Our Last Christmas Wish

By Michael F. Combs and Michael Combs

An inspiring story of hope and redemption. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you won't want it to end.

Chris’s drive to live life big shines through everything he does, from his annual 4th of July fireworks display, starting at precisely 17:76 o’clock (6:16 p.m. to most of us), to the whimsical pet names he gi

• Language: English
• Publisher: For the Human Spirit
• Release date: Oct 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999675106

Michael F. Combs

Michael F. Combs is an author, composer, fine artist, aviation world-record-setter . . . and a defier of death. In 2003, Michael died and came back-not just once, but twice in three days. Deprived of oxygen too long, Michael lost his memory, but this tragedy came with a silver lining . . . losing his memory was a full "mental reset" that miraculously restored his childlike wonder of life. After nearly two years in recovery, Michael was more determined than ever to live life to the fullest. He went on to defy all odds, becoming a prolific fine artist, a published author with three books, a symphonic composer and even achieved his lifelong dream of becoming a pilot. With his renewed purpose in life, Michael set out to inspire 20 million people with the message that 'It's never, ever too late to follow your dreams'. In 2010, he realized his own dream through his project, The Flight for the Human Spirit, smashing his goals and reaching 30 million people when he flew a REMOS light sport aircraft on a 50,000-mile journey into all 50 states. In the process, he set six world records and earned an esteemed spot in aviation history. Michael lives his life with no regrets and has a deep passion for encouraging others to do the same.

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Corinth, TX 76210

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact For the Human Spirit, Rights Department, 4251 FM 2181, Ste 230-404, Corinth, TX 76210

First For the Human Spiit Publications hardcover edition October 2018

For the Human Spirit Publications is a registered trademark of

For the Human Spirit, LLC.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact

For the Human Spirit, Special Sales at [e-mail].

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Cover designed by Michele Combs

Edited by Donna Magnani

Back cover painting, Our Last Christmas by Michael F. Combs

Illustrations by Michael F. Combs

Manufactured in the United States of America.

Copyright © 2018 Michael F. Combs

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9996751-0-6 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9996751-3-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-9996751-1-3 (ebook)

Also available as an Audiobook

This book is dedicated to those who treasure the beauty of a life lived with passion. It is especially for those who take a bold step each and every day to live with no regrets.

We are one in spirit.

We are one in our love for others.

And, on that day when our own heart stops beating, we will see each other again and embrace for an eternity.

Title Page

Preface

CHAPTER ONE

Chris

CHAPTER TWO

The Day We Didn't Want to End

CHAPTER THREE

No One Was Expecting This

CHAPTER FOUR

Living with Meaning

CHAPTER FIVE

A Christmas Without Regrets

CHAPTER SIX

When Does Life Really Begin?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thankfulness

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Childlike Wonder of Christmas

CHAPTER NINE

Never Ignore Your Heart

CHAPTER TEN

Snow and Pines

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Silent Night

CHAPTER TWELVE

A New Year

About the Author - Michael F. Combs

Also by Michael F. Combs

Books

Ten Days with an Angel

Hope for the Human Spirit

The Flight for the Human Spirit (coming soon)

Music

In the Spirit (Christmas album)

In Search of Peace (album)

Inner Whisper (album)

Meditations

Creativity

Connecting with God

Your Life Matters

Forgiveness

3 1/2 Minutes of Peace

Healthy Lifestyle

Regular, Healthy Heartbeat

Reaching Your Target Weight

You are Effective in All that You Do

Relief of a Common Headache

Restful Sleep

Artwork

Fine art paintings in oil and acrylic

Visit www.FlightHS.com for more information.

Some of the greatest heroes are

those that found a way to laugh

and bring joy to others while

enduring the tempest of adversity.

Christmas. Just the word forever stirs my emotions with a sense of joy, love, family, and peace. It is a holiday that never strays from my heart, not even during the blistering heat of summer. When I began to formulate Our Last Christmas Wish in my mind, my heart continually rose up to offer unusual character traits, favorite holiday traditions, and unique passages that captured the essence of the story. So the natural flow for this book began with listening to what’s most important to me and ended with an immense feeling for the love that these pages contain.

