Monday, February 18, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Last Unicorn
As I sit up in bed, the exhaustion teems over my eyes, but still sleep escapes me. Like the love you can never quite hold on to, so too lately is undisturbed sleep. So numerous are the unconnected thoughts that swarm in my mind that were they colors, the greatest of Klimt's masterpieces would still pale in comparison to the sea of pigment it would produce. But amidst the rushing thoughts and the din I create in my mind, there is one thing that brings me peace - the image of a small porcelain unicorn.
As a child I had such the fascination with the enchantments of childrens' fairytales. I was awed by the simple beauty in a kind woodland maiden aiding a lost creature, or the nobility with which a noble steed would stand by his master. It seemed more than just "too good to be true," for I really believed that kindness and mercy existed in the world. All I knew, is that somewhere there had to be a place where my favorite of playtime fantasies, the Unicorn, existed.
And why shouldn't it? Lonely streets and cold nights numbered many in our silent and fearful world, but I had always felt warm. So many lived without a home, but I had one. And so, I began to love unicorns. And when I moved away from my first best friend, she gave me a small porcelain unicorn to connect us, for always. I remember it well - it had a main of rainbow colors that were far brighter in my mind than they could ever have been represented by cheap paint in the uninspired spectrum it had been painted. It was small enough to fit in my cupped hands, tiny though they were, but big enough to fill my whole heart.
As I grew, many other depictions of this fair creature began to mark the shelves and spaces of my humble bedroom. But no matter how beautiful each new addition was, no matter how intricate the detailing or the awesome talent each new artist had for her art, no image or figure could take the place of that one tiny icon. I remember talking to it when I moved away from all my friends as a little girl. I remember holding it when I wished I could go back to my "old home," where everything was alright. And as the years passed and I perhaps had grown to like my new home, I would still glance at it, or hold it, whenever I was disheartened because it reminded me of the beauty of true friendship. I recall often with a smile, and perhaps even a small tear, the day my prized possession broke in half. My mother understood that I could not just throw the gift away! She knew that none of the others would matter without this one precious pearl. She helped me glue it back together and proudly I continued to display it as if everyone else would also be indifferent to the obvious crack all around my little unicorn's neck.
As I grew, I lost my affinity for child-like knick-knacks in my room, and one by one, my unicorns disappeared. They grew old or shabby or tacky with the changing of the seasons [and my moods] and were gradually thinned out. But not the one - the Last of my Unicorns. I still have that unicorn, wrapped in tissue paper in my hope chest. From time to time I take it out and stroke it and remember...The thing about the unicorn, is that she represented mercy and justice. She protected all the creatures in her forest, and if she left it they would all be in danger. All those who were truly good knew her when they saw her. But then, so did all those who were truly evil. Much like the soldier of Christ, she is easily recognized by both friend and foe.
But what of the Last Unicorn? She would have hardly anyone left to recognize her in eyes of love. What would it be like to be known by your enemies, but by very few friends? What would it be like to stand for good and justice, and still go unrecognized by most?
I saw a man, a man whom I knew to be evil in my recent travels. He is large, he is powerful, and I am not. He owns much, I own little. He commands attention, I am just a small woman. But when he saw me, he stared at me. And when he stared at me, I could tell he knew me, and the one who sent me. God's army is full of Last Unicorns.
THE LAST UNICORN
When the last eagle flies
Over the last crumbling mountain
And the last lion roars
At the last dusty fountain
In the shadow of the forest
Though she may be old and worn
They will stare unbelieving
At the Last Unicorn
When the first breath of winter
Throught the flowers is icing
And you look to the north
And a pale moon is rising
And it seems like all is dying
And would leave the world to mourn
In the distance hear her laughter
It's the Last Unicorn
I'm alive... I'm alive
When the last moon is cast
Over the last star of morning
And the future is past
Without even a last desparate warning
Then look into the sky where through
The cloudes a path is formed
Look and see her how she sparkles
It's the Last Unicorn
I'm alive... I'm alive.
As a child I had such the fascination with the enchantments of childrens' fairytales. I was awed by the simple beauty in a kind woodland maiden aiding a lost creature, or the nobility with which a noble steed would stand by his master. It seemed more than just "too good to be true," for I really believed that kindness and mercy existed in the world. All I knew, is that somewhere there had to be a place where my favorite of playtime fantasies, the Unicorn, existed.
