There is an ancient pine tree deep in the Forest of Dirgel that stands taller and stronger than any other variety, of its own and others. No one knows when it sprouted nor how long it grew. Perhaps the mysterious forest originated with the tree, or maybe lucky placement gave it enough room and light to stretch to the beckoning sky. But whether it was the first in the forest around it or was the result of a pinecone dropped by tree or animal, it became the reigning presence that lent itself to the old story.
The legend is nearly as old as the forest, itself, handed down from generation to generation; though two pilots recounted seeing the very tree on Christmas Eve, and a rugged ranger, long gone, witnessed it, himself.
On the day before Christmas, goes the story, as the light dims, fading from winter white to periwinkle to black, the moon dips slightly lower in the sky, lighting the forest with its winter beams – a spotlight on the ancient tree. The air, sharp with cold, begins to shimmer with golden 
flecks of light, turning the night into a velvety backdrop. Then the branches of the tree reach lower, and lower still until they brush the ground. 
And in the glittering, gleaming night something amazing begins to happen!
Tiny red, blue, and green berries sprout along the soft green needles. Gradually little bits of corn and pumpkin spring up in concert from the branches; and fruit of all kinds drop from the already laden boughs.
Then one by one forest animals begin to gather around the old tree. Some internal knowledge tells them there is a miraculous feast awaiting them as the glittering light breaks through the darkness. 
First, little chipmunks, fresh from their winter hibernation, peek up from the snow. Then squirrels: gray, red, and brown chatter to each other as they scamper near. Deer and wolves, friends for the evening, sniff the air and begin to 
munch on the feast. Birds drop down onto the higher branches and lend music to the night when they break from dining on the abundance of the old tree. The quiet of the forest erupts with happy sounds of animals, some very hungry from too many snowy days, as they enjoy the profusion of good food.
And in the still and sparkling Christmas Eve the stars glimmer and shine as they watch the gathering. They know how the legend began, for they saw the One who calls them each by name and hears their songs in the night reach low and create the hidden gift in celebration of another most spectacular gift one silent night long ago.
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Eight quarters. That’s what did it. It was two dollars sucked into a laundromat dryer with nothing to show for them that cracked her final effort to put on her game face. And now, as she sat on a cold bench, holding a large bag of wet laundry and waiting for the bus, a few tears burned her eyes. She blinked quickly to chase them away. 
As she lay in bed the next morning, the events from the previous evening played in her memory. She could almost taste the gingerbread cookies and hot cocoa the old man had brought out while they finished decorating his tree, a tree that rivaled any she’d ever seen. 
(nearly 30 years of 4 kids and 2 dogs running, playing, and jumping – or, as some would describe it: life, lead to less than stellar floors). Actually, they were pretty awful, especially the one spot that got the most traffic and dog drool. So one project which led to another project blossomed – like a prickly thistle you step on barefoot – into an unwanted third project; a project that lasted nearly a month, I kid you not.
missed an A by 1 point, and, no, the professor didn’t see any reason to change my grade despite my hard work. Because – statistics. He did not grade on a curve and his life was black and white. He wasn’t like the ones alluded to in the above quote. He didn’t dilly dally with numbers. But plenty of people do. Let’s walk down that inviting path for a minute.
A study cited by reporter Wesley Lowery in a 2016 Washington Post article is an example of how statistics can be used to lie – Wesley, not the study. His writing is guilty of flaws that misled readers. “Lowery wrote that ‘black Americans are 2.5 times as likely as white Americans to be shot and killed by police officers’.” He neglected to include the part of the study that notes “Police are 42% less likely to use lethal force when arresting blacks than when when arresting whites, and 59% less likely to use lethal force when arresting blacks for serious violent crimes than when arresting whites for the same crimes.”¹
to drown us. We are, admittedly, living in a time where it’s difficult to discern what’s true and what isn’t. But it is our responsibility to try. And when someone lies once, then again and again and shows no signs of stopping, we need to do the stopping. We need to stop listening to the lies. Who’s guilty? The one who speaks a lie? The one who writes a lie? The one who pays for a lie? Or the one who believes a lie? This is your mother speaking: Stop being lazy and research a thing or two from a source other than your favorite.
Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.
Detective McBrennain showed his badge and stepped across the threshold. I invited him to sit at the kitchen table, made coffee (my policy was no decaf, but he looked like someone who preferred the dark of night to the light of day anyway), and told him my story. I told him about the car, the man with glorious gray eyes, and seeing the same car on a Facebook post of a missing car. I told him the car must have been given a paint job, otherwise – and here I held up my beautifully manicured nails – it had been white. I told him I recognized the car by a triangle of tiny dings on the door handle.
Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.