Our Last Christmas Wish is a personal journey, not unlike those most of us take at different points in our lives. We all regret things we wish we would have done, yet so many times during the holidays we find ourselves immersed in the same patterns and traditions year after year. From the first chapter, I found a great love for Chris and identified with him as a father, brother, and dear friend. I love how he put his family above everything, an attribute that kept warming my heart with every new page. The family members are compilations of my own family and friends. We all know a Tammy, a Simone, a Sarah, and an Aaron, but a person like Chris comes into our lives only once in a lifetime. I am eternally grateful to have known him through the pages of this book. My personal goal is to be more like Chris — loving family and friends, appreciative of each new day, finding a way to shine during any adversity that comes his way, and continually seeking ways to live life with no regrets. Ah, how different would the world be if we all adopted those simple philosophies and principles?

This book would absolutely not have been possible without the loving support of my beautiful wife, Michele. Your love toward others is endless, and I thank God you have blessed the world with every beat of your priceless heart. Steve, I love how you have continually encouraged my creative works to flow. Jim, I love how you never want me to be afflicted; I treasure that shine in your eyes. Daniel, I love how you treasure and defend my faith. Mandy, I love how you have become a daughter to me and how you shine. Erica, I love your love for family; you are the mama bear I lean on more than you’ll ever know. Mary Beth, your compassion exceeds all others, and I always look forward to your sincere hugs. Scott, the way you give so selflessly inspires us all. Lori, you encourage me every day, and I am proud to have a special place in my heart reserved only for you. Matt, I love your smile and your ability to be a peacemaker. Elisa, I love your special heart and the unique way you love. Caley, I love your hugs and heartfelt gifts. Izzy, your precious smile is all the world needs to become a better place. Cyndi, I have always treasured your special shine. Mom, I love you and love how our Christmases were always warm and tender; you have given all of us traditions that will endure through generations to come. Boo, my special and precious sister, every day is filled with my love for you. Bob, I love your steady nature; your smile carries me onward. Donna, I thank you for your dedication to this book. You helped my heart shine through these words. To the Lord, I thank You for your inspiration and Your confidence in me. May You see that I serve You with humility and joy. Thank You, Lord, for blessing each person who reads this book. Thank you for touching their hearts and making their lives shine to everyone they meet.

Only spend time with those

who love you for who you are

and encourage you to pursue

your greatest potential.

Ifeel compelled to light a candle while I write this. The table to my right overflows with irregular stacks of papers, so many pages of notes and memories, no surface of the table is left to be seen. A few bundles of letters sent from friends full of heartfelt memories and tales of laughter and joy have slipped to the floor. Nearly a third of the table is covered with photographs of fishing, racing cars, celebrations, and an eternity of family gatherings.

Chris loved to take photos of food. I’m not sure why.

The candle’s glow is comforting and peaceful. A great calmness wraps me like a warm blanket as I sit at my desk. It is within each of us to influence the life of another in a way that would cause their inner self to shine, to glow as this candle does. Daily, the paths of our lives cross those of strangers and friends alike, often mere encounters that leave only traces of memories that fade like a precious drop of the purest water into a river.

Yet I am humbled to think that one man, considered more simple than complex, profoundly touched my life by embracing his own life to its fullest. He loved, spoke, and engaged others from his heart — and considered each day to be a gift from God.

Chris was my wife’s father. In the few months I spent with him, I came to realize that each of us has several parents throughout our lifetimes. Some are our natural parents by default, and then there are those special parents that destiny and need provide to us. These destiny-parents guide us through challenges in life and teach us those lessons we hold most dear. Chris was such a parent to me, my honorary father. Unlike my natural dad, Chris saw value in letting his inner light shine brightly. In doing so, he was a beacon wherever he went and to anyone he met.

It is my hope that we revere the lives of those like Chris who give the most above those who seek only to gain for themselves. I gained so much from him and feel this is my opportunity to give by sharing this account of how one man changed the world. So, it was an easy decision to write this book.

It had grieved me for years to think that his memory might simply fade away from the world he had so influenced, or even from our hearts. Perhaps it is more honest for me to say I feared, above all, feeling his love diminish within my heart. The thought of one day returning to my old life — one filled with endless days and meaningless actions — haunted me, looming like a dark cloud over my shoulder.

