FANTASY, FACT and FAITHEnjoy these excerpts . . . from the Limited Edition Gift Book A WHITE HOUSE CHRISTMAS“THERE IS A PLACE, EAST OF HOW THE SUN RISES AND WEST OF WHY IT SETS, WHERE THE THINGS THAT ONE TRULY BELIEVES, REALLY DO EXIST.” “Read me more, Daddy.” “It’s time to sleep Benny. Off to dreamland you go.” “Will mommy be there?” Bengt Davies paused; he was unsure how to answer that question, or numerous others the four year old asked about his mother. She died the day after little Ben celebrated his second birthday. The Politics of Christmas . . .Chief of Staff Peters and United Nations General Secretary Robin Southampton were the first to arrive and meet with the president at the White House. They sat around a large square table with big comfortable chairs. Other guests join them as we read on.“AMERICA REBELS AGAINST RELIGIOUS MEANING OF CHRISTMAS,” the president read the headline from the Washington Post. “What in the world is going on here?
“Do I hear dese people ask Congress to take away its status as national holiday?” the UN Secretary asked. “Well, Ben. The latest word is we move Christmas to the third Sunday of the month,” Harold Peters said. Ruby Smith had recently been named the spokesperson for the Coalition for a Christian Christmas. Though quite an honor, the media constantly brought light to the uphill battle she faced this holiday season. Yet, Ruby held her ground with confidence, as she had through the last war she fought. That battle helped win Bengt the presidency when most thought solely of defeat. “We were lamenting on de sad state of affairs we are faced with.” Tall and elegant, Robin Southampton carried a great resolve toward prejudice and injustice. “Dere is no way we can allow dis to happen. To lose de meaning of Christmas, is to lose de spirit of life.” “Listen fellas, I know you’re down on this a bit,” Ruby told them. “I spoke at the subcommittee hearing yesterday. Senator Ravens and that snake Bo Adder are sick people.”
Ruby sang out,gospel style,
This story has several original songs like the one above, created to enforce the text and of course, bring Christmas joy. “Fellas, everyone is starving. Some starve for food,” Ruby told them passionately, the rich dark skin on her forehead rolled upward in obvious concern. “Some for hope and freedom, the rest of us starve for meaning.” Our distinguished friends are right. Our Christian world, as we know it, is threatened.” The arrival of Supreme Court Justice J.B. Spade came as Bengt readied an answer to Harold Peters’ call to action. “Judge, thank you for stopping by on such short notice,” the president greeted the venerable man, welcoming him to the large square table for discussion. “As I understand it, you have been asked by the subcommittee to hand down a preliminary finding regarding the legality of government support of Christmas as a legal holiday.” “With all do respect,” Justice Spade addressed the president, opening his cloak to allow some air to his poorly ironed shirt. “I cannot see how it is the authority of the Oval Office to decide how the people should believe. "I warn you Mr. President, if you allow this to enter the courts, you will find yourself standing alone on an empty road headed to a place I’d rather not visit. Dark times will fall, not only on Christmas, but on life itself.” “What does Christmas have to do with life on earth?” the president asked.
