The Gift

I've just finished reading "The Gift" by Richard Paul Evans. I've had this lying around for quite some time, my Mother gave it to me as a Christmas gift. It was signed to her by the author, not surprising since my sister works at one of Rick's Christmas Box Houses. I was quite surprised at how well the story flowed, I expected something much more ethereal and preachy. Quite the contrary, I actually devoured the book in a few hours. I've been reading a lot lately, returning to an old safe and socially acceptable refuge from a world I can't make work.

At any rate, this book brought to mind a family story. I've been meaning to write some of my family stories lately, to record them for my daughter or anyone else who might someday be interested, before I forget everything. This story is about my best Christmas gift ever, which I got twice.

A decade ago, when we lived in South Jordan, a suburb of Salt Lake City, we had a wonderful home teacher named Clint Bennnion. Home teachers in our church are pairs of men who visit with a few families each month, extending a gift of friendship and making sure the families needs are being met. I've been a home teacher for many years now, and home teaching here in California has given me two of the best friends I've ever had. It is a great way to get to know people, and a tremendous opportunity for service.

At any rate, Clint came prepared with a great Christmas question that December. We gathered our little family, my wife, daughter, and I, and Clint asked us about Christmas presents we had asked for or were expecting. Then he asked if there was a difference between a present and a gift. The question took my breath away.

In 1969, my father was a Sergeant in the US Air Force, stationed at a NATO test range at El Outia, Libya. We weren't allowed to go with him, so my Mom and the four of us kids went to live with her father, Grampa Ray, and our incredibly cool 17-year-old Uncle Karl, at "the house on the river" in Bristol, Indiana.

When then-Captain Qaddafi staged his coup and deposed the government of King Idris, all of the NATO personnel were brought to the big air base in Tripoli. Later, in December, when Qaddafi decided to oust the Americans and Europeans, my father was wounded in some of the fighting near Tripoli. We got a Red Cross telegram that said "Sgt. Peters wounded fighting Tripoli return uncertain." Then nothing. For days and days. One afternoon in early December, just before his birthday on the 12th, we got a call from Aunt Shirley, my mother's sister. She told Mom "I think Pete just called, he said he's in Detroit getting on a plane for South Bend, to come pick him up."

Mom packed the 4 of us kids into coats, threw us in the car, and finished the 30 minute drive to the airport in time to meet him coming off the plane. I don't know how, but my Mother can move mountains when motivated.

Daddy came off the plane with his head wrapped in bandages and a bag that looked like his but wasn't. He had been wearing the same uniform (and underwear) for 3 days, since somebody else had his bag with his changes of clothes. It didn't matter to us, we had him home and mostly in one piece.

So that was my best Christmas gift ever.

A couple days after I shared this story with Clint for his Christmas lesson, my sister called. Dad had been having some mid-body pain and Mom had finally talked him into seeing a doctor about it. They did some imaging but couldn't really pin down the cause, so they were going to do an exploratory surgery because the symptoms matched an aortic aneurysm, which could be very dangerous. My sister was worried, but she always over-thinks such things. Just to be sure, I put his name on the prayer rolls at the Ogden Temple, near where he would have the surgery, and took the day off to be with him and Mom at the hospital.

The next day was a typical Utah December day, gray and cold and bleak. The surgery was at the old McKay-Dee Hospital, across the street from Weber State University, my Alma Mater. My father's too, actually. I've always hated this hospital, since they day they pushed my younger brother out the door in a coma because they had a policy of not handling "terminal cases," but that's another looong story. Suffice it to say I was predisposed to worry and unkindness.

We chatted a bit as he was wheeled into the prep room. Once he was gone, we scattered around a bit, looking variously for breakfast, coffee, Mountain Dew, or something to read, then returned to surgical waiting room for what was supposed to be a 2 hour wait. When lunch passed, it was obvious something was wrong. We went to the cafeteria in shifts, me and Mom, then my sister and her husband, to make sure there would be somebody in the waiting room when the doctor came out.

Finally, in the late afternoon, all of the other families had left the waiting room when a doctor exited the surgery doors and walked towards us. My sister who is also an EMT and knows most of the doctors in Ogden nudged and and pointed to him. I met him at the door and was shocked to see him gray-faced. He must have registered the shock on my face, he immediately said "Your Father is OK."

He paused to collect himself and then continued "In 30 years of thoracic surgery, I've never seen anything like this. What we found wasn't an aneurysm, it was a 4mm hole in the wall of his aorta, covered with a weeks-old blood clot. If that blood clot had slipped even a little, he would have bled out in a few minutes."

The next Sunday I cornered Clint at church and told him how I'd been given the same gift all over again. I've always wanted to work this story into a Christmas talk, or a talk about gifts, at church, but I've never been invited to talk about gifts. Maybe this subject is just too easy for me.