The Christmas Shoes (Christmas Hope)

by VanLiere, Donna

  Kate has been sent into a tailspin, readying the house for her girls and her new grandson.

  “Move that over there, Robert,” she says, only to change her mind a few seconds later, “No, move it back. It takes up too much room over there.” I can scarcely keep up with her as she drags me along, baking and cooking in the kitchen, running to the attic for decorations, and shopping for Christmas presents for the baby.

  “Our first Christmas with our grandchild,” she squeals into my ear.

  It seems what I’d always heard is true: You become a crazy person when you turn into a grandparent. Our refrigerator was already covered with pictures of Evan, smiling up at the camera from the tub, from the floor, from the crib, and from the car seat. Basically, it’s the same picture—just a different location each time.

  When the car pulled up in the driveway this afternoon, Kate shoved me out of the way and rushed out the door, her arms waving high above her head. “Merry Christmas!” she shouted, making a beeline for the car. After a quick round of hugging and kissing Hannah and Steven, Kate gingerly scooped up the baby and lifted him high into the air.

  “There he is!” she exclaimed. “There’s Grandma’s boy!” Hannah ran to me and planted a big kiss on my cheek before grabbing the baby’s bag off the backseat. Together, she and Kate made their way into the house, oohing and ahhing over the baby, closing the door firmly behind them. Steven and I just looked at each other and laughed.

  “Well, Merry Christmas to you too!” I yelled toward the door. Glancing at my watch, I said, “Steven, since we’ll never be missed in there,” motioning toward the house, “how about riding with me to pick up Lily at the airport?”

  When we returned, the house was aglow with the Christmas lights and decorations I had put up the weekend following Thanksgiving. Kate oversaw the whole production, yelling up to me on the ladder “Those lights are sagging too much” or “Robert, move the wreath over toward the center of the window a hair.” By the end of the day, the house was something Mother would have been proud of, complete with her yard sale Nativity lighting the front lawn. Lily burst through the front door, sweeping her nephew into her arms, gently tapping his small nose, exclaiming, “Look at you! Look at you!”

  I pulled out the Dunhill Billiard and packed the cylinder bowl with tobacco that smelled like a forest of pine trees. I puffed on the plastic bit till the tobacco caught, flicking my right hand to put out the match. “Dad!” Lily whined. “Do you have to light that thing?” But Kate didn’t say a word. She never knew why I sporadically smoked the pipe, but she never asked either. All she knew was it had something to do with bringing me back to her. And that’s all she needed to know.

  Evan giggled as Kate raised him high in the air, then brought him down toward her, sticking her nose in his round belly.

  “Who’s Grandma’s angel?” she asked in a voice that, I imagine, alerted every dog in the neighborhood. “Who’s Grandma’s angel?” The baby laughed and gurgled, his tiny arms and legs wiggling in the air. Lily offered her finger for Evan to grab and proceeded to bounce his hand around like that of a tiny orchestra conductor, while Kate lifted him repeatedly up and down, up and down.

  I sat back, puffing on the pipe, and smiled at what we’d become, a family, and wondered again what had happened to the small boy with the Christmas shoes who’d changed my life forever.

  Epilogue

  Christmas, 2000

  The wind whipped at my face as I knelt down and carefully wiped the clumps of frozen leaves from the base of the tombstone. “Ellen Katherine Layton,” it read. “August 15, 1917–December 26, 1985. Beloved Mother.” I cleared the area in front of the stone as well and made the short trek back to the base of the hill. I opened the trunk of my car to retrieve some of my mother’s favorite Christmas decorations: poinsettias, holly, and an evergreen wreath. Slipping the wreath up my arm and over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of someone else in the cemetery. It occurred to me that it was an odd day to visit a cemetery. As a matter of fact, in all my years of visiting my mother’s grave, I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone else here on Christmas Day. I shrugged, hoping the poor soul was warmer than I was, and closed the trunk.

  Trudging back to the grave, the wind shrieked in my bare ears. I put my head down to avoid the icy lashing, shrinking my neck into the warmth of the coat collar. As I passed, I could see that the other man was holding a brown paper sack. I briefly caught the nice-looking young man’s eyes. He was slender and tall, wearing a thick, navy down parka and a wool hat with a university logo on it.

  “Morning,” I said, waving my arm full of decorations toward the man.

  “Good morning,” the young man waved. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you,” I cheerily replied.

  “You’re the first person I’ve seen here on Christmas Day in years!” the young man yelled above the winds.

  “I was just thinking the same thing!” I shouted.

  The wind died down a bit, and the sun beamed, lighting the ice-covered boughs and tombstones until the whole cemetery shone.

  “Did you go to the university?” I asked, gesturing toward his hat.

  “Yes, still do,” he responded with a smile.

  “Class of seventy!” I replied, patting my chest. “We were still using inkwells back then, of course. What are you studying?”

