“Merry Christmas, Mary,” Keri said.
“God bless you, child,” she said back lovingly. “Take good care of your little family.” She looked at Keri thoughtfully. “You’ll do fine.”
Mary closed her eyes and lay back into her pillow. Keri’s eyes watered as she lifted Jenna and carried her out of the room. I stayed behind, caressing the smooth, warm hands for the last time.
“Merry Christmas, Mary,” I whispered. “We’ll miss you.”
Mary’s eyes opened again. She leaned forward toward the foot of the bed. A smile spread across her face as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She said something too soft to hear. I leaned my ear near to her mouth. “My angel,” she repeated. I followed her gaze to the foot of the bed but saw only the green cotton hospital gown draped over the end rail. I looked back at her in sadness. She was leaving us, I thought. It was then that I heard the music. The gentle, sweet tines of the Christmas Box. Softly at first, then as if to fill the entire room, strong and bright and joyful. I looked again at the weary face. It was filled with peace. Her deep eyes sparkled and the smile grew. Then I understood and I too smiled. Andrea had come.
By the time I reached home it was well past midnight. Mary’s brother had arrived from London and in deference I had left them alone to share the last few minutes together. Jenna had been put to bed and Keri, not knowing when I would return, had sadly laid the Christmas packages under the tree. I sat down in the rocker in front of the illuminated Christmas tree and lay my head in my hands. Somewhere between the angel and Mary’s house I had figured it out. The first gift of Christmas. It just came. It came to my heart. The first gift of Christmas was love. A parent’s love. Pure as the first snows of Christmas. For God so loved His children that He sent His son, that we might someday return to Him. I understood what Mary had been trying to teach me. I stood up and walked up the stairs where my little girl lay sleeping. I picked up her warm little body and, cradling her tightly in my arms, brought her back down to the den. My tears fell on her hair. My little girl. My precious little girl. How foolish I’d been to let her childhood, her fleeting, precious childhood slip away. Forever. In my young mind everything was so permanent and lasting. My little girl would be my little girl forever. But time would prove me wrong. Someday she’d grow up. Someday she’d be gone and I would be left with the memory of giggles and secrets I might have known.
Jenna took a deep breath and snuggled close for warmth. I held her little body tightly against mine. This was what it meant to be a father, to know that one day I would turn around and my little girl would be gone. To look upon the sleeping little girl and to die a little inside. For one precious, fleeting moment, to hold the child in my arms, and would that time stood still.
But none of that mattered now. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight Jenna was mine and no one could take this Christmas Eve away from me but me. How wise Mary had been. Mary, who knew the pain of a father sending his son away on that first Christmas morn, knowing full well the path that lay ahead. Mary understood Christmas. The tears in the Bible showed that. Mary loved with the pure, sweet love of a mother, a love so deep that it becomes the allegory for all other love. She knew that in my quest for success in this world I had been trading diamonds for stones. She knew, and she loved me enough to help me see. Mary had given me the greatest gift of Christmas. My daughter’s childhood.
T WAS AROUND nine o’clock Christmas morning that Mary’s brother called to tell us Mary was gone. The call found Keri and me holding each other on the couch in Mary’s den, surrounded by the aftermath of Christmas giving. I lifted the Christmas Box down from the fireplace mantel where we had placed it in memory of Mary. I set the box near the hearth, then one by one, let the flames devour the letters as Keri watched in silent understanding. The Christmas Box was at last empty.
Mary was buried next to the small angel statue that she had so faithfully visited. In the course of our assisting in the burial arrangements, the funeral home had asked Keri what they should engrave on the headstone. “A loving mother,” she said simply.
Every Christmas Eve, for as long as we lived in the valley, we returned to the grave and laid a white lily beneath the feet of the angel with outspread wings. Keri and I lived in the mansion for the space of several more Christmas seasons until the family decided to sell the estate, and we purchased a home in the southern end of the valley. In the years since, our family grew from three to six, and though the demands of providing for such a family oftentimes seemed endless, I never forgot the lessons I learned that Christmas with Mary.
And to this day, the Christmas Box remains a source of great joy to me. For though it appears empty, to me it contains all that Christmas is made of, the root of all wonder in a child’s eyes, and the source of the magic of Christmases for centuries to come. More than giving, more than believing, for these are mere manifestations of the contents of that box. The sacred contents of that box are a parent’s pure love for a child, manifested first by a Father’s love for all His children, as He sacrificed that which He loved most and sent His son to earth on that Christmas day so long ago. And as long as the earth lives, and longer, that message will never die. Though the cold winds of life may put a frost on the heart of many, that message alone will shelter the heart from life’s storms. And for me, as long as I live, the magic inside the Christmas Box will never die.
It never will.
In Memoriam
The Angel statue, of which the author makes mention, was destroyed in 1984 by the great floods that came through the Salt Lake Valley.
A new Angel monument, in remembrance of all those who have lost children, was erected in the same Salt Lake City cemetery and dedicated December 6, 1994.
The author wishes to invite all those who find themselves in Salt Lake City to lay a white flower at the statue’s base.
The address of the City Cemetery is:
City Cemetery
200 “N” Street
Salt Lake City, Utah 84103
Please send flowers to the attention of the City Sexton.
About the Author
DEBRA MACFARLANE
Richard Paul Evans is the #1 best-selling author of The Christmas Box. Each of his twenty novels have been New York Times bestsellers. There are more than fifteen million copies of his books in print worldwide, translated into more than twenty-four languages. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including the American Mothers Book Award, the Romantic Times Best Women’s Novel of the Year Award, the German Audience Gold Award for Romance, two Religion Communicators Council Wilbur Awards, the Washington Times Humanitarian of the Century Award and the Volunteers of America National Empathy Award. He lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife, Keri, and their five children. You can learn more about Richard on Facebook www.facebook.com/RPEfans or visit his website at www.richardpaulevans.com.
Also by Richard Paul Evans
Holiday novels
Lost December
Promise Me
The Christmas List
Grace
The Gift
Finding Noel
The Sunflower
A Perfect Day
The Last Promise
The Christmas Box Miracle
The Carousel
The Looking Glass
The Locket
The Letter
Timepiece
The Christmas Box
The Walk Series
The Road to Grace
Miles to Go
The Walk
For Children and Young Adults
The Dance
The Christmas Candle
The Spyglass
The Tower
The Light of Christmas
The Michael Vey Series
Michael Vey:
The Prisoner of Cell 25
Michael Vey: Rise of the Elgen
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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.
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