The Christmas Box Miracle

  Fortunately I didn’t know this. The challenges I recognized already seemed insurmountable. Especially the marketing. My entire advertising budget was a meager seven thousand dollars. Senator Bob Bennett had just spent nearly 2 million dollars to sell himself just in Utah. Telling the entire country about my book with only a few thousand dollars of advertising would be like feeding thousands with one loaf of bread.

  Of course, national media—aTodayshow or anOprahappearance—would change everything, but the odds of being struck by lightning are greater than the odds of being on either show. Not having a publisher reduced my chances still more. Not even the local television stations were interested in my book. Being self-published, I learned, is like competing in the Olympics without a country—they make you run outside the stadium.

  The hard truth was, I was an unknown with a little Christmas book.Ifthis war could be won, it would have to be won in the trenches. I would have to visit as many bookstores and book trade shows as I physically could, hoping that word of mouth would quickly spread. It was like shooting flaming arrows into a dry field and hoping that a brushfire might start that would sweep the nation.

  My biggest challenge was time. There’s not much interest-in Christmas books before Thanksgiving, and none after Christmas. That gave me a window of about five weeks to sell—not enough time for word of mouth to spread nationally. I needed to find a way to get the word out faster.

  As I was contemplating this challenge, an idea came to me. I could give my books to radio stations as Christmas giveaways. I would give twenty-five books to each station, with the only requirement being that they give my book to listeners, with the tag line “If you read only one book this Christmas, it must be this one.” The idea hadpossibilities, if the stations would do it. They likely wouldn’t. No station wants to give away free airtime.

  Still, I reasoned, there are more than seven thousand radio stations in the United States. I figured if I could get just a couple dozen of those stations to participate, it would be worth the attempt. I printed a postcard with the details of the offer and sent it out to every radio station in the country.

  More than four hundred stations called back.

  •

  The book tour I created for myself included several book industry trade shows. It was my best chance to meet booksellers from across the nation. The first show was the ABA’s (American Booksellers Association) in Los Angeles, the mother of all book shows. I had no illusions. I was a small fish in a big pond. (Actually, a minnow in the ocean is a better metaphor.) Still, it was my best chance to get my book into booksellers’ hands.Publishers Distribution Center and I shipped three thousand books to the event, which we stacked in a large wall of books. With the help of Mike Hurst, the distributor’s new sales manager, and the Beutlers, I worked the booth, handing free copies of my book to everyone who walked by. When not enough booksellers were coming byour booth, Keri and one of the other wives walked the floor of the conference hall handing out flyers until they were stopped by a security guard.

  The show was memorable for several reasons. The first was meeting former first lady Barbara Bush. Mrs. Bush had come to promote her new book,Barbara Bush: A Memoir.I stood in line for about a half hour to meet her. I spoke with her for only a moment, just long enough to hand her a copy of my book, and was whisked away. (Years later she would invite me to speak at her literacy conference in Houston and I would spend several wonderful hours with her.)

  That same day Mike pointed out a silver-haired man walking toward our booth. “That’s Jack Canfield.”

  “Who’s Jack Canfield?” I asked.

  “He wrote a book that booksellers are predicting is going to be a big bestseller. It’s calledChicken Soup for the Soul.”

  Just then Jack walked up to me, followed by several others, who seemed to be in awe of the rising new author. Jack stopped and examined my stack of books. “May I have a copy?”

  “Certainly.” I handed him a book.

  “Will you sign it?”

  “You want my autograph?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I took the book, signed it and handed it back to him.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward and hugged me. “Good luck,” he said.

  The greatest shackles we bear in this life are those forged by our own fears.

  THELOOKINGGLASS

  A few months later I attended the Mountains and Plains Booksellers Association show in Denver, Colorado. At first things weren’t going quite as well as I had hoped. Even though there were a large number of booksellers in attendance, relatively few of them were in the exhibit hall, where we had rented a booth. Upon further investigation I learned why. The booksellers were either attending break-out sessions or were congregated in the outer hall where the author tables were set up.

  It was a routine I would eventually become all too familiar with. Authors, sponsored by major publishers, came four or five at a time, flanked by their media escorts and book show personnel. They sat together at a long table and signed their books while booksellers by the score waited in line to receive not just free books but freeautographedbooks.

  Frustrated with the lack of interest in our booth, I had grabbed a stack of my books with the thought of handing them out to booksellers, but I lost my nerve when I saw theline. For several minutes I stood outside the velvet-roped stanchions enviously watching the authors greet the eager bookstore owners and workers.

  Then I noticed a vacant chair between two of the authors.Why not just sit down?I thought. The idea was quickly extinguished by fear. Then, as I turned to walk away, I thought, How much do you care about this book? If you’re not willing to fight for it, who will?