I compiled the pages that follow not only from my firsthand experiences, but with the help of the many others who knew Chris with far more depth. Their letters, the memories piled on the table and floor around me, recount his numerous conversations and interactions with us.

Most precious of all is Chris’s own three-year, handwritten journal. I am especially thankful he revealed his deepest thoughts and feelings during the time he faced his greatest challenges. He gave the most when he rightfully should have only been receiving, and he left us with a Christmas tradition that will embrace the depths of every heart for many generations to come.

This is the story of how Our Last Christmas Wish came to be.

Aaron

The first time I met Chris, we were at his annual company picnic in June. He stood at home plate on the baseball diamond, a muscular, imposing bear of a man.

There’s my dad. Tara grabbed my arm and tugged. Come on, he’s at bat! You gotta see him hit.

Slow down. I dug my heels into the ground, stabilizing my stance.

Unswayed by my resistance, she pulled harder, her voice playfully stern. No, no! You have to see this. She accelerated our pace from a brisk walk to a steady jog toward the diamond.

Tara’s father popped a wild swing at a ball that had been deliberately pitched too high. He seemed to use every ounce of his strength to swing the bat — more to ruffle the pitcher’s confidence than to actually hit the ball.

One guy sitting in the dugout called to him, Nail it, Chris. Don’t let it get away!

Someone on the other bench yelled to the pitcher, Don’t let him scare you, Ron. He acts like a crazy man just to intimidate you. Focus and just keep it in the strike zone — he swings and misses all the perfect pitches. His statement must have been true — everyone on both benches roared with laughter.

Tara gripped the fence just to the right of home plate and watched with almost uncontrolled anticipation.

I stood by her side, my sign of support, intrigued by her level of enthusiasm and excitement for her father’s purposeful intimidation strategy.

The pitcher seemed wary as he threw two outside pitches in a row.

Who could blame the pitcher for being fearful? Chris was well over six feet tall and had a menacing aura. His sandy blonde hair looked like it hadn’t been cut in months. It billowed in the breeze, making Chris seem even more like a wild man. Adding to the ensemble, his gray streaks contrasted with his navy blue cap like a white beach illuminated in the moonlight. He sure didn’t look to be in his late fifties. He was bulky but not heavy; even his veins lay solidly on his bulging arm muscles. It was clear that no matter where he was, this guy would intimidate — and he obviously carried that knowledge with an unwavering pride.

Chris raised the bat like a club. He stared into his opponent’s eyes as though the pitcher were a meal to be attacked and devoured.

The pitcher threw a perfect straight fast ball right into the pocket.

Steeerike two! The umpire outstretched his arm and pointed his right thumb and little finger to the sky.

Chris grunted and kicked dirt out behind him, an angry bull ready to charge.

His teammate yelled, Come on, Christopher, you got this one. A corrective Shhh immediately followed, warning not to disrupt Chris’s meditation. At that moment, everyone on his team stood and clutched the chain-link fence in front of the dugout. Each watched in silence, anticipating the events about to unfold.

On that same silent cue, Tara leaned toward me and whispered, Watch. She chewed her lower lip and nudged my arm with her elbow. This is it. I turned my head away from the action and toward her, admiring her auburn hair wafting in the breeze. She was tiny, delicate. The shoulder of her petite body nested perfectly just under my armpit. In profile, her right eye shone like that of a little girl wide-eyed with anticipation, excitement quaking into the depths of her soul — her father bigger than life, a superhero above all others.

Chris tapped his bat on home plate three times, setting his stance for the next pitch. He raised his bat, pointing it to the same spot in the sky the umpire had just indicated.

As though in defiance, the pitcher threw a straight ball into the zone — twice as fast as the last.

Chris answered the challenge. In one fluid movement, he pulled the bat down and back, the momentum carrying his powerful swing forward. He treated me to that familiar and wonderful sound — one I had strived to hear in so many of my own times at bat but never experienced firsthand — the distinctive crack that pierces the air only when the perfect velocities of two opposing forces meet at a spot no larger than a dime and fling a baseball high and far into the air.

Hah! Chris’s deep, loud bellow sounded more Neanderthal than modern man. He twirled the bat one hundred eighty degrees with a confident flourish and handed it to the next player before trotting toward first base.

