All I could do was hold her.
Dear Richard,
At the request of my wife, I have just finished readingThe Christmas Box.She said it would help me to further appreciate my two-and-a-half-year-old son, Dave.
I do not think I have ever been so moved by any book or movie as I was by your story.
Toward the end, like Mary, I was in tears. The pages of the book are still moist. My work career takes me out of town often and when I was gone last week, it was particularly painful. I walked into my house, grabbed my wife, Denise, and my son and cried for ten minutes.
I wanted to tell you how much I loved your book. It has helped open my eyes. Your book strengthens my resolve to be at home with my family.
Please give our regards to your family.
All the best,
Dennis
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That which we spend our lives hoping for is often no more than another chance to do what we should have done to begin with.
THELOCKET
IN ADDITION TO MY MEDIAappearances and book signings, I was now giving a lot of speeches as well. Book clubs, churches, fund-raisers, writers’ conferences and grief and healing seminars, as well as a dozen other venues. In these settings the miracles and mission of my book became even more evident.
In one instance, after my speech, a woman approached me. Her husband stood next to her with his arm around her. She was wiping tears from her eyes.
“I had never heard of you or your book,” she said, “but when I saw in the paper that you were in town I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling that I needed to hear you speak. And that I should wear this . . .” She opened her locket to reveal the picture of her infant daughter. “My baby died.”
As I had learned years before from my own experience, there are ways besides death to lose a child. There are those who lose children through their own choices—those who tradediamonds for stones.Both kinds of loss demand grief.
I had just finished speaking to a large group about the importance of spending time with our children when an elderly man walked up toward me. As he neared I noticed his face seemed twisted in anguish. He stepped up on the platform and pointed at me with his forefinger, gesturing with it as he spoke. “You’re right, Mr. Evans. You’re right. But I’m an old man and I can’t go back.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Another memorable experience occurred at a church in Baltimore. The morning after my speech, as I was preparing to leave town, a man called.
“Mr. Evans, I was at your speaking event last night. Something happened while you were speaking and I need to talk with you about it. Could we possibly meet for a few minutes?”
“I’d like to,” I said, “but I’m about to catch a flight out.”
“It’s really important. I’ll even come to the airport. I just need a couple of minutes. I need to ask you something about last night.”
“Can you ask me now?”
“It would be better if we could speak in person.”
His earnestness intrigued me. We arranged to meet just minutes before I was to leave for the airport. I was standing near my car, my luggage in tow, when he arrived. He introducedhimself, thanked me for my time, then said, “Last night, something happened while you were speaking. You were suddenly completely encompassed in light. At first I didn’t believe what I saw and I blinked, then I moved around in my seat. But the light didn’t change. It was as if the light emanated from your skin. I turned to my wife and asked her if she saw what I saw, but she didn’t say anything. She just sat there listening to you. Then, as you finished speaking, the light gradually diminished until it was gone. Last night I lay in bed for hours just thinking about what I had seen. I thought my wife was asleep, when suddenly she said, ‘You saw the light, didn’t you?’
“I said, ‘You saw it too? Why didn’t you say something?’ She said it frightened her. She hadn’t ever seen anything like it.”
The man looked me in the eyes. “What does it mean?”
I asked him when he saw the light. He said it was near the end of my talk, when I had been speaking about our divine life purpose.
“I believe you’ve been given a sign,” I said. “A sign is not a destination, it merely points the way. It’s now up to you to learn for yourself whether or not what I said was true.”
As we parted I wished him luck on his journey. It was the first time I was to hear about the light. Over the next few years it would become almost commonplace.
•
Probably my most incredible incident at a speaking event involved a young mother and the Christmas Box Angel statue.Throughout the year I often visit the angel statue. It’s peaceful there. If there is such a thing as holy ground, and I believe there is, I suppose the angel would qualify. Sitting on the grass next to the statue, I would often read the notes and letters that people left to their departed loved ones. A few days after Easter, I came across this note.
My little girl,
I love and miss you very much! Happy Easter. I hope you got a new dress where you are.
I think of you often; especially lately. I will always love you.
Love, Mommy
I brought the note back to my office and put it in the small walnut Christmas Box that my father had made for me. About six months later I was speaking to a large church group about loss and hope. When I was done, a woman came up to speak with me. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I was moved by what you had to say. Your speech also really affected my daughter. She would like to speak with you, but she’s having a little trouble. She lost her child last year.”
I looked over to see a young woman rubbing her eyes. I walked over to her and she tried to speak, but couldn’t. I put my arms around her and held her for a while. Then, still looking down, she said, “Thank you for what you shared tonight. It meant a lot to me. I’ve been to your angel statue.”
Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw very clearly the Easter note I had read months earlier. I said, “I know. You left a note for your daughter. It said that you hope there are Easter dresses where she is.”
The young woman looked up into my face, her eyes wide with surprise. “How did you know that?”
Her mother looked at me in awe, awaiting my answer.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just saw it.”
For a moment the three of us shared in the miracle. Then I saw something on the young woman’s face that I hadn’t before. Hope. I believe that she suddenly understood that if such things could happen, maybe there is more than just this existence. As the two of them walked away, neither of them was crying anymore.
33
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IWAS ASKED BY A PRISONchaplain to address a group of inmates at the Utah State Penitentiary. It was a Sunday morning and I arrived about forty-five minutes before I was to speak to allow for security procedures. After passing through a metal detector, I was brought by a guard into a secure room, where I was briefly detained while my clearance was verified. Then I surrendered my I.D. to the guard behind the bulletproof glass for a guest pass. The electric lock on the door buzzed and I walked out into a courtyard.
As I entered in with the prison population I admit I felt a little anxious—a bit like a skin diver leaving a shark cage. I thought of the scripture “I was in prison and you came to me.” Someone from the church led me to the chapel and I entered alongside the first group of inmates—men in white cotton jumpsuits stenciled with their prison number and the wordsProperty of USP.
I spoke four times that day, as the prison populations could not be mixed. Men and women were brought intodifferent rooms wearing different-color jumpsuits. The men all wore white. The women wore white, red and blue, indicative of their behavior in the facility.
I had been warned that the women inmates would be more difficult than the men. This was true, as my talk to the female inmates was interrupted by catcalls, loud talking and laughter. At least at first. As I spoke to them of th
e miracles I had witnessed in publishing my book, the women became more attentive. Near the end of my talk all of them were listening and most of them were visibly moved. After I finished, one woman seated several rows back raised her hand.
“I just wanted to say that what Mr. Evans said is true. His book saved my life.” Then she sat down, leaving me wondering about her story as the group was ushered from the room to be led away by prison guards.
A week later I received a letter from the prison. It was from the woman who had stood at the end of my talk. She wanted to tell me her story.
She said that the day of the year she hated most was her birthday. Every birthday she received the same thing from her mother—a can of frosting and a box of cake mix. Then her mother would run off to the bar. She would immediately begin looking for a place to take her younger siblings, because she knew that her mother would return drunk and beat them all. It was an annual ritual.
She said that one birthday was worse than she couldhave imagined. Her mother brought home two men from the bar. One of them came into her room and raped her repeatedly for seven hours. She was shattered by the experience but never told anyone.
Several months later she learned that she was pregnant. She had used drugs in the past but after the rape she was using them heavily to deal with her emotional pain. When she found out that she was pregnant she stopped using them, but it was already too late. The doctors told her that the baby was deformed and would die a painful death shortly after birth, if not before. They advised her to abort the baby. In spite of the way the child had been conceived, she did not want to lose the baby. At first she refused. But after a second doctor’s opinion supported the first, she relented.
After the abortion, she went into a severe depression. She went back to using drugs and alcohol more heavily. Finally, deciding that she could not endure the pain any longer, she planned to take her own life.
She was visiting a friend in another state when she planned her suicide. She purchased a gun from a pawnshop, then began looking for the right place to die. She found a beautiful hill that overlooked a lake and set the date. When the day came she hid the gun in her purse, then asked her friend if she could borrow her van to visit some friends. As she began to pull out of the driveway her friend suddenly came out after her. She was carrying abook. It wasThe Christmas Box.She said, “Here, take this with you.” The young woman thought it was an odd request, but threw it in the seat behind her and drove up to the lake. She parked, loaded the gun, then put its barrel in her mouth. She was about to pull the trigger when she heard a voice say, “Read the book.”
She looked around to see who had spoken. There was nobody there. Then she looked back at the book. It seemed to have a faint glow about it. She set the gun down, got the book and began to read. She read it from beginning to end. When she finished she had a peaceful, warm feeling that she would see her baby again. That someday they would be reunited. She emptied the gun, then threw it into the lake.
She went on to write that she was still a drug addict, which is why she was in prison. But she was still glad to be alive, and it’s because ofThe Christmas Box.
Dear Mr. Evans,
What a blessing!! I have been truly blessed by your story,The Christmas Box.I sometimes read at night when I cannot sleep, and last night I started to read the story and could not stop until I finished. I had to stop several times at the end of the story to catch my breath because I was crying so hard.
I am a single parent of a beautiful four-year-old girl. Lately the everyday stresses of my life have been bringing me down—being single and lonely and working full time. I have begun taking my frustrations out on my daughter. I have lost my patience quickly and have been snapping at her often. I have found myself feeling so guilty for getting upset and for yelling at her in a hurtful tone. I have been praying, asking God to help me.