And why shouldn't it? Lonely streets and cold nights numbered many in our silent and fearful world, but I had always felt warm. So many lived without a home, but I had one. And so, I began to love unicorns. And when I moved away from my first best friend, she gave me a small porcelain unicorn to connect us, for always. I remember it well - it had a main of rainbow colors that were far brighter in my mind than they could ever have been represented by cheap paint in the uninspired spectrum it had been painted. It was small enough to fit in my cupped hands, tiny though they were, but big enough to fill my whole heart.
As I grew, many other depictions of this fair creature began to mark the shelves and spaces of my humble bedroom. But no matter how beautiful each new addition was, no matter how intricate the detailing or the awesome talent each new artist had for her art, no image or figure could take the place of that one tiny icon. I remember talking to it when I moved away from all my friends as a little girl. I remember holding it when I wished I could go back to my "old home," where everything was alright. And as the years passed and I perhaps had grown to like my new home, I would still glance at it, or hold it, whenever I was disheartened because it reminded me of the beauty of true friendship. I recall often with a smile, and perhaps even a small tear, the day my prized possession broke in half. My mother understood that I could not just throw the gift away! She knew that none of the others would matter without this one precious pearl. She helped me glue it back together and proudly I continued to display it as if everyone else would also be indifferent to the obvious crack all around my little unicorn's neck.
As I grew, I lost my affinity for child-like knick-knacks in my room, and one by one, my unicorns disappeared. They grew old or shabby or tacky with the changing of the seasons [and my moods] and were gradually thinned out. But not the one - the Last of my Unicorns. I still have that unicorn, wrapped in tissue paper in my hope chest. From time to time I take it out and stroke it and remember...The thing about the unicorn, is that she represented mercy and justice. She protected all the creatures in her forest, and if she left it they would all be in danger. All those who were truly good knew her when they saw her. But then, so did all those who were truly evil. Much like the soldier of Christ, she is easily recognized by both friend and foe.
But what of the Last Unicorn? She would have hardly anyone left to recognize her in eyes of love. What would it be like to be known by your enemies, but by very few friends? What would it be like to stand for good and justice, and still go unrecognized by most?
I saw a man, a man whom I knew to be evil in my recent travels. He is large, he is powerful, and I am not. He owns much, I own little. He commands attention, I am just a small woman. But when he saw me, he stared at me. And when he stared at me, I could tell he knew me, and the one who sent me. God's army is full of Last Unicorns.
THE LAST UNICORN
When the last eagle flies
Over the last crumbling mountain
And the last lion roars
At the last dusty fountain
In the shadow of the forest
Though she may be old and worn
They will stare unbelieving
At the Last Unicorn
When the first breath of winter
Throught the flowers is icing
And you look to the north
And a pale moon is rising
And it seems like all is dying
And would leave the world to mourn
In the distance hear her laughter
It's the Last Unicorn
I'm alive... I'm alive
When the last moon is cast
Over the last star of morning
And the future is past
Without even a last desparate warning
Then look into the sky where through
The cloudes a path is formed
Look and see her how she sparkles
It's the Last Unicorn
I'm alive... I'm alive.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
What My Life is For...
FROM GARY HAUGEN'S THE GOOD NEWS ABOUT INJUSTICE
Anyone who has spent time with infants knows what amazing machines of tireless learning and curiosity they are. We can also see that during an early stage of development, an infant has no capacity to maintain interest in anything that is not immediately before its eyes. When a brightly colored ball or rattle is held up before babies, their attention is riveted on it. Their eyes seize on the new item with urgent curiosity. They display an almost compulsive urge to touch it, feel it, embrace it. But move the toy out of sight and infants lose all interest. They do not look for it. They do not try to bring back the hand that took the toy away. The do not express any disappointment that the toy is no longer there to explore. As far as child psychologists are able to discern, to babies the toy ceases to exist the very moment it is removed from sight. They have not yet developed the mental capacity for object permanence, that is, the understanding that objects exist even when they are out of sight. It is truly a case of out of sight, out of mind.
I must confess that this is very much the way my mind often works when it comes to maintaining an interest in the reality of injustice in our world. I read about innocent people being slaughtered in Rwanda on page A1 of the Washington Post, and I am appalled. But my mind moves onto other things with amazing speed and thoroughness when I read on page D15 that the movie [I was] hoping to see actually starts a half hour earlier than [I] thought. When I read about the way abandoned orphan girls in China are tied to their bed rails and left to starve and die in state-run orphanages, I am very nearly moved to tears. But a year later when a conversation with a friend reminds me of the article, I realize that I have not shed a tear, uttered a prayer or even given it thought since the day I put down that newspaper article. I can move from torture on the evening news to touchdowns on Monday Night Football with almost the same mental and emotional ease as my channel changer.
