The Last Bus
I remember the Christmas I decided not to go home. I was twenty-one and living in Wichita, Kansas, far from my parents and the farm where I had grown up. I had only Christmas Day off from my job. I had been promised to office manager just a month before. Determined to make good, I had worked to the point of exhaustion.
I’d welcome a day to myself. I’d attend a Christmas morning service, relax in the afternoon. If I went home I’d have to ride a Greyhound bus all night. I’d arrive in Shamrock, Texas, a small town nearest to the farm, at 6:00 a.m., and then in order to return to work the day after Christmas, I’d have to reverse the ride that night.
Not one to do things on the spur of the moment. I had sent Mama’s and Dad’s gifts well ahead of time along with a letter saying how much I loved them and how much I missed them.
At the time, I could contact my parents only by mail. There was not telephone service to the farm, and Western Union didn’t deliver messages to rural areas.
Having made the decision not to go home, I dug into my work and tried to forget that I wouldn’t even be able to call my parents on Christmas Day.
At 5:30 on Christmas Eve, I wished my boss and co-workers a Merry Christmas and left the annual office party early.
On the way home I had to pass the Greyhound bus terminal. As I neared it, my steps slowed. When I saw the bus with “Oklahoma City” across the front, homesickness clutched my heart. I leaned against the building. That’s the last bus out to get me home by tomorrow morning, I thought.
Woefully, I watched the passengers board the bus. The driver, taking tickets at the door, was one that I had ridden with several times before. When the last person got on, he looked my way.
“Hey, Sunshine, are you going or not?” He teased as he motioned and smiled.
My heart leaped. “I’m going.” I said quickly. “Wait until I get a ticket.”
Breathless and tingling with happiness at the prospect of home, I settled into the only available seat. A short time later I wondered whatever had possessed me to make that snap decision. I hadn’t even a change of clothing. And worse, since Mama and Daddy didn’t know I was coming, how would I get the fifteen miles from Shamrock to the farm? I ‘d have to hitch-hike, but who would be driving down the country road at six o’clock on Christmas morning?
In the dim, early morning light, the bus pulled in the Shamrock station. About now, I thought, Mama and Daddy are in the kitchen. Mama has lit the gas cook stove and left the oven door open to help warm the room. They having a cup of coffee before Daddy goes to the barn to milk the cows. While he’s gone, Mama will cook sausage, eggs, and hot biscuits with butter and syrup. It’s Daddy’s favorite breakfast.
As I stepped off the bus, a woman threw her arms around me, and I was in Mama’s arms. “How did you know to meet the bus?” I asked as I wiped the tears from eyes. “I wrote you I wasn’t coming home.”
“The truth is,” Mama admitted, “we both had strong feelings that you’d be on this bus. After all, it is the last bus before Christmas.”
Then I told them about my irresistible and last minute urge to hop onto the bus. Had we unknowingly sent each other mental dispatches?
“No,” Mama said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so; I believe God just put it on our hearts. It’s one of His Christmas miracles. Let’s go home.”
Of all my memories of Christmases spent with Mama and Daddy, the year that I was impelled to take the-last-bus-before-Christmas home is my favorite one.
By Doris Crandall
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The Child who was born on the first Christmas grew up to be a Man. Jesus. He healed many people, taught us many important things. But the message that has left the most lasting impression and given the most hope and comfort is this: that we do have a home to go to, and there will be an ultimate homecoming. A place where we will indeed to reunited with those we love. A place where every day will be Christmas, with everybody there together. At home.
By Marjorie Holmes
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