by Amanda Cabot
Mark rose with the rest of the congregation, nodding when Celia opened the hymnal and offered to share it with him. He didn’t know the song. Even if he had, he couldn’t hold a tune, but that didn’t seem to matter. No one looked askance when he attempted to sing the second verse, his voice coming out as little more than a croak. Celia kept singing, her voice clear and true, her face so filled with joy that Mark felt a pang of jealousy pierce his heart. What must it be like, to feel so happy? She was a widow with an infant, struggling to keep her home, and yet she appeared as carefree as a child. Though she had told Mark that she found a special peace here, he had not expected that peace to be so evident.
When the last notes faded away and the congregation took their seats, Mark let out a breath of relief. Since God hadn’t showered him with fire and brimstone, he must not be angry that Mark was in his house, and the little smiles Celia sent his way told him that she was still pleased he had come. Mark sat back, relaxing when Emma held out her arms, indicating that she wanted to be held again. By the time the minister climbed the few steps into the pulpit, Mark was no longer feeling out of place.
Reverend Pearson stood silently for a moment, his eyes moving slowly around the sanctuary, as if he were a shepherd counting his flock. Though his gaze met Mark’s briefly, the minister gave no sign of surprise at Mark’s presence, merely continued his tally. Then he bowed his head for a moment before nodding at his parishioners. “Advent is a time of preparation,” Reverend Pearson said, his voice deeper and more resonant than it was in ordinary conversation. “We prepare ourselves for Christmas and the celebration of the greatest gift we will ever receive—the gift of our Savior.” He paused as the congregation murmured sounds of assent. “When we think of preparation for that blessed event, we usually think of Mary and the plans she made for the birth of her son. How often do we remember that Mary was not alone?”
The parson paused again. This time there was an uncomfortable rustling, as if the parishioners were uncertain what he meant. “When we arrange our nativity scenes, we include the figure of Joseph, but how often do we think about him? Joseph had preparations of his own. He had to prepare for the coming of a child who was not his. How do you think he felt?” Without waiting for a response, the minister said, “We know that he was fearful, for St. Matthew tells us Joseph was visited by an angel of the Lord who told him not to fear. Can you imagine what his fears must have been? Before the angel appeared in a dream, Joseph knew only that the woman he had planned to marry was carrying a child who was not his.”
Somewhere in the front of the church, a man cleared his throat, and a woman whispered to the white-haired matron by her side. Reverend Pearson waited until the church was once again silent before he continued. “I imagine Joseph was shamed by that knowledge, but how must he have felt when he learned, and I quote from the gospel of St. Matthew, ‘that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost’? Though the angel told him not to fear, I suspect Joseph’s fears were multiplied by the angel’s announcement. He was only a human. How would he raise a son who was divine? How would any man be able to shoulder that responsibility?”
Once again the minister paused, letting his words register. “Joseph could have put Mary aside. He could have done what Pontius Pilate did and washed his hands of this child, but he did not. Joseph trusted God to show him the way, and that trust helped him overcome his fears. Because of Joseph and his faith, Jesus had both an earthly and a heavenly Father. He had brothers and sisters. He was part of a family, all because one man overcame his fears. What an example he set for all of us!”
Tears pricked the back of Mark’s eyes as the minister continued to speak. Had Reverend Pearson known he would be here today? It seemed unlikely, for he hadn’t made the decision until this morning, and yet the sermon appeared to have been written specifically for him. Like Joseph, he was riddled with fears, many of them centered on the child who was even now sleeping in his arms.
The parson was right. Mark had never wondered about Joseph and his role in the nativity, but now he couldn’t stop thinking of the man who’d been born almost two thousand years ago. It was true Mark’s life wasn’t the same as Joseph’s. After all, Emma was a human child. But he shared some of the same fears that Jesus’s earthly father had. The question was, could Mark overcome them? Could he be like Joseph? And even if he could, would he find the same peace Celia had? Mark wanted that, more than anything he could recall, but he didn’t know how to begin.
Somehow he got through Sunday dinner, although afterward he could not recall what Celia had served. He must have participated in the conversation, for no one looked at him askance. But while he was going through the motions of a normal Sunday, Mark’s thoughts were whirling. He had dozens of questions, and there was only one person who could help him with answers. As soon as he could, he slipped away from the boardinghouse, hoping Reverend Pearson would be at home.
To Mark’s relief, when he knocked at the parsonage door, the minister opened it. Now there was only one more hurdle. “If this is an inconvenient time, I can come back later.”
“Not at all.” Reverend Pearson shook his head. Though he no longer wore his clerical robe and stole, his demeanor was different from the time he’d visited Mark’s workshop. It was as if he knew why Mark had come. “Come in.” The minister led Mark to the parlor and gestured toward one of the chairs that flanked the stove. “I’ll be back in a moment. I want to tell Bertha we’re not to be interrupted.”
When the parson returned and took his seat, Mark spoke. “I’m not here to discuss your wife’s blanket chest.”