Of course, much of this is perfectly natural and probably healthy. I do not aspire to be someone with a psychotic fixation on evil and human suffering. It s a poorly lived life that cannot experience joy, peace, laughter, beauty, and mirth despite all the oppression and injustice that mars the goodness of God's creation. If the evening news or the morning paper keeps me from [going] to a movie, from laughing at [] stories or from enjoying the exhilaration of a bike ride on a crisp fall day, then something is surely out of balance.
But we can grow into a more mature way of engaging the reality of injustice in our world if we take just two steps: (1) We can develop a compassion for the people suffering injustice by looking through the eyes of missionaries and other Christian workers who see this suffering firsthand, and (2) we can prepare ourselves to help people by looking at them through God's eyes, that is, through his Word.
Perhaps a next step in our development as children of God is a capacity for compassion permanence - a courageous and generous capacity to remember the needs of an unjust world even they are out of our immediate sight. Not content with the infant's out-of-sight, out-of-mind approach, God calls us to a grown-up capacity to engage a world of oppression with our heart and mind, even though (thankfully) it is not always before our eyes.
Anyone who has spent time with infants knows what amazing machines of tireless learning and curiosity they are. We can also see that during an early stage of development, an infant has no capacity to maintain interest in anything that is not immediately before its eyes. When a brightly colored ball or rattle is held up before babies, their attention is riveted on it. Their eyes seize on the new item with urgent curiosity. They display an almost compulsive urge to touch it, feel it, embrace it. But move the toy out of sight and infants lose all interest. They do not look for it. They do not try to bring back the hand that took the toy away. The do not express any disappointment that the toy is no longer there to explore. As far as child psychologists are able to discern, to babies the toy ceases to exist the very moment it is removed from sight. They have not yet developed the mental capacity for object permanence, that is, the understanding that objects exist even when they are out of sight. It is truly a case of out of sight, out of mind.
I must confess that this is very much the way my mind often works when it comes to maintaining an interest in the reality of injustice in our world. I read about innocent people being slaughtered in Rwanda on page A1 of the Washington Post, and I am appalled. But my mind moves onto other things with amazing speed and thoroughness when I read on page D15 that the movie [I was] hoping to see actually starts a half hour earlier than [I] thought. When I read about the way abandoned orphan girls in China are tied to their bed rails and left to starve and die in state-run orphanages, I am very nearly moved to tears. But a year later when a conversation with a friend reminds me of the article, I realize that I have not shed a tear, uttered a prayer or even given it thought since the day I put down that newspaper article. I can move from torture on the evening news to touchdowns on Monday Night Football with almost the same mental and emotional ease as my channel changer.
Of course, much of this is perfectly natural and probably healthy. I do not aspire to be someone with a psychotic fixation on evil and human suffering. It s a poorly lived life that cannot experience joy, peace, laughter, beauty, and mirth despite all the oppression and injustice that mars the goodness of God's creation. If the evening news or the morning paper keeps me from [going] to a movie, from laughing at [] stories or from enjoying the exhilaration of a bike ride on a crisp fall day, then something is surely out of balance.
But we can grow into a more mature way of engaging the reality of injustice in our world if we take just two steps: (1) We can develop a compassion for the people suffering injustice by looking through the eyes of missionaries and other Christian workers who see this suffering firsthand, and (2) we can prepare ourselves to help people by looking at them through God's eyes, that is, through his Word.
Perhaps a next step in our development as children of God is a capacity for compassion permanence - a courageous and generous capacity to remember the needs of an unjust world even they are out of our immediate sight. Not content with the infant's out-of-sight, out-of-mind approach, God calls us to a grown-up capacity to engage a world of oppression with our heart and mind, even though (thankfully) it is not always before our eyes.
Friday, January 25, 2008
The One
This past Winter I had the opportunity to meet a number of interesting and beautiful people in the country of Uganda. But among all of the new people I met, the one who left the largest impact upon me, was a young girl I interviewed in a dirty and run-down Orphanage just outside of Kampala. Let's call her Mikay.
