What he valued most

A young man learns what's most important in life from the guy next door. It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. College, girls, career, and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clear across
the country in pursuit of his dreams. There, in the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son. He was working on his future, and nothing
could stop him.

Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Kokonya died last night. The funeral is Wednesday." Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.

"Jack, did you hear me?"

"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.

"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of  he fence' as he put it," Mom told him.

"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.

"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Kokonya stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.

"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important...Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.

As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown. Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.

The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time. 

Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time. The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture,
every piece of furniture....Jack stopped suddenly.

"What's wrong, Jack?" his Mom asked.

"The box is gone," he said.

"What box? " Mom asked.

"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.

"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."

It had been about two weeks since Mr. Kokonya died. Returning home from work one day Jack discovered a note in his mailbox. "Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read. Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.

"Mr. Fred Kokonya" it read.

Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope. Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.

"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Muturi. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch. Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover.

Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, Thanks for your time! Fred Kokonya."

"The thing he valued most...was...my time."

Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days. "Why?" Rhoda, his assistant asked.

"I need some time to spend with my son," he said.

"Oh, by the way, Rhoda...thanks for your time!"

The "W" in Christmas

Last December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience.   I had cut back on nonessential obligations - extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.     
     
My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old. For weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's "Winter Pageant."  I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher.  She assured me there'd be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation.  All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then.  Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise. 
                 
So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early,  found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw  several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song. Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas," I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial        entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer.

So, when my son's class rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken aback by its bold title. Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads.  Those in the front row- center stage - held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song. As the class would sing "C is for Christmas," a child would hold up the  letter C. Then, "H is for Happy," and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love." 

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter "M" upside down -  totally unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W".  The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one's mistake. But she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her "W".  Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together.  A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our  festivities. For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear:

"C H R I S T   W A S   L O V E"  
  
And, I believe, He still is.

One More Day with you

I'm so sad and depressed

Is all I want to do is rest

I go to sleep at night

But my dreams I just can't fight

I think of you lying in that bed

And wonder if there is anything I could have said

I wish you were still here

But I know that you are still near

I love you more than you know

I just wish you didn't have to go

I just want one more day with you

And I know thats what you would have wanted too

I miss you more and more each day

There is so much more we had to say

I know I will see you again

But my life is just started to begin.

How a Luo would have said it

Upon taking his lunch at a hotel, he places two, one thousand shilling notes on top of the receipt and heads out....
Waiter; hey sir!
Luopean; yes?
Waiter; you are leaving before....
Luopean; omera kwani dasani siku hizi siyo twenty bob? Waliongesa bei lini?
Waiter; that's what i was saying! Ur leaving before taking your change!
Luopean; ah, kwani how much did i give you....2 thousand? O-o-oh, nkt, i thought i gave you two ten silling coins...i sud buy contact glassess! anyway, just take those and convert them into twenty sillings...
Waiter; b..bu..but how?!
Luopean; i dont know buana! U can cancel the two zeroes on each note! Sina coins yawa!
RUOR!

Romantic

Isn't it romantic how the chrysalids land on the ice cubes in our drink to wink with sunlight and time for the dawning double blind Isn't it romantic how wings unborn are worn to be torn from our aesthetic interpretation Isn't it romantic that we should be so kind as to blind as to bind each other belieing bespeak betraying Isn't it romantic that we should drink such potion to spite foreknowledge of death innate insecurity feigning Isn't it romantic how the oils shift smudge to smear coupling seething suppling searing precious delicate contours How I miss your words tender as tobacco upon mine morning, mourning throat how I miss your voice stillborn butterflies in the ears of compassion unsettling clouds dim-lit dawning drawing painting... But how the butterflies defy and fly how the butterflies in the face of formal whims and wanton whys cry Isn't it romantic that we could be so superficial, civil in lovingly lavish clasp 'lusive grasp Isn't it romantic that we were so resolute in absolute pressing persuasion and parched for passion that we might seek such vision of void head-long and strong that we might belong The chrysalids are daimon diamonds The chrysalids are daimon diamonds Isn't it romantic?