.
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