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Sean had never known his father, Jerry, who had been stationed overseas shortly after Sean was born. Sean and his mother enjoyed a simple but comfortable home life. Sean's mother had loved Jesus, prayed often, and taught Sean to do the same. Nothing could ever happen to unsettle her faith, not even when they received notice that there had been a terrible accident aboard the ship where Jerry was assigned.

In the hard years, and the many moves and changes that followed, Sean and his mother strengthened themselves by reading God's promises in the Bible. They firmly believed that somehow all things would work together for good.

Sean's mother was never very strong physically, however, and as the years progressed, she grew weaker still. The doctors told her that she was dying, and she knew it was only a matter of time until she would join her husband in heaven. Due to her poor health, Sean's mother couldn't work. Because the cause and circumstances of the accident leading to her husband's death were still under investigation, they were not yet receiving a pension from the company, and they soon had to move out of their house and stay in a shabby apartment.

As soon as he was old enough, Sean got a job as a paperboy, delivering newspapers. Every penny he received went toward school and food. His mother had come alone as a teenager to this country, so when she died, Sean was left very much alone.

The social worker at the hospital explained to Sean that he would be taken to live in a state institution for boys. That night, Sean slipped out of the apartment and found a spot under the bypass that was protected from the wind and passersby. From then on, he began living in the streets, keeping out of sight as best he could, learning the hard ways of street life and how to manage around people who were not nearly as kind as his mother had been.

Now, lying under the bridge, Sean could hardly believe all that had happened to him in just a few months. Delivering the morning paper continued to bring in enough money for food, but not enough for shelter.

Above, he could hear a bird he referred to as “Whistler” waking up and flapping his wings. Hearing Sean whistle, Whistler came flapping down, looking for his morning handout of bread scraps. Sean tossed him some crusts. “I need to go to work.” He jumped down the incline to the sidewalk below. Off he ran to the delivery house to pick up his batch of newspapers.

Sean was known as the quickest paperboy in the area. He knew how to throw the papers from the sidewalk so that they'd land neatly on the dry porch near the front door of every house.

Although life was very difficult, Sean remained cheerful. And today was a special day to feel cheerful—after all, it was Christmas Day! As he walked down the street tossing papers on this clear, chilly Christmas morning, he said a short prayer as he passed each house.

“God, give them an enjoyable Christmas day and help them to appreciate all the things they have—their families, their warm homes, the presents and songs.”

Sean slowed his pace as he thought of his mother and the touch of her soft, frail hand on his shoulder as she said: “Sean, when I'm gone, remember to think of all the good things, and thank God for all the years we've had together and the life and good health He's given you.”

Nearing the end of his paper route, Sean whispered a prayer: “Dear Jesus, You have always been a friend and have watched over me these past months since Mom died. I know You hear my every prayer. What I would like is to have a nice place and a nice person to spend Christmas with. It's cold and not fun being out here alone on these streets. Please, Jesus, if it is possible I would like to be part of a family again. Amen!”

Not far away, a local businessman wearily sat up in bed. He had been very busy these last few months, personally helping to set up new housing facilities for poor families, organizing holiday charity shows, and doing what he could down at the shelter for runaway youth and street children.

The Christmas tree he had purchased earlier still sat undecorated beside a few lights and some tinsel. In a few minutes, he had it up and had scattered cotton at the foot of the tree. He lay a few presents underneath—presents he planned to take over to some children at a nearby shelter later that afternoon. He sat back in the easy chair to enjoy a few more nods.

Sean had reached the last house and hurled the newspaper toward the door. As it left his hand, his heart nearly stopped—the paper flew toward the small window by the door and then crashed through, scattering bits and pieces of glass everywhere.

Sean gaped. He had heard stories from others of their window-breaking experiences and the homeowners’ anger. His first thought was to run, but then he felt the presence of his mother telling him to face it like a man. After all, a little voice said in his head, there's no use running away. You're the only paperboy that has this route. With that, he gingerly approached the front door, hoping for the best.

Startled awake by the smashing glass at the front door, the businessman had picked up an iron poker from the fireplace and gone to see if someone was trying to break in. To his surprise, a shabbily dressed and very nervous youth stood on his step; the boy now looked all the more fretful, seeing the poker in his hand. The man gave a hearty laugh once he realized what had happened.

“That's okay! Don't worry about it! It's Christmas and you look cold. Please come in.”

