A Cop's Story at Christmas-
The Escort
It was many decades ago when I first joined the police department, I
knew there would be special occasions my family would spend without me.
Knowing that fact didn't make the task any easier. The celebrations I
missed that first year depressed me and sometimes made me feel bitter.
Working on Christmas Eve was always the worst.
On Christmas Eve years ago, I learned that blessings can come disguised
as misfortune, and honor is more than just a word.
I was riding one man patrol on the 4-12 shift. The night was cold.
Everywhere I looked I saw reminders of the holiday: families packing
their cars with presents, beautifully decorated trees in living room
windows and roofs adorned with tiny sleighs. It all added to my holiday
funk.
The evening had been relatively quiet; there were calls for barking
dogs and a residential false burglar alarm. There was nothing to make
the night pass any quicker. I thought of my own family and sunk further
into depression.
Shortly after 2200 hours I got a radio call to the home of an elderly,
terminally ill man. I parked my patrol car in front of a simple Cape
Cod style home. First aid kit in hand, I walked up the short path to
the front door. As I approached, a woman who seemed to be about 80
years old opened the door. "He's in here", she said. She led me to a back bedroom.
We passed through a living room that was furnished in a style I had
come to associate with older people. The sofa has an afghan blanket
draped over its back and a dark, solid Queen Anne chair say next to an
unused fireplace. The mantle was cluttered with an eccentric mix of
several photos, some ceramic figurines and an antique clock. A floor
lamp provided soft lighting.
We entered a small bedroom where a frail looking man lay in bed with a
blanket pulled up to his chin. He wore a blank stare on his ashen,
skeletal face. His breathing was shallow and labored. He was barely
alive. The trappings of illness were all around his bed. The
nightstand was littered with a large number of pill vials. An oxygen
bottle stood nearby. Its plastic hose, with face mask attached, rested
on the blanket.
I asked the old woman why she called the police. She simply shrugged
and nodded sadly toward her husband, indicating it was at his request.
I looked at him and he stared intently into my eyes. He seemed relaxed
now. I didn't understand the suddenly calm expression on his face.
I looked around the room again. A dresser stood along the wall to the
left of the bed. On it was the usual memorabilia: ornate perfume
bottles, white porcelain pin case, and a wooden jewelry case. There
were also several photos in simple frames. One caught my eye and I
walked closer to the dresser for a closer look. The picture showed a
young man dressed in a police uniform. It was unmistakably a photo of
the man in bed. I knew then why I was there.
I looked at the old man and he motioned with his hand toward the side of
the bed. I walked over and stood beside him. He slid a thin arm from
under the covers and took my hand. Soon, I felt his hand go limp, I
looked at his face. There was no fear there. I saw only peace.
He knew he was dying; he was aware his time was very near. I knew now
that he was afraid of what was about to happen and he wanted the
protection of a fellow cop on his journey. A caring God had seen to it
that his child would be delivered safely to Him. The honor of being his
escort fell to me.
When I left at the end of my tour that night, the temperature seemed to
have risen considerably, and all the holiday displays I saw on the way
home made me smile.
I no longer feel sorry for myself for having to work on Christmas Eve.
I have chosen an honorable profession. I pray that when it's my turn to
leave this world there will be a cop there to hold my hand and remind me
that I have nothing to fear.
God bless you all.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God"
The Escort
It was many decades ago when I first joined the police department, I
knew there would be special occasions my family would spend without me.
Knowing that fact didn't make the task any easier. The celebrations I
missed that first year depressed me and sometimes made me feel bitter.
Working on Christmas Eve was always the worst.
On Christmas Eve years ago, I learned that blessings can come disguised
as misfortune, and honor is more than just a word.
I was riding one man patrol on the 4-12 shift. The night was cold.
Everywhere I looked I saw reminders of the holiday: families packing
their cars with presents, beautifully decorated trees in living room
windows and roofs adorned with tiny sleighs. It all added to my holiday
funk.
The evening had been relatively quiet; there were calls for barking
dogs and a residential false burglar alarm. There was nothing to make
the night pass any quicker. I thought of my own family and sunk further
into depression.
Shortly after 2200 hours I got a radio call to the home of an elderly,
terminally ill man. I parked my patrol car in front of a simple Cape
Cod style home. First aid kit in hand, I walked up the short path to
the front door. As I approached, a woman who seemed to be about 80
years old opened the door. "He's in here", she said. She led me to a back bedroom.
We passed through a living room that was furnished in a style I had
come to associate with older people. The sofa has an afghan blanket
draped over its back and a dark, solid Queen Anne chair say next to an
unused fireplace. The mantle was cluttered with an eccentric mix of
several photos, some ceramic figurines and an antique clock. A floor
lamp provided soft lighting.
We entered a small bedroom where a frail looking man lay in bed with a
blanket pulled up to his chin. He wore a blank stare on his ashen,
skeletal face. His breathing was shallow and labored. He was barely
alive. The trappings of illness were all around his bed. The
nightstand was littered with a large number of pill vials. An oxygen
bottle stood nearby. Its plastic hose, with face mask attached, rested
on the blanket.
I asked the old woman why she called the police. She simply shrugged
and nodded sadly toward her husband, indicating it was at his request.
I looked at him and he stared intently into my eyes. He seemed relaxed
now. I didn't understand the suddenly calm expression on his face.
I looked around the room again. A dresser stood along the wall to the
left of the bed. On it was the usual memorabilia: ornate perfume
bottles, white porcelain pin case, and a wooden jewelry case. There
were also several photos in simple frames. One caught my eye and I
walked closer to the dresser for a closer look. The picture showed a
young man dressed in a police uniform. It was unmistakably a photo of
the man in bed. I knew then why I was there.
I looked at the old man and he motioned with his hand toward the side of
the bed. I walked over and stood beside him. He slid a thin arm from
under the covers and took my hand. Soon, I felt his hand go limp, I
looked at his face. There was no fear there. I saw only peace.
He knew he was dying; he was aware his time was very near. I knew now
that he was afraid of what was about to happen and he wanted the
protection of a fellow cop on his journey. A caring God had seen to it
that his child would be delivered safely to Him. The honor of being his
escort fell to me.
When I left at the end of my tour that night, the temperature seemed to
have risen considerably, and all the holiday displays I saw on the way
home made me smile.
I no longer feel sorry for myself for having to work on Christmas Eve.
I have chosen an honorable profession. I pray that when it's my turn to
leave this world there will be a cop there to hold my hand and remind me
that I have nothing to fear.
God bless you all.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God"