The Politics of Politics . . .“Think twice before you answer that,” Senator Ravens shouted, barging into the meeting in front of the Secret Service agent at the door. Her shrill, scratchy voice demanded their attention. Commerce Secretary Adder slipped quietly into a corner.“Sit? No! I contend,” the Senator began her tirade, parading about the room, “it is absolutely preposterous for America to continue to support Christmas as a national holiday. Tell them Adder, tell them what it costs the taxpayers to give government workers a day off.” “Ahem,” the Commerce Secretary slithered to his feet. “Five point five billion. That’s right. Two billion a day in wages plus benefits. They take two - three days, paid. Five and one-half a billion dollars. Cash.” The words came quickly, flying from his flat face and thin open lips. “Now then, our reason for keeping the holiday.” Bo Adder’s long, double jointed arms flailed into the room above his head as he spoke. Adder was a bit of a fashion joke on Capitol Hill. Bo wore ties that clashed with his attire a snake skin belt and matching suspenders. But, he could add, subtract, multiply and divide and knew the economies of commerce so well that he was, when called upon and directed by the president and the cabinet, quite helpful to the White House. “I refer of course to the subject you were about to discuss. Specifically, the corporate sponsored shopping spree. Let’s talk about the economic impact the buying season brings. Four hundred and sixty billion dollars, in fact. “Retail sales are up 12 percent and we expect more, due largely to the lifting of moral and conscience pressure to give gifts of meaning. The Senator here will slip through a holiday sales tax on some bridge or highway bill, say we go ten percent. Total earnings should reach 50 billion dollars plus next season. Add that to per-holiday payroll savings and we have created a tremendous windfall. “I’m not talking snake oil here. Real oil, black gold, Texas tea, you know. We’ll have created an income stream, strong enough and long enough to buy the Tengiz oil field AND build a pipeline to the Black Sea.” Bo Adder finally took a breath. He stroked his avocado and pale pink tie. Adder’s eyes darted around the room. “What the hell,” he started again. “We’ll repackage the whole thing. Move it to the third Sunday of December and call it “Hold on Adder,” Harold Peters interrupted. “Christmas is a time to search for meaning, not generate tax dollars and buy oil fields. We need to help show our world a way to find peace, love and understanding.” “AMEN,” Ruby sang out. “Simple minded fools. Save that old song and dance for another day,” the Senator snarled, scampering around the room on twig like legs like a rat looking for dinner. She pointed a long bony finger at each one of them. “You’re all fools, especially you,” she growled at Harold Peters. “I never liked you Jolly Mon.” A shroud of gloom gripped the Oval Office. “All you stand for is nothing. And you, Ruby. Forget those precious red slippers. Clicking your heels together will get you nothing. Nothing I say, nothing.” Senator Ravens turned to address Bengt. The dark suit she wore made contrast to the daylight beaming through the window behind her. Streaks of rage-filled-red burned from inside her blackened eyes. Ravens’ sunken face wrinkled in anger as she spoke. “Mister President. Are you going to sit there,” she snarled, pointing at Harold Peters, “and watch him, use religion to justify the spending of tax dollars on this tiresome and worn holiday? Tell the people Bengt Davies. Tell them we need their holiday pay and the new tax dollars to buy this oil field. You have two weeks or we ram it down their throats.” “Madam Senator mon,” Robin Southampton began. “Perhaps we should try . . . “ “Silence island man,” Ravens’ purple lips quivered with hatred. “You misfit of worldly kindness. One word from you or any of your United Nations freaks, and voodoo of the kind you know will seem like a gentle rain compared to the storm we’ll bring down. Adder, we are done here. Two weeks Mr. President. "Two weeks to halt government support of Christmas as a national holiday or we take separation of Church and State to a new level. A level of battle which you have never seen and a battle which you can never hope to be the victor.” “Win/win, Secretary Peters?” Bengt asked as Ravens and Adder left the office. “Dis is not win/win. Dis IS de devil. Like voodoo, dis is not good.” “Now do you care about Christmas?” Harold Peters asked. “Do you Bengt?”
Enter the Social MisfitsThe mission of the SEAVAR FOUNDATION was to expose and change any idiosyncrasy of American life that any one member of society found offensive, regardless of the merits of rational argument, public consensus or common sense.Led by their founder, Victoriana Vendetta, SEAVAR brought a multitude of challenges through the court systems of America. Among the changes, the music of the neighborhood ice cream vendor could no longer be heard on the streets of the cities. That precedent, the violation of one’s right to peaceful enjoyment, became the basis for their argument against the ringing of church bells. Victoriana Vendetta, a robust woman quite full of herself and much about herself entered the White House meeting, crashing through the double doorway, “You started without me?” “The church bell symbolizes the coming together of the faithful. Victoriana, have you no love for God in your heart?” “Save your breath, big boy. Who needs bells, who needs love and WHO NEEDS CHRISTMAS?” “Can no one in that room see the manger? See the Christ child?”
The Politics of Church and State . . .“Separation of Church and State,” Harold Peters began, “was designed so that government wouldn’t choose one set of religious beliefs over another and force those beliefs upon all the people. The same design must be held true for individual choice. Separation does not and can not limit individual choices. AND, every citizen has the right to disagree with another’s beliefs.”