Though his face remained sober, there was a hint of mirth in the older man’s brown eyes. “I didn’t think you were. If I had to guess, I would say this has something to do with the fact that you attended services this morning.” The minister smiled as Mark nodded. “I was glad to see you there.”
“Did you know that I was coming?” Mark posed one of the questions that had been chasing through his brain. “Is that why you preached about Joseph and his fears?”
The minister shook his head. “‘No’ to both questions. Each week I pray for guidance when I start to prepare my sermon. Sometimes the ideas come easily, but this week wasn’t one of those times. When I opened my Bible, searching for inspiration, and saw the verses in St. Matthew about the angel appearing to Joseph in a dream, I knew that would be my subject.”
Mark swallowed deeply. “I’ve heard hundreds of sermons, but there’s never been one like this. I felt as if you had written it for me alone.” He looked at the minister. It couldn’t be coincidence that he’d delivered this particular sermon today. Celia had claimed there were no coincidences. If she was right, this must have been part of God’s plan. Though the room was warm, Mark shivered. He’d thought his presence in church might have drawn fire and brimstone. Instead, he’d found hope, and that sent shivers down his spine.
“I can’t stop thinking about what you said. I know I’m like Joseph. I’m afraid I’m not good enough to raise a child. I want to, but I don’t know how. All I know is I can’t do it alone.” The words tumbled like water over a falls, surprising Mark with their intensity. He hadn’t been this honest, not even with Lionel.
Reverend Pearson leaned forward, his eyes as solemn as they’d been during the sermon. “None of us can do it alone. It’s only our foolish pride that makes us think we can. Fortunately for us, God will help. All we have to do is ask.”
The pastor made it sound simple, but Mark knew it wasn’t. “I haven’t trusted God in years—maybe never. Why would he want to help me?” That was the fear that had lodged deep inside him ever since he’d heard the minister’s sermon, making all his other fears seem insignificant. Mark wanted help, but he knew he didn’t deserve it.
“It’s not a matter of deserving. God will help you because he loves you.” The parson kept his eyes focused on Mark. “Think about someone you love. Do you stop loving them when they do something you don’t like or even when they ignore y
ou?”
“No.” One of the things Mark had realized since he’d come to Easton was that the anger he had felt toward his mother had faded. He loved her, he had always loved her, even though he didn’t agree with all of her decisions.
“God doesn’t stop his love, either. All he asks is that we invite him into our hearts.” The minister stretched his hand out to lay it on top of Mark’s. “All you have to do is ask.”
Though Reverend Pearson’s hand was cool, his touch sent warmth flowing through Mark’s veins. “Here? Now?” Surely something this important had to be done in a church. After all, that was God’s house.
The minister nodded. “There’s no better time or place.” As if he had heard Mark’s thoughts, he added, “God doesn’t just meet us in church.” Reverend Pearson withdrew his hand and rose. “I’ll leave you alone for a while. Call out if you need me.”
When the door was closed, Mark looked around. Other than the cross that hung on one wall, this could have been any house in Easton. Was the parson right? Was God here? There was only one way to know. Slowly Mark sank to his knees and stared at the cross.
“Dear God, I don’t know what to say. I know I don’t deserve your love, but I want it. I want you to guide me the way you guided Joseph. Show me what I should do next. Help me overcome my fears. I can’t do it alone, but I know that you can do anything. Help me.”
Mark closed his eyes and bowed his head, waiting for an answer, but there was none. No angels appeared to him. No voices spoke from clouds or burning bushes. There was nothing. And yet, as he knelt there, something changed. He felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving in its place the gentle, featherweight touch of peace.
Celia breathed in deeply. The house smelled of cinnamon, one of her favorite aromas. When Bertha had offered to keep Aaron one day a week so that Celia could finish her Christmas preparations without a young child underfoot, she had decided to make a batch of mulled apple cider as a thank-you for the Pearsons. She would deliver it along with Aaron.
“All right, sweetie,” Celia said to her daughter when the jar of cider was cocooned in a towel, “we’re going for a ride.” Emma cooed, and Aaron grabbed his coat, managing to tangle the sleeves when he tried to put it on. “It’s okay, Aaron. I won’t leave you behind. You can help me pull the wagon.” Fortunately, though it had been a week since the Thanksgiving celebration, the boy had said nothing more about wanting Celia to be his mother. That was good, for although she prayed about it every day, Celia was no closer to knowing how to resolve her dilemma. In less than a month, Jacob would expect her answer, and she was still torn between her conviction that both Aaron and Emma deserved two parents and her reluctance to marry for any reason other than love.
She walked slowly down the street, matching her pace to Aaron’s as he chattered to Emma while attempting to pull the wagon. Unlike Celia, who preferred to spend winters indoors, the boy loved the cold and would stay outside until his lips turned blue, if she’d allow it. She would have to warn Bertha about that, for she had no doubt that Aaron would try to cajole Bertha into letting him play outdoors.
