Free The Christmas Sweater by Glenn Beck

looked up just in time to
     see her discreetly wipe a tear from her eye. When she spoke again, her tone was much
     softer.
    “I know that things have been hard since Dad died. But it’s been hard for both of
     us. At some point you have to realize that everything happens for a reason. It is
     up to you to find that reason, learn from it, and let it take you to the place you’re
     supposed to be—not just where you have ended up.” Mom spoke slowly. “You can either
     complain about how hard your life is, or you can realize that only you are responsible
     for it. You get to choose: Am I going tobe happy or miserable? And nothing —not a sweater, and certainly not a bike—will ever change that.”
    Something deep inside of me wanted to apologize and beg for my mother’s forgiveness.
     Instead, I just sat there.
    The day’s steady rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the mist kicked up by the tires
     made it hard to see anything out the side window. Looking straight ahead was out of
     the question—Mom’s eyes might be waiting in the mirror for another lecture—so I rolled
     my window down halfway and prayed we would just get home fast.
    After a few minutes Grandma’s church came into view through the mist. I say “Grandma’s
     church” because she was, by far, the most religious person in the family. Mom was
     in second place, but there was really no contest after that; Grandpa and I were tied
     for last.
    When I was a little kid, I used to get dressed up and go to church with Mom every
     Sunday. I hated it. She made me sit up straight and “listen” for a whole hour. Dad
     never came with us; he usually just stayed at home or went golfing instead. He used
     to say he was a big believer in all of the Ten Commandments, especially the one that mandated “rest on the Sabbath.” Mom often reminded him that golf was probably not what
     the Lord had in mind, but Dad would just laugh and say, “God doesn’t take attendance
     on Sunday.” A part of me thought he was just saying that to make himself feel better
     about not going with us, but when I saw the way Dad treated others and cared for those
     in need, I understood what he really meant: God takes attendance every day.
    During the summer, when I’d stay over at my grandparents’ house a lot, we would go
     to Grandma’s church every Sunday. It was the only time I ever actually looked forward
     to going, because Grandpa and I used to make up games to pass the time. We came up
     with a whole bunch of them over the years, but my favorite was a game we called Stand
     for God. (Grandpa originally tried to call it Jump for Jesus, but even he knew that
     was over the line, so we settled on the safer name.)
    The rules were simple: Each time the service called for the congregation to sit, stand,
     kneel, or sing, you had to be first. It probably sounds easy, but to win you had to
     guess really early. If you guessed wrong, you not only lost butyou also looked like an idiot—and got a full dose of Grandma’s evil eye. Now that
     I think back, it’s pretty obvious where Mom learned her uncanny ability to lecture
     with her eyes.
    The more we played Stand for God, the better Grandpa and I got at it, and the earlier
     you had to guess if you wanted to win. One time Grandpa started singing “On Eagle’s
     Wings” so early that Father Sullivan actually stopped reading the scripture and glared
     at him from the pulpit. Not coincidentally, that was also the last time Grandpa and
     I ever got to sit next to each other.
    After Grandma started sitting between us, the masses seemed to take forever, but,
     over time, something strange began to happen: I started to actually enjoy them. I
     think part of it was that I felt closest to Dad when I was there. It’s hard to describe,
     but there were times when I’d feel him sitting right there next to me. Sometimes I
     even heard his horrible voice singing right along with mine.
    As I looked out the back windshield, Grandma’s