Mikay, like many other young children in Uganda, has fallen victim to the atrocities of the War in the North. While peacefully living a simple life in her village with her family, Joseph Kony's rebel army quickly thrust her into a nightmare. They burned her village down and she and her family were forced to flee into the bush for safety. They lived there in abject fear for over a year, terrified that each new day would bring with it the realization that the rebel army knew where they were. And one day, I'm sad to say, she met that fear face to face. The rebels found her and her family, killed one of her parents, and took her away. She doesn't know where her other parent is or her siblings. She served as a sex slave and domestic for Kony's militants for over 2 years, until she escaped one day amid a skirmish with the UPDF.
Returning to the Bush for safety, Mikay ran into a childhood friend who offered her a chance for hope: "Let's go to Kampala and get jobs and an apartment together." Overjoyed at a chance for a new life, Mikay gladly assented. But upon her arrival in Kampala, she was sold by her "friend" into prostitution. This beautiful young girl was a child prostitute in the streets of Kampala for what seemed like forever. Her escape from this new nightmare was being sold into domestic servitude. After being moved from house to house in the Kampala underground slave trade, she finally lifted her cries up to God: "Lord," she cried, "I have never stolen from anyone, lied to anyone, or cheated anyone because I know that it's wrong. But I'm starving and alone and tired and if you can't help me, I would rather die." She was soon kicked out of the house she was working in, and found herself once again on the streets.
The One
By Sharon Cohn - Vice President, Interventions
Rather unoriginally, I suppose, Mother Teresa is one of my heroes. She exemplified better than perhaps anyone, the significance of the one. When a priest was trying to discourage her from a dangerous mission, she replied, “It is not an idea, Father, I think it is our duty…If I didn’t do it that time [pick up the one] I would never had picked up the 42,000 in Calcutta.”
I think back to this sometimes when I am asked how I keep from being overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the injustices we labor to combat. Or when I am challenged with grim statistics and asked, “So you have rescued hundreds of bonded slaves in the past few months. There are tens of millions still enslaved. What is the point?”
The point is the one. Let me tell you about her. I met Simla* more than two years ago in May 2002 when I was assisting with my first brothel raid with IJM. Based on our information the police rescued six children and arrested one offender. Simla was the most reserved of the girls rescued that day. Her eyes darted with skepticism and distrust and she was loath to smile when I met her.
With good reason. Simla had been promised a job in a restaurant two-and-a-half years earlier, and had instead been taken to the brothel where she had been subjected to exploitation day and night without end. When our investigators first met her, she begged them to give a good report to the brothel keeper because she had been beaten severely the last time a customer had complained.
Simla and I walked back into the brothel together one hot day when the police took us to retrieve her few possessions. It was a painful glimpse into the life of a teenager enslaved, the bizarre juxtaposition of childhood and brutality, posters of teenage idols and bank ledgers of customers’ payments.
Why this one?
IJM has assisted in rescuing hundreds of girls from commercial sexual exploitation since Simla, some of whom I have come to know. So why do I want to write you about her? Simla’s story is not unique, except that, of course, it is. It is unique to Simla. She has plans and dreams just like you and I. Men and women conspired to crush her uniqueness and her value, but we are committed to seeking justice for her.
And so, too, for one little girl in a rock quarry in South Asia. Kani* wasn’t among the others when IJM went with the authorities to raid the quarry. As a matter of fact, our investigators did not know about her family and had not documented this case of slavery during the investigation. At the end of a successful raid, IJM staff members were leaving the quarry where 76 people had been freed from slavery. A desperate woman, Kani’s mother, began banging on the door of one of the cars in the caravan. She explained that her family had not been present for the investigation, but they wanted to be taken out of the quarry. She explained that Kani had been injured while working at the quarry. After inadequate medical care and a raging infection, her middle finger had been amputated just that day to save the rest of her arm.
IJM stopped the caravan and with the help of local police officers found the husband and the eight family members, including the young girl. The family had been working as bonded slaves in the quarry for three years trying to pay off a $400 US debt. The pleas of a desperate mother were heard and her family was freed. IJM staff members have been working with Kani to help prepare her for a more promising future. She’s now back in her native village with her family, attending school and getting the education she deserves.
To Simla and to Kani it mattered that IJM brought the hand of justice to them despite the massiveness of the problem of oppression. Not only is each victim the one, but we likewise can be the one. The one called, the one listening, the one willing, the one sent to bring freedom and justice to innocent ones who are suffering.
Being overwhelmed by the numbers is an indulgence the oppressed can ill afford. Thank you, dear friend, for your willingness to stand with us for each child, each woman and each man who longs for the chance of a new life of hope.
