The Christmas Box Miracle: My Spiritual Journey of Destiny, Healing and Hope
The Christmas Box Miracle: Chapter 11

It would seem that my Andrea is growing so quickly, as if time were advancing at an unnatural pace. At times I wish it were within my power to reach forth my hand and stop the moment—but in this I err. To hold the note is to spoil the song.

TIMEPIECE

I LOVED ADVERTISING. From producing television commercials to designing direct mail campaigns, I got my hands in all of it—an advantage of working in a small agency. The California Raisins were the rage back then, and in my spare time I taught myself the art of clay animation and produced a clay animation television commercial, an animated couch potato named Otis Spud.

I had worked at Evan Twede Advertising for only two and a half years when the entrepreneurial bug bit me and I decided to leave to start my own agency. Evan and I parted amicably and I hung out my own shingle.

To advertise my new business I put up signs on the sides of city buses. The bus cards read,RICK EVANS IS A MADMAN. A few weeks later the message changed, and a big red X crossed out the M. The banner now read,RICK EVANS ISAN ADMAN, CALL FOR SOME SANE ADVERTISING ADVICE.

Things went well at first. I picked up a large client my first day in business, and three of my campaigns won local Addy awards. My salary doubled the first few months. But success was short-lived. After six months one of my clients went out of business, leaving me with a stack of unpaid bills. At the same time my other clients cut back on their advertising budgets. To make matters worse, I contracted mononucleosis, and for nearly five weeks it was all I could do to not fall asleep at my desk. I worked constantly and worried always. As I overcame my illness I worked even harder trying to make up lost ground and keep my business afloat. Over the next year, I grew accustomed to working six days a week, coming home after dark every night.

Then came another change in our life. Keri gave birth to our second child, another beautiful girl. We liked two names equally well so we gave her both. We named her Allyson-Danica.

Though I saw nothing wrong with my new lifestyle, the truth was I was missing out on the better part of life; my little girls were growing up without their father. One evening all that changed.

There was nothing unusual about the evening. I had come home from work late, the lights were off in our apartment and everyone had already gone to bed. Allyson was asleep in her cradle in our bedroom while Jenna slept in her own room. Since I had not seen Jenna that day I decided to go in and check on her. As I opened the door to her room a distinct voice came to my mind. You are trading diamonds for stones.

I paused at the threshold, then I stepped inside the room. As I stood there looking at my child, the voice came again. You have one childhood with your daughter. When it is gone, it is gone for all eternity.

As the message sunk in I was suddenly filled with tremendous grief. I knelt at the side of Jenna’s bed and wept. Then I picked up my sleeping daughter and held her. I made her a promise. I would be there for her. My destiny would have to wait.

Dear Mr. Evans,

I’m sure you receive many letters, and though this letter may never actually be seen by you, I felt compelled to write just the same.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I feel your book has touched my soul as to change my life. I oftentimes worry over my decision to quit work and stay home with my children. I thought perhaps I was doing them a disservice by denying them the advantages the extra money could provide. It was important that the character in your book, Mary Anne, was wealthy. The tragedy and sadness amongst all of their riches pointed glaringly to what would seem obvious but often is not. The really important things don’t have price tags. I can now rest in my decision. The most important things I can give my children are not material things, rather the values that will carry them well through life. I must love them the best I can, leave the rest to God and hope for the best.

After reading your book I went into my daughter’s room and watched her for a minute. As I was standing over her, she rustled to sleepy wakefulness. I bent down and wrapped my arms around her and held her close. She looked at me and asked, “Why are you crying?” How could she understand? How could I express all that I felt? I said, “I love you.” She nestled into me and seemed content that it was enough.

I must go now. Inspired by your book, this is only the first of many letters I have to write. Thoughts long unspoken will be imparted in each letter. I don’t want to someday regret what I didn’t say.

Thank you sincerely,

Pamela