The ball soared out of sight and dropped beyond the park into a field full of tall wild grass and weeds. Two outfielders threw up their hands, powerless against such a foe. In unison, they turned their gazes toward the playing field. No one would find the lost ball in those weeds.

Chris stomped on home plate and trotted past his cheering teammates and around the dugout. Hey, Baby, he said to Tara with a gravelly voice. He pulled her close with one arm and smacked a big kiss on her cheek. How’s my baby doll?

Fine, Daddy. Tara giggled and stabilized herself by throwing her arms around his neck. She clung on as he clutched her waist and stood upright, lifting her off the ground.

What’d you think of my hit? He turned his cap backward on his head.

Just what I expected, she said. "I knew you were gonna do it, and I knew when you would."

Yeah, everybody knew it this time. Chris set her down. I guess I’m getting too predictable these days. He glanced at me and gripped my hand with a strength I’d never felt before. With hands as large as catcher’s mitts, his power and stature matched the intensity of his swing. I’m Chris. He studied me — that intimidating inspection when a protective father meets his daughter’s new suitor — as though inspecting my soul for sincerity.

Disrupting the moment, Tara pushed him back a step. "Daddy, this is Aaron. He’s my friend and he doesn’t know you yet, so you be nice and play fair."

Still grasping my hand, Chris threw his head back and chuckled at the sky. Play fair? I always play fair.

I shook his hand again. That was one amazing hit, Sir.

Chris released his grip and raised his hand to squeeze my shoulder. Well, I have to hit like that because I can’t run very fast. If they ever figure out my little secret, then the game of baseball would be changed around the world forever.

The friendly melody in his voice charmed me. I couldn’t help but laugh at his spontaneous wit and humor.

That moment summarized the Chris I would come to know — powerful and intimidating, but a true lover of life in every aspect. He deeply loved his family and reserved a special place in his heart for his friends. He was strategic. No matter who you were or what you were doing, he could overtake you with ease, but he was so outgoing and friendly, everyone around him seemed to offer the leeway and permission to do so.

As soon as the game was over, Chris asked Tara to scare him up a couple of big cheeseburgers that only the guy named Skunk at the grill could prepare for him. I’ll join you in a minute, Chris said, and lingered, sharing a few loud laughs and handshakes with members of both teams.

At our picnic bench, Tara’s mother Sarah had laid out a paper napkin, plastic utensils, and a plastic cup of beer marking Chris’s space. She tucked a strand of her long, wavy hair behind her ears and grasped my hand between hers.

Aaron, how nice to see you again, Sarah said, her voice in its usual measured, only slightly melodic tone.

I felt safe when she spoke, confident. Never judgmental, she might discreetly tell me I had ketchup on my cheek or that my socks didn’t match and yet still leave me feeling as though she had just paid me the highest compliment. She commanded respect and inner admiration from the rest of us poor souls who lack any — or at least only a little — self-control.

Sarah’s hair slipped forward from her left ear with a little bounce that flared off the shoulder of her business suit.

I leaned in, close enough for a hint of her strangely intoxicating perfume — the aroma of a rose dipped in chocolate — and grinned back at her. This was the second time we’d met — the first was a few weeks earlier at Tara’s apartment on a day when the two of them had just returned from having lunch together — but already I realized Sarah would always dress as though she were on her way to give a sales presentation or a speech, even when she was attending a company picnic or shopping for groceries.

Sneaking a sideways glance at Tara, I noted her resemblance to her mother. With Sarah, I would lose a guess-her-age contest on any given day — she didn’t look over 35. Mother and daughter looked like sisters, with youthful faces and glowing skin, even though Tara had auburn hair and hazel eyes and Sarah’s hair was light brown with blonde highlights. But Sarah’s eyes were by far her most distinguishing feature. They were a brilliant bright blue, welcoming anyone to stare deeply into her soul, proclaiming she had nothing to hide in any crevice of her life.

From the moment I met Sarah, I wanted to get to know her better, if for nothing else than simply to improve my own manners, as well as perhaps to absorb a heavy dose of her unending peace.

Chris slapped his oversized plate of food onto the table in front of him and swung his leg around the end of the bench. Whew! You can’t pick moments better than this, huh?

Tara popped a potato chip in her mouth and