  I turned back and walked to the side of the authors’ table, then slid behind it. With a cursory nod to the authors at either side, I laid my books on the table in front of me and took a seat. To my horror, a member of the book show staff began walking toward me. Before she could speak, I looked up at her and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

  A subtle smile crossed her lips. “May I get you some water?” she asked.

  •

  I returned to the same show the next year as an invited guest, and now the bestselling author at the table. The same woman was there from the year before. I said to her, “Do you remember me from last year?”She nodded, with a wry smile.

  “Thank you for not throwing me out.”

  “I almost did,” she said, “then I thought, What’s it going to hurt?” Then she added, “May I get you some water?”

  20

  •

  WHENSEPTEMBERCAMEI put in an order with my printer for a half million copies of my book. I had closed down my business, and Keri and I put up all of our savings for advertising and my book tour. Senator Bennett had signed a promissory note to the printer, guaranteeing payment for the books’ printing. Whenever I think back on those days I marvel at my faith. Or my foolishness. I never doubted that I would sell all of those books, even though we probably had orders for fewer than a tenth of them.

  That same month I started my tour. One of my first book signings was at a shopping mall in downtown Salt Lake City. I had been there for nearly an hour when a woman approached me.

  “What is your book about?” she asked.

  I recited my sales pitch. “It’s about a young family who move in with an elderly widow and the Christmas they spend with her.”

  She looked disappointed with my reply. Then, to my surprise, she said, “I guess I need six copies. One for each child.” Suddenly tears began to well up in her eyes as she corrected herself. “No, I’m sorry. I only need five copies. I’ve just lost a child.” Then, in the crowded mall corridor, the woman began to cry. She was clearly embarrassed and when she had regained her composure she apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t even know why I’m standing here.”

  “I think I do,” I said. “I’ve been told that this book is healing for those who have lost chi
ldren.”

  She looked at me with a curious expression, then said, “Just a moment.” She went into the store, purchased her copies, then brought them back out for me to sign. As I signed her books she suddenly asked, “Can you tell me what’s happening to me?”

  I looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “I had already finished my shopping and as I was going back to my car I heard a voice. It said‘Go back inside, there’s a young man waiting for you.’When I came back inside I saw you sitting here and the same voice said,‘That’s him. What he has, you need.’ ”

  She looked at me anxiously. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I’m standing here crying and telling you that I’m hearing voices. You probably think I’m crazy.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  •

  Three weeks later I was in Scottsdale, Arizona, signing books in Fashion Square Mall. At least, that was the plan. I had been in the bookstore for nearly forty-five minutes and the only attention I had received was from a woman who asked me to move so she could get to some books behind me. Suddenly a woman walked by my table and lifted one of my books, checked the price, then said, “I’ll take one of these.”Mercy buy,I thought.

  Her husband glanced at the book, then said disparagingly, “Man, you’ll buy anything.”

  She bought the book and they left the store.

  About twenty minutes later the couple returned. The man approached me, holding my book out in front of him. “I need ten more copies,” he said.

  “You’ve changed your mind?”

  He leaned forward, his eyebrows bent. “There’s something really weird about your book,” he said in a hushed tone. “There’s something mystical about it.”

  His wife came around to the other side of my table. “Do you believe in spiritual things?” she asked. “Like voices and promptings?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s how the book came to me.”

  She glanced over at her husband. “We were in differentparts of the house tonight when we both heard a voice that told us to come here and find you. I don’t know what this little Christmas book of yours is about, but whatever it is, we’re supposed to share it.”

  21

  •

  There is nothing so healing to oneself as to heal another.

  THELETTER

  IWAS BACK INUTAH,ATa book signing in a northern Utah shopping mall, when I noticed a woman across the mall staring at me. After a few moments she approached, hovering near my table as if afraid to speak to me. I spoke first.

  “Would you like a book?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve already read your book.” Then she added, “You’re not old enough.”

  “To be a writer?” I asked.

  “To have experienced this story. The story isn’t true.”

  “No, ma’am. It’s mostly fiction.”

  “I wanted it to be true,” she said softly. “I wanted a place to go. I wanted to lay a flower at the angel.” Then she walked away.

  The depth of the woman’s sadness had a powerful impact on me. For the next few days the memory of her haunted me. I shared the experience with one of the salespeople at my book distributor.

  “We get calls like that all the time,” he said. “People arealways trying to find the angel. They wander through the Salt Lake City Cemetery looking for it. A lot of them say they’ve lost a child.”

  •

  I called Leah Perry, the elderly woman who had told me about the angel, and asked if she would take me to see it. We drove up to the southwest end of the cemetery and began combing the area she had run through nearly seventy years before. This was not easy for her, as she now hobbled along with a cane. We couldn’t find the angel. After searching for nearly an hour, Leah raised her hands in frustration. Then, hitting a granite headstone with her wooden cane, she exclaimed, “It was right here by Mr. Bean!”Leah called me the next day. “I phoned the cemetery,” she said. “They said there was flooding in that part of the cemetery and some of the headstones were lost.”