  “Oncology,” he said somewhat shyly. “If I can stick it out, that is.”

  “Terrific. Pretty tough program, though. These roads are something, aren’t they? I couldn’t get up the hill here at all,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, sir. I was just down Route Ten from the hospital. They’ve sanded, but it’s not doing much. Maybe this sun will help.”

  “They’ve got you on call already?” I chuckled. The wind began to pick up again. I wrapped my coat tighter.

  “Oh no, not yet,” he laughed. The young man had warm, blue eyes; his cheeks were red from the cold. “I just do a little volunteer work there when I’m home from school.”

  “That’s great. The hospital’s no place to be on Christmas. I’m sure the patients appreciate you, though. Well, nice speaking to you. You have a Merry Christmas,” I said, quickening my pace back to my mother’s grave.

  “Thank you, you too, Merry Christmas,” he said.

  I draped the holly over the top of the tombstone. I positioned the evergreen wreath to the left of the lettering and placed a poinsettia directly in front of it, with a matching poinsettia positioned to the right. Scratching at the stone, I dug out the frost that was wedged into the lettering. “There,” I said, whisking any remnants away as I leaned back to admire my work. “She’d like that,” I assured myself.

  I know that most people decorated grave sites on Memorial Day, but my mother loved Christmas, not Memorial Day, so regardless of whether it was thirty-five degrees or thirty-five below zero, I made my way to the cemetery each year and decorated her stone, always placing an extra poinsettia on my father’s stone beside her.

  “It’s awfully cold this Christmas, Mom,” I said, banging my hands together. “I know someone who must have been extremely grateful for not having to decorate your house this year,” I laughed, picturing the retired Dalton teetering on one of Mother’s rickety ladders while she barked out the precise placement of each decoration.

  “Hannah brought Evan home, and I’m not too proud to say he takes after his granddad in many ways: goodlooking, suave…has a certain charm with the ladies. Oh, and did I mention modest? You’ll meet him one day and see the similarities for yourself.” I paused, looking again at the year of death.

  “I still miss you, Mom,” I shivered. “I miss you every day.”

  I stood to go and noticed that the other man had already left. Probably couldn’t take the cold, I thought. Bracing myself against the wind, I started back down the hill when something caught my eye at the grave where the man had been standing. Approaching the car, I strained to see what had been placed on the tombstone. As I moved c
loser, my heart began to pound. I quickened my pace and saw that at the base of the stone lay a brandnew pair of glittery, beaded shoes. I quickly read the name on the marker and the date of death: “Margaret Elizabeth Andrews. March 17, 1951–December 25, 1985. Beloved Wife-Mother-Daughter.”

  I spun around in the direction of where the young man’s car had been parked, but the cemetery was empty. His car was gone. So I placed one of Mother’s poinsettias alongside the shoes on the tombstone, and drove home.

  Smiling.

  Afterword

  Today

  If we’re open to it, God can use even the smallest thing to change our lives…to change us. It might be a laughing child, car brakes that need fixing, a sale on pot roast, a cloudless sky, a trip to the woods to cut down a Christmas tree, a schoolteacher, a Dunhill Billiard pipe…or even a pair of shoes.

  Some people will never believe. They may feel that such things are too trivial, too simple, or too insignificant to forever change a life. But I believe.

  And I always will.

  Acknowledgments

  Troy, thank you for continuing to challenge and inspire me to new heights. I love you for giving me the courage to follow my dreams.

  Eddie Carswell, Billy Goodwin, and the members of NewSong for inspiring this book. Your beautiful song has—and will—continue to touch millions of hearts around the world.

  Helga Schmidt provided the beautiful true inspiration behind NewSong’s lyrics. Helga, thank you for your tender heart and for sharing your moving story. You have left all of us forever changed.

  From its earliest form, Jennifer Gates has shown nothing but unwavering belief in this book and given me constant guidance and encouragement. It wouldn’t have happened without you…. I hope we can do it again!

  Jennifer Enderlin and the staff at St. Martin’s Press, thank you for your enthusiasm and for going the extra mile to get this book out quickly!

  Esmond Harmsworth (and the Zachary Shuster Harmsworth Agency), Mark Maxwell and Don Zachary, thank you for your countless hours and incredible insight.

  Deborah Chiel read the story again and again and provided invaluable input. Thank you.

  It’s a blessing to know that there are still people like Eddie and Terri Carswell in the world. We hope to grow up to be just like you…really.

  To other supporters, family, and friends: my parents, my mother-and father-in-law, Dave and Vicki, who have always loved me like one of their own, the ladies of Monday night, Vince Wilcox, Brian Smith and the Turning Point staff, Bob and Dannah Gresh, Paul Grimshaw, and George King, Dean Diehl, Jimmy Wheeler, Jackie Marushka, Benjie Gentry, and all of the Reunion Records, Provident, and Jive Records staffs. Thank you for your tremendous help.