“You are the leader of the free world, yet do not pay reverence to God.” “Tiff, when our country found its independence, the citizens were given freedom to make religious choice.” “Choice, yes. I doubt Mr. President, that elimination was the intent.” “What about the constitution? Justice Spade tells us we are in violation of the separation of Church and State.” “The mere fact that it is so boldly noted proves that the church is recognized for its importance. Judge Spade has also advised that the clear mission of God’s people cannot be legislated away. Laws of man can not deny God’s love.” “Tiff, people have a right to speak their minds, it’s guaranteed by the First Amendment.” “We have not asked you to arrest their voices. THEY want to legislate away OUR voice. And in the case of Senator Ravens, she wants to do it in the name of tax revenue. Bengt Davies, you are a fool.” Oh, yes . . . and about the mouseThe president had listened privately to the arguments that were about to be debated publicly. He pondered Robin Southampton’s words and his son’s question, “Daddy, what’s wrong with Christmas?”No sooner did he recall his son’s question, did he hear the words, “Daddy, daddy,” called from the halls of the White House. The youngster crashed through the double doors of the meeting room. “Daddy, you won’t believe it. In the park across the street, they have houses made of cardboard boxes,” Ben Jr. told his dad with questioning wonder. “Oh, hi everyone,” the boy said, discovering the others. He waved to Hap, Ruby and Robin Southampton, then continued, “And people sleep in the cardboard houses and they even have a fire started to cook dinner and a nice man gave me a mouse. He said this could be the White House Mouse and the man has a stick to help him walk and a beard and he knew my name.”
“Sorry sir,” Erickson, the president's personal assistant, apologized as he followed the boy into the room. “It’s okay, we’re about to wrap this up for today,” Bengt said. “Daddy, can we keep the mouse? Christmas Magic . . . of course“The highway is completely shut down. There’s been an accident.”“Hold on . . . there’s a building just off the road,” the plow truck driver answered. “Its lights are barely visible. I’ll plow a clean path.” The plow truck did just that. The presidential caravan turned down a driveway that twisted around a dense grove of trees whose leaves had long since fallen. Directly behind the trees stood a red barn. A row of lights mounted high in its peak shined down on a sign. Bengt read it out loud:
Clara's Christmas Castle“It’s not a castle, it’s a barn,” Benny said, somewhat disappointed. Little Ben was with the men now. No time to kid around. He knew when to call a spade a spade, something he learned from his father.“Bengt pulled an extra large stocking cap onto his boy’s head. With a Secret Service agent at their side, they walked toward the store. Candy cane light poles with ribbons of garland led them to the front door. “Now this place looks like the North Pole,” little Ben said, his enthusiasm returning. “Looks like it to me too!” the agent said as a big gust of snow filled wind slowed their way. “Hold onto your hat, son.” A woman waited at the doorway to welcome her guests. Her glowing smile conjured up feelings of comfort: Warm thick quilts, hot soup on a cold day, a mother’s love. Light from the candy cane poles sent a twinkle of life into her eyes. The very next day, after dinner . . .Bengt and Erickson sat in the front row of seats in the multilevel room. In the center of the wall, two sliding walnut panels, hid a six foot tall by nine foot wide arched screen. Terry Zydner gave a voice command. A football game sprang to life. The Detroit Lions, favorite team of the former mayor, played the Baltimore Ravens in three dimensional color. “What in the world is this thing?” Bengt asked. “A 3D, SIS.” “WHAT?” “Three dimensional, satellite imaging system. It’s the latest thing. The world has gone wireless. Everything comes from the cloud. Erickson, you’ve got to bring the old boy up to speed on these things.” “Bengt still listens to Jimmy Buffett on 5-inch CD,” Erickson told the men. They all got a great laugh at the president’s lack of technological know how. “Anyone mind if we look at the new stuff on the SIS?” Jeremy asked. “Fine by me,” Bengt said, moving from the front row to the back and settling into a leather covered recliner. Erickson also took another seat, freeing the front row for the two small children. “A satellite beams down the latest content. It’s all stored on a Chrysler Chip,” Terry explained. “No more phone lines or cables. We even hear an oldies song now and then,” he joked. “In my day, Chrysler made cars,” Bengt said, rolling his eyes in amazement. “In Detroit,” he added. The