Sean might normally have said no to such an invitation into a stranger's house, but something about this person was different. The man was somehow familiar. Within minutes they were talking, laughing, and drinking hot chocolate. The man couldn't help but notice the tattered clothes of the boy sitting in his den and wondered what kind of life he led. But not wanting to embarrass the boy whom he had just met, he chose not to ask.

Time passed, and they were both engrossed in their conversation. “I was married long ago,” the man said, “but after an accident at sea, I was hospitalized and in critical condition for many months. By a terrible clerical mistake, a message was sent to my wife and child saying I was dead. My wife’s English was not very good … anyway, when I returned, my wife and child were nowhere to be found. I tried to locate them, but I could not find them, so I assumed that … well … I guess I couldn't expect them to wait for my return when they thought I was dead, could I?

“So, after that I chose to dedicate my life to helping others—children, the runaways, the poor, and those who have lost their homes. I have given up on finding my family, but I pray regularly that they are safe and happy wherever they are.

“Perhaps if it weren't for that tragedy in my life, I would never have reached out to others and tried to help those who were less fortunate than I.” A tear rolled down his cheek. Then he regained his composure and laughed. “Well, you're probably not interested in all my ramblings. Oh, and by the way, my name is Jerry Lando. What's yours?”

Sean was speechless, his brain spinning from the man's story. He glanced around the room and his eyes fell upon a framed photo of a young man hugging a woman with a baby in her arms. Sean felt dizzy. The woman in the photo was his mother. Sean stuttered, “I-I'm Sean … D-Dad? The woman … the woman in that picture, she looks just like my mother—and the man is the same man that I saw on old photos my mother had.”

“Sean? … You said your name was Sean?” Jerry asked, his face pale.

“Yes, it's me … Dad!”

For a long moment the boy and the man studied each other. “Could this really be true!?” the man asked. He had searched so long and coped with so many disappointments. It was hard to believe that in this unexpected moment while talking to a young troubled boy, here was his long-lost son.

The man began to cry. Sean was teary eyed too. He reached out and touched the man's shoulder and found himself in his long-lost father's arms. They wept and hugged each other. At last, the man said, “Thank God you are home, safe at last! Tell me everything! How is your mother?”

Sean's thrill at finding his father was dampened. “Mom got real sick. A nice doctor took care of her and tried to help, but she was very weak. She told me she knew she was going to a better place. And then she died.” Sean suppressed a sob. “At the hospital, I got scared by all the questions and the police and the social workers, so I ran away and have been living under the overpass at 14th Street since then.”

They both wept as Sean told his story. Then they hugged each other close, thankful to be reunited.

“Are you hungry, Sean?”

“Very,” Sean answered.

“Then let's go someplace to eat and do some shopping. You look like you could use some new clothes and a nice hot shower.”

That evening father and son celebrated all the Christmases, Thanksgivings, Father's Days, and birthdays they'd missed—everything they could think of. And most importantly, they thanked the great God of love who had answered their prayers and brought them back together again.

“That’s your fifth. I only made four for each of our guests.”

“Oops.”

“Okay, Con, since you are a satisfied customer, go ahead.”

Conley’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of customers, I bet I could sell these.”

“What? Sell my dinky biscuits?”

“Aye. You don’t think so?”

“I suppose,” Patsy muttered.

“You suppose? I’m convinced! You don’t know what a gift you have.”

Patsy laughed scornfully. “A gift? Away wit’ ye, Conley McArdent. I just enjoy cooking—baking to be precise. I don’t think that rustling up a few shortbread biscuits amounts to much.”

“Don’t say that, Patsy. You always bake incredible stuff. And we both know there’s shortbread and there’s Shortbread with a capital ‘Sh’!”

“Aye … you’re right. But then again, you’ve always been a sweet-tooth foodie.”

“Then that makes me an expert, right?”

“Well … yes, I suppose. Actually, when I was baking them, Mam came in and said how much people in town like to buy homemade cakes, pies, and biscuits during the Christmas season, especially shortbread; it’s traditional.”

“Well, then, bake some more and we can go out and sell them.”

“We?”

“Aye. Or I will. We can wrap them up. I can even design and print out a little label. Does ‘Patsy’s Pantry’ sound okay to you?”

“Umm, I don’t know, Con. Sounds like a lot of time and trouble. We can see. But you’re getting me somewhat excited about the idea … I suppose.”