Mikay, like many other young children in Uganda, has fallen victim to the atrocities of the War in the North. While peacefully living a simple life in her village with her family, Joseph Kony's rebel army quickly thrust her into a nightmare. They burned her village down and she and her family were forced to flee into the bush for safety. They lived there in abject fear for over a year, terrified that each new day would bring with it the realization that the rebel army knew where they were. And one day, I'm sad to say, she met that fear face to face. The rebels found her and her family, killed one of her parents, and took her away. She doesn't know where her other parent is or her siblings. She served as a sex slave and domestic for Kony's militants for over 2 years, until she escaped one day amid a skirmish with the UPDF.
Returning to the Bush for safety, Mikay ran into a childhood friend who offered her a chance for hope: "Let's go to Kampala and get jobs and an apartment together." Overjoyed at a chance for a new life, Mikay gladly assented. But upon her arrival in Kampala, she was sold by her "friend" into prostitution. This beautiful young girl was a child prostitute in the streets of Kampala for what seemed like forever. Her escape from this new nightmare was being sold into domestic servitude. After being moved from house to house in the Kampala underground slave trade, she finally lifted her cries up to God: "Lord," she cried, "I have never stolen from anyone, lied to anyone, or cheated anyone because I know that it's wrong. But I'm starving and alone and tired and if you can't help me, I would rather die." She was soon kicked out of the house she was working in, and found herself once again on the streets.
The One
By Sharon Cohn - Vice President, Interventions
Rather unoriginally, I suppose, Mother Teresa is one of my heroes. She exemplified better than perhaps anyone, the significance of the one. When a priest was trying to discourage her from a dangerous mission, she replied, “It is not an idea, Father, I think it is our duty…If I didn’t do it that time [pick up the one] I would never had picked up the 42,000 in Calcutta.”
I think back to this sometimes when I am asked how I keep from being overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the injustices we labor to combat. Or when I am challenged with grim statistics and asked, “So you have rescued hundreds of bonded slaves in the past few months. There are tens of millions still enslaved. What is the point?”
The point is the one. Let me tell you about her. I met Simla* more than two years ago in May 2002 when I was assisting with my first brothel raid with IJM. Based on our information the police rescued six children and arrested one offender. Simla was the most reserved of the girls rescued that day. Her eyes darted with skepticism and distrust and she was loath to smile when I met her.
With good reason. Simla had been promised a job in a restaurant two-and-a-half years earlier, and had instead been taken to the brothel where she had been subjected to exploitation day and night without end. When our investigators first met her, she begged them to give a good report to the brothel keeper because she had been beaten severely the last time a customer had complained.
Simla and I walked back into the brothel together one hot day when the police took us to retrieve her few possessions. It was a painful glimpse into the life of a teenager enslaved, the bizarre juxtaposition of childhood and brutality, posters of teenage idols and bank ledgers of customers’ payments.
Why this one?
IJM has assisted in rescuing hundreds of girls from commercial sexual exploitation since Simla, some of whom I have come to know. So why do I want to write you about her? Simla’s story is not unique, except that, of course, it is. It is unique to Simla. She has plans and dreams just like you and I. Men and women conspired to crush her uniqueness and her value, but we are committed to seeking justice for her.
And so, too, for one little girl in a rock quarry in South Asia. Kani* wasn’t among the others when IJM went with the authorities to raid the quarry. As a matter of fact, our investigators did not know about her family and had not documented this case of slavery during the investigation. At the end of a successful raid, IJM staff members were leaving the quarry where 76 people had been freed from slavery. A desperate woman, Kani’s mother, began banging on the door of one of the cars in the caravan. She explained that her family had not been present for the investigation, but they wanted to be taken out of the quarry. She explained that Kani had been injured while working at the quarry. After inadequate medical care and a raging infection, her middle finger had been amputated just that day to save the rest of her arm.
IJM stopped the caravan and with the help of local police officers found the husband and the eight family members, including the young girl. The family had been working as bonded slaves in the quarry for three years trying to pay off a $400 US debt. The pleas of a desperate mother were heard and her family was freed. IJM staff members have been working with Kani to help prepare her for a more promising future. She’s now back in her native village with her family, attending school and getting the education she deserves.
To Simla and to Kani it mattered that IJM brought the hand of justice to them despite the massiveness of the problem of oppression. Not only is each victim the one, but we likewise can be the one. The one called, the one listening, the one willing, the one sent to bring freedom and justice to innocent ones who are suffering.
