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I could have sworn this was posted here before but a search would not turn it up. If it's a dupe, so sue me. Two parts as it's too long for one post.
Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or for those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve, 1881. I was 15 years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me, because there just hadn’t been enough money to buy me the rifle that I’d wanted so badly that year for Christmas.
We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read the Bible. After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace, waiting for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself, and, to be honest, I wasn’t in much of a mood to read the Scriptures. But Pa didn’t get the Bible; instead, he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn’t figure it out, because we had already done all the chores.
I didn’t worry about it long, though; I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold, clear night out, and there was ice in his beard.
“Come on, Matt,” he said. “Bundle up good, it’s cold out tonight.”
I was really upset then. Not only was I not getting the rifle for Christmas, but now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We’d already done all the chores, and I couldn’t think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at dragging one’s feet when he’d told them to do something, so I got up, put my boots back on, and got my cap, coat and mittens.
Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn’t know what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn’t going to be short or quick. I could tell; we never hitched up the sled unless we were going to haul a big load.
Pa was up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me, and I wasn’t happy.
When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off, and I followed.
“I think we’ll put on the high sideboards,” he said. “Here, help me.”
The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.
After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood—the wood I’d spent all summer hauling down from the mountain and all fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing?
Finally, I said something.
“Pa,” I asked, “what are you doing?”
Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or for those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve, 1881. I was 15 years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me, because there just hadn’t been enough money to buy me the rifle that I’d wanted so badly that year for Christmas.
We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read the Bible. After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace, waiting for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself, and, to be honest, I wasn’t in much of a mood to read the Scriptures. But Pa didn’t get the Bible; instead, he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn’t figure it out, because we had already done all the chores.
I didn’t worry about it long, though; I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold, clear night out, and there was ice in his beard.
“Come on, Matt,” he said. “Bundle up good, it’s cold out tonight.”
I was really upset then. Not only was I not getting the rifle for Christmas, but now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We’d already done all the chores, and I couldn’t think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at dragging one’s feet when he’d told them to do something, so I got up, put my boots back on, and got my cap, coat and mittens.
Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn’t know what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn’t going to be short or quick. I could tell; we never hitched up the sled unless we were going to haul a big load.
Pa was up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me, and I wasn’t happy.
When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off, and I followed.
“I think we’ll put on the high sideboards,” he said. “Here, help me.”
The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.
After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood—the wood I’d spent all summer hauling down from the mountain and all fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing?
Finally, I said something.
“Pa,” I asked, “what are you doing?”
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