adults watched as the children played the high tech games. All were taken by surprise when a heavyset fellow with a red suit, snow white beard and a matching red nose leaped from the imaging screen and hailed a hearty, “Ho, ho, ho.” “And what have we here, the president’s family? You must be Bengt Davies Jr.,” Santa Claus said. WHO WILL HELP US FIND THE TRUTH?GrippersBengt checked into a room at Oak Park Lodge, a bed and breakfast establishment on the waterfront, west of town. After getting settled, he drove to The Cafe at Silver Lake to get a bite to eat. He wore blue jeans, a plaid work shirt and a red wool cap. The two week old beard helped his disguise greatly. Seated at the counter of the cafe, a group of old men commiserated over the state of world affairs. Quite a common sight throughout America, citizens discussing their worries over a cup of coffee. Bengt took a seat in a booth behind them and ordered decaf.The cafe smelled of its many years of grill fried bacon, eggs, hash browns and onions. He listened to the men argue. “I tell you one thing,” one of the old codgers said, “the man ain’t the same. Something just ain’t right.” “Hold on, Heinrich. What you going to do about it, go to Washington and tell the Prez you got a plan?” the cook asked. “I tell you one thing Love,” he answered back, looking at the waitress with a wry smile, “the least he could do is let those church bells ring.” The Christmas City. . . East of where the sun rises . . . HOPEFULLY, you held onto your hat, the wind does get quite brisk on this side of the mountain. Your hat will also protect the top of your head from the always falling snow. THERE is a small door at the back of this train station which leads to the town square. A small door. A very small door. A door that can be hard to get through. ONE must leave behind all hatred, greed, deceit, and lies, dishonest intention, bigotry, censorship, disregard for life and thoughts of inhumanity and discrimination to fit through it. SIMPLY discard them from your thoughts. Toss them in the nonrecyclable trash container sitting by the door.
Christmas angelsFantasy or Faith? What world am I in? Bengt asked himself. “A world where you can find the Christmas you seek,” a nasal sounding voice answered. “Who said that?” Bengt looked around, seeing no one. “My name is Michael Juan Chileteze. Chico for short. You sir, may call me Miguel,” the unseen voice sang merrily. “Miguel, huh.” “Right. Sarah Lee the cake lady. And Miguel. The candy man?” Jimmy ChristmasThe room darkened. Bright flames leaped from the fireplace and danced on a cool breeze that blew through the living room. Sarah began,“When we were young, father read to us each night. My favorite Christmas story is The Story of Jimmy Christmas. Listen . . . you will hear the song. Look . . . you will see the light. Believe . . . and you will find the child. “The man, a handsome fellow, carried with him a very rare name. Translated, it meant: Night of Christ. “Deeply troubled because people forgot the real meaning of Christmas, he set out into the world to tell the story of the child Jesus to all who would hear. THE LONG ROAD TO CHRISTMASTruthAnd with that a storm of dark, black life enveloped the travelers. Heinrich Hieronymous and Miguel disappeared from the ominous night.Rain came down upon the president in sheets of cold hard water, rising quickly around his feet. Smoldering bolts of angry lightning poured from the sky. Stunned by the power of the storm, Bengt wandered lost into the night. This was, Bengt knew, the darkness that Judge Spade warned of. The president trudged through the rain and mud. He slid down a small hill, bracing himself against the fall by extending his arms out in front of him. When he landed, mud had covered his front side from head to toes. He lifted his face toward the rain-filled sky and wiped the mud from his eyes. And just as John tells us in the Bible how Jesus helped a blind man see by placing mud on his face and sending him to wash his face in the Pool of Siloam to heal his blindness, Bengt began to see a light come upon him. The blindness he suffered began to heal. What are we blind to? False gods? The needs of mankind? Reality? The truth? What are we blinded by? Excuses? Lies? Greed? Power? Idolatry? Godlessness?
"WHO HERE IS PREPARED TO DECLARE CHRISTMAS?"ALL WHO CHERISH AMERICA AND CHRISTMAS SHOULD READ THIS BOOK! A White House Christmas asks: What drags our social conscience into darkness? Can political WILL change the meaning of Christmas? Are we willing to sacrifice the freedoms guaranteed us by The First Amendment to appease a godless minority? What is the Truth? CAN A SINGLE BRIGHT STAR STILL LEAD US TO OUR PEACE?
T0 PARTNER WELS SHOUT
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