Later that afternoon, following their parents’ friends’ visit, Conley barged into Patsy’s bedroom where she was working at her computer.

“Did you hear everyone raving about your shortbread?”

“No. I wanted to get this project done by this evening so I can enjoy the holidays. But Mam told me that they were a hit.”

“They certainly were. I had told everyone earlier how good your shortbread was, and it was as if they didn’t believe me until they tasted it. Should have seen their faces! ‘Patsy made these?’ they said.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Merrill even said—and you know how ‘gourmet’ he is—that for a youngster to successfully bake something so traditional takes supernatural skill. He actually used those words.”

“Begorra,” said Patsy. “I mean … I just went by my instinct … I suppose. After all, baking shortbread isn’t exactly rocket science.”

“I still believe we could sell them, Patsy.”

Patsy hung her head. “I suppose,” she said.

“‘I suppose, I suppose,’” Conley said, rolling his eyes. “No ‘suppose’ about it. You can laugh, but I believe that one day ‘Patsy’s Pantry’ could be an Irish household name—at least in Leitrim County! Anyways, I think we could sell a bunch during this time.”

“Well, actually, Mam did suggest we take some down to Scrimp ’n’ Save,” Patsy said with a flicker of a smile. “She knows the manager there. They have a Christmas display of local homemade cakes and pies and things, and the proceeds are going to Down Syndrome Ireland.”

“Well, that’s grand! So, it’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

Patsy shrugged. “You have got me a bit more excited about it. Anyways, I’ll be baking a huge amount for New Year’s and stuff later tonight.”

The next morning, toting a laden knapsack, Conley sauntered down to the Scrimp ’n’ Save supermarket. There, close to the checkout counters, stood a lavish display of homemade sausage rolls; fruitcakes; oatmeal biscuits; rhubarb, apple, blackcurrant, and gooseberry pies; and assorted jam tarts. He approached a nearby shop girl and pointed to them.

“Are these selling?”

“No idea.”

“Have you tried any of them?”

“Nah. It’s grand that we’re promotin’ local enterprise, but bein’ a bit of a baker meself, I’ve usually found most of these contributions leave a lot to be desired.”

Conley reached into his knapsack. “Here, try one of these. They are absolutely delicious.”

“‘Patsy’s Pantry,’” the girl muttered. “Who’s Patsy?”

“My sister. She made them.”

“A little partial, are we?” the girl said with a grin.

“W-well, the proceeds will go to Down Syndrome Ireland.”

“A grand cause. But does that make ’em taste any better?”

The shop girl took a bite and Conley watched expectantly. Her eyes widened.

“Mmm … scrumptious,” she said. “Melts in yer mouth. And tastes like she used the best creamery butter.”

“Aye. She did say she used the best.”

“Where on earth did she get the recipe?”

“Made it up herself,” Conley replied with a beam. “Sort of threw it together.”

“Brilliant. Hey, tell you what we can do ... what’s your name?”

“McArdent. Conley McArdent.”

“Edna McKeen. Look, Conley, for starters, we can move some of these other questionable contributions aside to make room for your sister’s shortbread here in front.”

“Grand. I have tons in here.”

“Let’s just give a couple o’ dozen a go first, shall we? I’ll start out with putting some bits on a tray as sample tastings. And right now, I will eat another for good measure.”

After thanking Edna, Conley left the supermarket and jaunted down to the post office where he queued up to mail some postcards.

“What’s that yer snackin’ on, sonny?” said a man standing behind him. His face, hands, and overalls were grimy, but his eyes twinkled kindly. “Looks like ye’re enjoyin’ it.”

“One of my sister’s shortbread biscuits.”

“Ah. They’re good?”

“Delicious. Here, try one.”

“Me ’ands are a bit dirty.”

“That’s okay. The biscuits are wrapped.”

“Patsy’s Pantry,” the man said, looking at the label. He tore open the wrapper, took a bite and beamed. “Mmm … scrumptious. These fer sale?”

Conley nodded. “Twenty-five cents each. Five for a euro. Proceeds are going to Down Syndrome Ireland.”

“My brother has a daughter with Down’s syndrome,” said the man and reached into his pocket. “Grand. I’ll take twenty for starters. Look, it’s lunch hour, and the boys over at the plant would go fer these. Empty that bag o’ yern in no time.”