Being overwhelmed by the numbers is an indulgence the oppressed can ill afford. Thank you, dear friend, for your willingness to stand with us for each child, each woman and each man who longs for the chance of a new life of hope.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
For a Kiss
conjuring up images of the past I yearn for
eyes of swirling life - hazelnut cosmos
look deeply into my soul each time I sleep
it is the future I turned my back on
fear and doubt draw their swords
into battle they go - love their casualty
hardened hearts still cry tears
weeping in silence behind frivolity's curtain
at a porcelain gallop you come - always
gentility arming your chivalry and passion
battle lines drawn you reach for your sword
victory is most ultimately thine my sweet
oh how i love thee
eyes of swirling life - hazelnut cosmos
look deeply into my soul each time I sleep
it is the future I turned my back on
fear and doubt draw their swords
into battle they go - love their casualty
hardened hearts still cry tears
weeping in silence behind frivolity's curtain
at a porcelain gallop you come - always
gentility arming your chivalry and passion
battle lines drawn you reach for your sword
victory is most ultimately thine my sweet
oh how i love thee
Friday, November 30, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Night Before Christmas - For Lawyers
Whereas, on or about the night prior to Christmas, there did occur at a certain improved piece of real property (hereinafter "the House") a general lack of stirring by all creatures therein, including, but not limited to, a mouse.
Claus did not speak, but immediately began to fill the stocking of the minor children, which hung adjacent to the chimney, with toys and other small gifts. (Said items did not, however, constitute "gifts" to said minor pursuant to the applicable provisions of the U.S. Tax Code.) Upon completion of such task, Claus touched the side of his nose and flew, rose and/or ascended up the chimney of the House to the roof where the Vehicle and Deer waited and/or served as "lookouts." Claus immediately departed for an unknown destination.
A variety of foot apparel, e.g. stocking, socks, etc., had been affixed by and around the chimney in said House in the hope and/or belief that St. Nick a.k.a. St. Nicholas a.k.a. Santa Claus (hereinafter "Claus") would arrive at sometime thereafter. The minor residents, i.e. the children, of the aforementioned House were located in their individual beds and were engaged in nocturnal hallucinations, i.e. dreams, wherein vision of confectionery treats, including, but not limited to, candies, nuts and/or sugar plums, did dance, cavort and otherwise appear in said dreams.
Whereupon the party of the first part (sometimes hereinafter referred to as "I"), being the joint owner in fee simple of the House with the party of the second part (hereinafter "Mamma"), and said Mamma had retired for a sustained period of sleep. (At such time, the parties were clad in various forms of headgear, e.g. kerchief and cap.)
Suddenly, and without prior notice or warning, there did occur upon the unimproved real property adjacent and appurtenant to said House, i.e. the lawn, a certain disruption of unknown nature, cause and/or circumstance. The party of the first part did immediately rush to a window in the House to investigate the cause of such disturbance. At that time, the party of the first part did observe, with some degree of wonder and/or disbelief, a miniature sleigh (hereinafter "the Vehicle") being pulled and/or drawn very rapidly through the air by approximately eight (8) reindeer. The driver of the Vehicle appeared to be and in fact was, the previously referenced Claus. Said Claus was providing specific direction, instruction and guidance to the approximately eight (8) reindeer and specifically identified the animal co-conspirators by name: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen (hereinafter "the Deer"). (Upon information and belief, it is further asserted that an additional co-conspirator named "Rudolph" may have been involved.)
The party of the first part witnessed Claus, the Vehicle and the Deer intentionally and willfully trespass upon the roofs of several residences located adjacent to and in the vicinity of the House, and noted that the Vehicle was heavily laden with packages, toys and other items of unknown origin or nature. Suddenly, without prior invitation or permission, either express or implied, the Vehicle arrived at the House, and Claus entered said House via the chimney. Said Claus was clad in a red fur suit, which was partially covered with residue from the chimney, and he carried a large sack containing a portion of the aforementioned packages, toys and other unknown items. He was smoking what appeared to be tobacco in a small pipe in blatant violation of local ordinances and health regulations.
Claus did not speak, but immediately began to fill the stocking of the minor children, which hung adjacent to the chimney, with toys and other small gifts. (Said items did not, however, constitute "gifts" to said minor pursuant to the applicable provisions of the U.S. Tax Code.) Upon completion of such task, Claus touched the side of his nose and flew, rose and/or ascended up the chimney of the House to the roof where the Vehicle and Deer waited and/or served as "lookouts." Claus immediately departed for an unknown destination.
However, prior to the departure of the Vehicle, Deer and Claus from said House, the party of the first part did hear Claus state and/or exclaim: "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!" Or words to that effect.
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