  And finally, thank you to Bailey, my faithful writing companion, for keeping me company and providing nothing but positive feedback.

  “The Christmas Shoes”

  by Eddie Carswell and Leonard Ahlstrom

  It was almost Christmas time

  And there I stood in another line

  Trying to buy that last gift or two

  Not really in the Christmas mood

  Standing right in front of me

  Was a little boy waiting anxiously

  Pacing round like little boys do

  And in his hands, he held a pair of shoes

  And his clothes were worn and old

  He was dirty from head to toe

  And when it came his time to pay

  I couldn’t believe what I heard him say

  Chorus

  Sir, I want to buy these shoes

  For my momma, please

  It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size

  Could you hurry, sir

  Daddy says there’s not much time

  You see she’s been sick for quite a while

  And I know these shoes will make her smile

  And I want her to look beautiful

  If momma meets Jesus tonight

  They counted pennies for what seemed like years

  Then the cashier said, son, there’s not enough here

  He searched his pockets frantically

  And then he turned and he looked at me

  He said, momma made Christmas good at our house

  Though, most years, she just did without

  Tell me, sir, what am I going to do

  Somehow I’ve got to buy her these Christmas shoes

  So I laid the money down

  I just had to help him out

  And I’ll never forget the look on his face

  When he said momma’s gonna look so great

  Repeat Chorus

  I knew I caught a glimpse of heaven’s love

  As he thanked me and ran out

  I knew that God had sent that little boy

  To remind me what Christmas is all about

  Repeat Chorus

  You’ve read the story; you’ve heard the song….

  Now experience the album.

  THE CHRISTMAS SHOES

  Available from NewSong wherever you buy music

  THE CHRISTMAS SHOES. Copyright © 2001 by Donna VanLiere. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the following: “The Christmas Shoes” by Eddie Carswell and Leonard Ahlstrom copyright 2000 Sony/ATV Songs LLC and WB Music Corp./Jerry’s Haven Music. All rights on behalf of Sony/ATV Songs LLC administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights on behalf of WB Music Corp./Jerry’s Haven Music administered by WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-4299-5748-9

  Read on for a preview of

  THE CHRISTMAS NOTE

  On Sale Now from St. Martin’s Press

  One

  All things must change to something new, to something strange.

  —HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  Gretchen

  November 30

  I look out the window and wait, wondering what will happen today. Life is weird. Just when I think I’m making heads or tails of it, when I’m getting used to today, along comes a new morning. The kids are running through the condo screaming, listening to their own voices echo off the naked walls. As Ethan checks out every closet and cupboard space, his face is fixed in a wide, transforming smile, just like his father’s. Emma is like me, more cautious as she looks, envisioning where her things will go. Her eyes flame out fiery blue from her olive face as she swings her favorite stuffed animal, a bunny named Sugar, around her bedroom. When I was six, I had a stuffed dog named Henry. He’s somewhere in the moving boxes. Ethan says that now that he’s six he doesn’t need a stuffed animal anymore, but I noticed he brought Friska the one-eared dog in the car with him. Seems all of us, no matter how old, have a hard time letting go sometimes.

  The clouds look upset, puffing the sky up in a solid wall of gray. I hate moving when the trees have dropped their leaves. Everything’s drab and bare and the feeling of emptiness chokes me. But that’s today. Tomorrow will be different. “The truck is here!” I yell from the livingroom window. My cell phone rings and I see that it’s my mother. “It just pulled up,” I say to her. “Bring your crew anytime.”

  I haven’t lived near my mother since I left for college sixteen years ago, but Kyle and I always wanted to live closer to our parents; the trouble was always which one. Kyle’s parents are still living in the small Oklahoma town where Kyle was raised, but I’d have to travel too far for work as a hygienist if we moved there. My parents are divorced. They decided when Jeff and I were teenagers that they couldn’t live together anymore and it took me years to forgive them. I loved them always, but sometimes I couldn’t stand to talk to either one of them because of what their decision did to our family. Dad lives in a town in Arizona near his children from his second failed marriage and enjoys his grandchildren there, but my mom d
oesn’t live close to either Jeff or me. Not that she needed us; Miriam Lloyd-Davies stands just fine on her own, but I thought Emma and Ethan should be closer to her, three-blocks-away close, to be exact.

  Ethan bolts past me and stands on the front stoop; it’s not big enough to be called a porch. The builder planted some nondescript shrub in the spot by the door in a halfhearted attempt to make it feel homey. The garage door for the adjoining condo opens and I notice a car turning into the driveway. Ethan waves at the driver like he’s been expecting her all day, and she pulls slowly up her drive, watching the moving men open the back of the truck, revealing all of our prized possessions. She stops her car and opens the door, staring at the movers without a hint of expression on her face. “Hi,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest against the cold.