Conley mailed his postcards, waited for the man to take care of his business of paying a bill, and then followed him across the street to a car repair yard.

“Ne’er introduced meself,” the man said. “Name’s Brendan Brogan.”

“Conley McArdent.”

“And this is me team,” Brendan said, cheerily acknowledging about half a dozen men in oil-stained overalls who were sitting on tires, perched on car bonnets and leaning against the corrugated iron shed while eating packed lunches.

“He’s the foreman of us sorry lot,” one of them joked as Brendan introduced Conley.

“Wotcha carryin’, Conley?” asked another. “Looks like ye got yer home on yer back!”

“His sister’s shortbread biscuits,” said Brendan.

“Fer sale?”

“Aye. Jes’ bought twenty meself. Go grand with a cuppa. And what’s more, the proceeds are goin’ to a good cause … DSI.”

Carrying an empty knapsack, a full wallet, and wearing a broad smile, Conley was jaunting home, when someone called to him from across the street. Edna McKeen was standing in front of Scrimp ’n’ Save. Conley dashed over to her.

“Hey, I’ll take a few dozen more o’…” she began, and then her freckled face fell. “Seems your knapsack’s empty.”

“It is,” said Conley. “Why? You sold all the ones I gave you?”

“Almost. It took but a few free samples to the shoppers as they wandered by and they are going like, er … hot cakes! I even have orders for more—like around fifty at least. Someone even came back and asked if we have other baked goods from Patsy’s Pantry.”

“That’s grand. I’ll tell my sister right away.”

“An’ tell her to get a-bakin’,” Edna said with a wink. “Christmas is a-comin’, us geese want to get fat, and Patsy’s Pantry and DSI’s going to need all hands on deck!”

“Thanks, Edna,” Conley said as he ran off. “Happy Christmas!”

“And the same to you!”

“Mam … Mam! What happened to the shortbread I baked until the wee hours? They’re almost all gone.”

Patsy’s mother shrugged. “All I knows is that Conley took a whole lot upstairs to his room before he left this morning.”

“Why? Was he hungry?”

“I don’t see how, seein’ he put away a sizeable trad Irish breakfast! He was busy up there with the printer and stuff for quite a while.”

Patsy scrambled upstairs and returned to the kitchen a couple of minutes later.

“Seems I’m going to have to bake some more,” she said, putting on her coat. “I will need to zip down to Scrimp ’n’ Save for some more Ballyrashane butter before they close.”

“Well, it’s good to see you with some get up and go.”

“Get up and go, Mam?”

“Aye. Gettin’ up off yer southern hemisphere and bein’ self-motivated like yer brother.”

Patsy sighed. She had heard enough self-motivation lectures not so subtly inculcated through morning podcasts during breakfast, presumably for her benefit.

“Why does Conley have what I don’t, no matter how hard I try?”

Patsy’s mother shrugged. “Some things come naturally to some and not to others. Those ‘others’ have to be taught.”

Patsy was about to leave the kitchen in despair, when she stopped and smiled.

“Speaking of motivation, you know what Con has that I could have?”

Patsy’s mother shrugged again. “Dunno. But the thing is, dearie, I think you underestimate your own particular worth.”

“Like what?”

“Like cooking … baking, for instance. Remember those amazing sausage rolls you made with that flaky pastry for Dad’s birthday?”

“Hmmph. Well, baking a few biscuits is naught to get flash about.”

“Realising your own worth is not being flash when you give the good Lord the credit. Anything short o’ that is false humility, which is the stinkiest form of egotism in my book.”

Patsy nodded. “You’re right, Mam … I suppose.”

“But tell me,” said Patsy’s mother as she took her daughter’s hand. “What exactly is it that Conley has that you could have?”

“Well, you know what you and Dad always remind us about Christmas?”

“And what is that?”

“Christmas is about others, right? Not self.”

“True, dearie, but I don’t know what ye be drivin’ at.”

“I’ll tell ya later, Mam. See ya.”

As Patsy checked out her purchase at Scrimp ’n’ Save, Edna McKeen happened to be at the cash register.

“Seein’ as ye are buying the best Irish creamery butter, I assume you are bakin’,” Edna remarked.

“That I am.”

“Have you tried these?” Edna said, pointing to a tray of shortbread samples.

“Can’t say I have.”

“Incredible recipe. Uses that same butter. Try one.”