Your story touched me and showed me that my daughter’s childhood is so precious and that I have been given a gift in her. I want to cherish all the time I have with her. I want to love her as God loves us.
I am so grateful that you shared your family’s story with others, especially with me! It made me look at myself and my own life.
Again, thank you and God bless you and your family,
Mary
34
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When we bury someone we love, we must also bury a part of our heart. But we should not bemoan this loss. Our hearts, perhaps, are all they can take with them.
THELETTER
IT WAS A FEW DAYS BEFOREThanksgiving and I was signing books at Joseph-Beth Booksellers, a large bookstore in Cincinnati. The line was long and my escort was getting anxious. “You’re going to have to hurry,” she kept saying. “If you miss your flight you’ll never get home.”
I finished signing and as I walked out to her car I had a premonition to take a paperback copy of my book from my suitcase and put it in my carry-on. I wondered why. I had already read the book. I asked my escort to open the trunk and I retrieved a copy.
An hour later I was on the plane headed home. When a flight attendant asked me if I wanted something to drink, I felt prompted to give her the book.
I didn’t do it. It would be presumptuous, I thought, giving my book to a stranger. A while later she came back to collect glasses and I again had the impression to give her the book. As strong as the feeling was, again I resisted. But this time I took the book from my bag and placed it in theseat flap in front of me. I resolved that if she came back, I would give it to her. A few minutes later she walked directly up to me holding a flight roster.
“Am I supposed to do something with you?” she asked.
There was nothing mystical about her question. My publisher’s travel agent had designated my seats “VIP,” which did little but confuse the flight attendants.
“Are you referring to the VIP designation?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“It means you’re supposed to be extra nice to me.”
She smiled. “I can do that. Now, why are you a VIP?”
“I’m not,” I replied. “I’m an author. I’m on book tour.”
“Would I know anything you’ve written?”
“I’ve only written one book.” I lifted the copy from the pocket in front of me. “Have you ever heard ofThe Christmas Box?”
She looked at it. “No. Is it a children’s book?”
“It’s an adult Christmas story. Would you like a copy?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I handed her the book and she went back to her station.
That was fun,I thought sardonically.
About a half hour later I noticed a different flight attendant making her way from the back of the plane. She was young, with dark skin and black hair that fell down across her shoulders. When she got to my seat she stopped. “ Excuse me, are you Mr. Evans?”
I looked up at her. “Yes.”
She moved closer to me. “Did you write a book that helps people who have lost babies?”
I noticed that tears were welling up in her eyes. “Yes,” I said.
“My baby died.” She knelt next to my seat and began to cry. I put my arms around her, ignoring the other passengers in first class, who watched curiously. Then she said, “A few days ago I got this newsletter from a grief support group I joined. It said that they recommend we read your book. It made me angry. I didn’t want to read a book. I just wanted my baby back. I said to God, ‘Why have you done this to me? Where are you? If you really care, please let me know. Please give me a sign that you care.’ ” Then she looked me in the eyes. “He sent you.”
I talked to her for a while longer, then the pilot came over the jet’s PA announcing our approach. She stood to go, hugged me, then said, “Thank you for coming.”
35
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Those who take themselves too seriously are the greatest jesters of all.
RICHARDPAULEVANS
NOT ALL OF MY EXPERIENCESat that time were spiritual. Some w
ere just strange. Probably the most peculiar experience I had occurred in Atlanta. I had arrived for a live interview onGood Day Atlantawhen I was told that my interview was not today but tomorrow. They apologized for the misunderstanding, but as I was still in town, it was not a problem and we rescheduled my appearance. The next day we returned to the studio.
As I was preparing to go on, the man connecting my microphone said, “Do you know why you were bumped yesterday?”
I said, “I was told that there was a scheduling mix-up.”
“No, you were bumped,” he said. He grinned wryly. “Do you want to know why?”
“I guess.”
“Some woman came on. She was Elvis’s pedicurist or something. She had Elvis’s toenails.”
“Elvis’s toenails?”
“They were in a little jar.”
“I was bumped for a jar of Elvis’s toenails?”
He switched on my microphone and smiled. “You sure were. Have a good show.”
36
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There comes to each life at least one Betheltown.
But it comes only once and we dare not ask for more.
THELOCKET
TWO DAYS AFTERTHANKSGIVINGI left on the road again. That same week I arrived in New York for another appearance on theTodayshow. My segment followed Martha Stewart’s. I was again interviewed by Katie. She asked how our new baby was. I was amazed that she remembered or cared enough to ask.