One Last Letter for Christmas (A Short Story)

If you’ve followed my blog recently and read my previous postings “Bringing Our Unique Self to the Surface” and “A Powerful Grip” you’ll know from where this next story comes. Let me say right off, the LoveGodLovePeopleLiveFree.com blog is not really a “short story” forum. It is about finding life and freedom by living out our stories, our hopes and dreams, our faith, in genuine and unfolding ways. So, I’m posting these couple of stories because they are part of my journey to find my calling, my passions, my purpose. I hope they inspire you to step into whatever stirs your heart.

Mark


One Last Letter for Christmas

A Short Story by Mark Wager
Atop a small hill in a not so far away place stands an old house. Picture in your mind an English country mansion, not that it is English or a true mansion for that matter, but whatever it is (or was) it stands large and majestic, tall and proud and generous with its brick and stone and timber. The house has a dozen windows facing a large lawn with trees and flowers and stonework. And on the other side are a dozen more windows facing a large courtyard. The courtyard hasn’t seen any use for years. Back in the early days it was a magnificent place full of life and laughter and play. Grand parties and social functions were common. It was, at its core, a gathering place. Oh, how we need our gathering places.
In recent years the house has fallen into a state of disrepair. The windows through which once flowed sunlight, and from every indication, life itself, now seem dull and cloudy. The blinds on many rooms are drawn, not opened in years.  The setting out front, however, rests in stark contrast to the inside. While the inside of the house has grown dark and worn and aged, the front lawn is a work of perfection. Cleanly cut grass. Rows of beautifully arranged flowers of all colors and sizes. Shrubs neatly manicured and shaped in whimsical, almost playful designs are planted in each corner of the property. It is not uncommon to see Mr. Lynch, the house’s owner, out front working on his landscaping. It seems a bit peculiar as I consider it, that for all the times I’ve seen Mr. Lynch outside, neat and polite, I’ve never seen anyone go inside the house. In fact, as I think back, I’ve never seen or heard of anyone being allowed to even approach the house itself, save for one man.

Each week, at the same time of day, a man would stop by the old house. His routine, and his intentions, were the same every day. And yet for all his desire and persistence he could never get himself to knock on the front door. Each time was the same. In his hand he carried a small white envelope. It was stamped and addressed, hand-written in pen and in clear print, thoughtful and deliberate. The letter could have been mailed, but as intention seemed to predominate, he held the envelope tightly in his hand and delivered it in anonymous fashion.

The man, as the story was told to me, lived on the other side of town. He had for years. CLICK TO KEEP READING THE REST OF THE STORY…

 

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