  The angel was gone. As I thought of the grieving parents wandering the cemetery looking for it, I suddenly had the desire to rebuild the angel—to provide a place for them to grieve their little ones. When I told my mother of my desire, she began to cry.

  “Sue was never buried,” she said. “I have no place to go.”

  •

  Dear Mr. Evans,

  I have just completed your book. Thank you so much for writing it. I bought your book in December but I got carried away with the bustle of the holidays and didn’t get a chance to read it.

  I didn’t know it at the time but I was pregnant. We found out in early January. My husband and I were so excited. We felt so blessed. Our whole lives immediately revolved around this baby coming.

  At fourteen weeks I had a miscarriage. It was the saddest and worst experience of our lives. The moment at the ultrasound when they said there was no heartbeat we were devastated.

  Since there was no tangible way to mourn our loss—no grave to go to, no ceremony to take place—peace is hard to find. I felt left without resolution and just a lot of questions.

  Your book has brought me some solace. I just want to thank you. Thank God I bought your book. I find it strange that I had it for so long and didn’t read it. I guess it was waiting for me. I did send flowers to the Christmas Box Angel. That has also given me a sense of peace. Thank you for that and for helping me to heal.

  Truly,

  Karyn

  I decided to have the angel in place before Christmas, less than three months away. I asked a neighbor of mine, a funeral director named Rob Larkin, if he knew where I could find an angel sculpture. I figured that morticians must have catalogues of premade statuary. Instead Rob asked me if I knew of a sculptor named Ortho Fairbanks.“I don’t think I could afford an original sculpture.”

  “You could never afford Ortho,” Rob said, “but his son, Jared, is also a sculptor. He might be willing to do something.”

  I phoned Jared and told him my idea. He was interested, but insisted that I call his father.

  “I can’t afford your father,” I said.

  “You need to talk to him,” he repeated.

  The next day I met with Ortho Fairbanks and his wife, Myrna, in the front room of their home. The Fairbankses did not live far from me and I soon realized that I had met Ortho before. He had been one of the convention delegates who supported me when I ran for the state legislature.

  As I explained the purpose of the angel, the sculptor’s eyes began to tear up. He left the room, then returned with the bronze plaque he had made for their own child’s headstone. Hyrum Ortho had died eighteen hours after his birth. The plaque was a duplicate of the one that was mounted on their child’s headstone nearly three thousand miles away in Laie, Hawaii. They too had no place to go to mourn their child.

  Myrna spoke for both of them. “Don’t worry about the cost or the deadline. Whatever it takes to build this will be done.”

  •

  I felt strongly that the new statue, like the original, was to be placed in the Salt Lake City Cemetery. I called the cemetery and explained my intentions to the sexton’s secretary. She asked that I send a written request. I sent a letter, including with it a copy ofThe Christmas Box.The next time we spoke she was excited about the prospect of the angel statue. She had read the book and understood the need for the angel. She too had lost a child.“You’ll have to meet with Mr. Byron, the sexton,” she said. “He’s out of town for the week. If you can call back next Thursday, I’ll arrange a meeting.”

  The following Thursday I called her back.

  “There’s a problem, Richard,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ll just have to talk to Mr. Byron. He’s available to meet with you tomorrow.”

  From the tone of her voice I knew that my request had been denied.

  The next day, as I drove up to the cemetery, I contemplated my anticipated rejection
and wondered if an appeal was possible. For the first time I began to wonder if theangel would ever stand in the cemetery. Then I said out loud, “How will I even know where it should be?” Suddenly there came to my mind a strong impression:The place has been chosen.Doubt quickly replaced the impression.They’re not even going to let me build it,I thought.

  The impression came again:The place has been chosen.

  •

  The sexton’s secretary greeted me, then introduced me to the sexton, who was mulling through paperwork at a cluttered desk. He glanced up. “Just a minute,” he said, returning to his work. Paul Byron had worked at the Salt Lake City Cemetery for fifteen years. He knew the place like his own backyard. It was, in fact, his own backyard, for he lived in the house on the property.He glanced up. “I’ve heard your request, Mr. Evans, and I’m going to have to deny it.”

  Despite the secretary’s warning, his response still came as a surprise.

  “May I ask why?”

  He sat back in his chair. “I get a lot of requests like yours and I just can’t do it. In the first place this would have to be approved by a half dozen city organizations, including the city council, probably even the mayor. The red tape is considerable. It couldn’t possibly be done by this fall, even if I had the time to go to that much trouble, which, frankly,I don’t. Besides, there’s no place to put a monument. This cemetery is almost a hundred and fifty years old. The plots are all privately owned. We just don’t have the space. I’m sorry.”