Patsy took a bite, and her eyes lit up. “Pretty good … delicious, in fact. Makes me want to throw in the towel regarding baking.”

“Me too,” said Edna.

“Who made them?”

Edna handed her a package of the shortbread, and Patsy’s mouth fell open.

“Y-you mean these are actually mine?”

“Are they? You’re ‘Patsy’?”

Patsy nodded, and tears welled up as she studied the packet’s finely executed label.

“You mean to say you didn’t know?”

Patsy shook her head.

“Then you can thank your brother,” Edna said. “Like I told him, they are going like hot cakes, so you need to get a-bakin’! Here’s your change, Patsy, and do have a happy Christmas break.”

“H-happy Christmas,” Patsy said distantly and wandered out of the supermarket.

In honour of the townspeople’s liberal participation in various charity drives, including those having donated their culinary talents, spotlights were ablaze at Scrimp ’n’ Save supermarket on New Year’s Eve a few days later. Patsy, microphone and prepared notes in hand, smiled nervously at the cameras and shoppers gathered around her.

“From all accounts, Miss McArdent,” said a local news reporter. “Considering your young age, your baking company contributed substantially to Down Syndrome Ireland’s fundraising this year. To what do you attribute this?”

“By all accounts, I baked a scrumptious batch of shortbread biscuits and other pastries and tasties!” Patsy replied with a grin and beckoned Conley to join her.

“You certainly did,” a woman called out. “I’m orderin’ more of everything.”

“Thank you. But to be honest, the credit for the success of Patsy’s Pantry must go to me brother, Conley here, and his enthusiasm. Like I told me mam the other day, more important than him being a self-motivator—which he is, and wonderfully so—if it wasn’t for him being an others-motivator also, me wares would have gone no further than a kitchen dinin’ table within the four walls of a three-up two-down on Donahue Street!

“And I do hope and pray by the good Lord’s grace,” Patsy added after pausing for the audience’s laughter and applause, “that I meself, not being much self-motivated, can at least be an others-motivator like he is! Here, Conley, say a little sump’n’.”

Conley, blushing, took the microphone. “Thanks a million, sis,” he said and addressed the crowd. “I must say that Patsy not only contributed the funds, but devoted most of her precious holiday waking hours to baking! But all that to say, we are proud and happy to contribute to the drive for Down Syndrome Ireland, of which our parents are members. Here’s wishin’ you all a happy New Year! Oh, and by the way, you can purchase more Patsy’s Pantry wares in the pastry section.”

The Christmas Envelope² tells a story of how every year this family would place a white, unmarked envelope on their Christmas tree, which was a present for their dad, Mike. He hated the commercial aspects of Christmas.—The advertising, the overspending, the frantic running around trying to figure out what each member of the family liked. He wanted something that represented the true meaning of Christmas, but his wife had a hard time figuring out what would be a meaningful present for him.

Their 12-year-old son, Kevin, was on the junior wrestling team at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters were dressed in ragged sneakers and their street clothes. This was a striking difference from the son’s team, who were dressed in spiffy blue uniforms, complete with sparkling new wrestling shoes.

Their son’s team won every match and obliterated the opposition. Mike whispered to his wife, “I wish they’d at least win one match. Losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” He loved kids and had always coached one little league team or another.

That's when she got the idea for his present. That afternoon, she went into a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, she placed the envelope under the tree, with a note telling Mike what she had done and that this was his gift from her. His smile when opening the envelope told her she had gotten it right.

Each Christmas, she followed this tradition. The envelope became the highlight of the family’s Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and the children would put their new toys down and stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

The story didn’t end there. Mike got cancer and passed away. When the first Christmas after his departure rolled around, his wife was still so wrapped in grief that she barely remembered the tree. But on Christmas Eve she still placed an unmarked white envelope on the tree. In the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of their children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad.

I think a tradition like this is such a tremendous display of the idea of giving a gift to Jesus for His birthday. What He wants more are acts of love and kindness, done by each of us in our own special way. I know He loves seeing us happy when we get and give beautiful things, but there is nothing like finding a way to reach out to those who have far less and put a smile on someone’s face when they least expect it. John 13:35 says, “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”³

What gifts will you be remembered for this Christmas?

Footnotes
¹ 1 Corinthians 12:7–11
² For the Man Who Hated Christmas, written by Nancy W. Gavin, 1982
³ New International Version