As they approached the parsonage, Celia’s smile broadened at the sight of Mark leaving the church. She hadn’t realized he wasn’t still in his workshop, although, now that she thought about it, the outbuilding had been silent when she’d left the house. As far as Celia knew, last Sunday had been the first time Mark had set foot inside the church other than Thanksgiving dinner. Though she had longed to ask for his reaction, he had said nothing about the service at dinner that day, and they had had no private time since then. But, while he had not spoken of it, Celia knew that something had changed, for Mark looked different. The pain that he had never managed to hide completely was gone, replaced by what could only be called peace.
Celia increased her pace, eager to speak to Mark. “I thought you were working,” she said when she had greeted him.
“I was,” he admitted. Turning his head and speaking softly so that Aaron could not hear him, he said, “I was delivering the chest to the parson. He’s hiding it where Mrs. Pearson won’t look.”
“Wise man. I’m sure he knows better than I that his wife has more than her share of curiosity.” Bertha had caught Celia sewing a shirt for Mark and had demanded to know whether Hiram would also receive one. When Celia had explained that she had knitted socks for her other boarder, her friend had raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
“She’s looking out her front window right now,” Mark said with a wry smile. “I only hope she wasn’t there half an hour ago.”
Celia wondered why a simple delivery had taken so long, but she wouldn’t ask. As pleasant as it was talking to Mark, she had errands to run and work to finish today, and so did he. “I doubt Bertha was at the window when you arrived,” Celia told Mark. “She’s probably looking for me.”
As a gust of wind threatened to turn his hat into a tumbleweed, Mark gripped the brim. “That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. After all, Christmas is supposed to be a time for surprises.”
“My mother used to say it was the time of miracles.”
Mark laughed as Emma raised her arms, demanding to be picked up. “Sorry, little one,” he said, “but if I don’t get back to work, I’ll need a miracle to finish everything by Christmas.” He waved and headed north while Celia gathered Emma and the cider into her arms and climbed the parsonage steps, Aaron by her side.
“Is that my big boy?” Bertha crouched down, extending her arms to Aaron after she closed the door behind them. “Come to the kitchen. I have something for you.”
The child’s eyes widened. “Sugar cookies?”
“Only if you’ve been good.”
“I good.” He looked up at Celia, his eyes imploring. “Right, Mrs. Celia?”
“Yes, you are.” Celia followed Bertha into the kitchen. “You’re spoiling him, you know,” she said as the older woman seated Aaron at the table and placed a plate with two enormous cookies in front of him. “When I told him we were coming here, all he could talk about were your cookies.”
Bertha grinned. “The boy needs some spoiling. Besides, I like pretending he’s a grandchild. I figure that the good Lord had a reason for not giving me children, but he surely won’t mind if I adopt a grandson.”
And Aaron could use a grandmother like Bertha. “I brought you a little thank-you,” Celia said, handing the towel-wrapped jar to her friend.
Bertha smiled as she unwrapped the gift, then unscrewed the lid to sniff the contents. “This smells wonderful. Thank you.” She laid it on the counter out of Aaron’s reach before turning back to Celia. “Now, indulge an old woman. Tell me why your boarder has been spending so much time with my husband. This is the fourth time I’ve seen him at the church this week.”
Surely no Christmas gift required four visits. Like Bertha, Celia was curious, but her curiosity mingled with hope as she recalled Mark’s changed expression.
“Maybe he just wants to talk,” she suggested. “Have you asked the reverend?”
Bertha nodded. “He said it was business.”
Perhaps it was.
The rest of the day proved to be as busy as Celia had expected. Without Aaron underfoot, she was able to finish sewing Mark’s shirt and the rag doll she had planned for Emma. She had even started knitting a scarf and mitten set for Lionel. The promise of pound cake must have done the trick, for Mark’s uncle had agreed to spend Christmas Day with them. That was part of the reason Celia wanted this Christmas to be so special. It would be Lionel’s first holiday in Easton. Just as importantly, it was Emma’s first Christmas ever. And, though she didn’t want to dwell on the thought, it might be the only one Celia would spend with Mark. He’d said nothing more about leaving in the spring, but he’d also said nothing about staying. Since their future was uncertain, she had resolved to enjoy every moment of the present.
Supper was over; the dishes were done; everyone was gone, and so Celia returned to the pa
rlor, her knitting in hand. If she spent another hour, she would be able to complete the first of Lionel’s mittens. The needles clicked rhythmically as she transferred stitches from one needle to the next. While Mama had claimed that knitting on four needles was complicated, Celia enjoyed working her stitches in rounds, knowing there would be no seams to weave at the end. She held up the mitten and was checking the size against the pattern she had made of Mark’s hand when she heard familiar footsteps.
“Are you finished for the night?” she asked when Mark appeared in the doorway.
He shook his head. “I’ve got another hour or so, but I needed a break. I wondered if I could have some coffee.”
“Of course.” Celia rose and walked to the kitchen. “There’s one cup left, but it won’t take long to make another pot.”
While they waited for the water to boil, Mark leaned against the wall. “This is the first chance I’ve had to ask you if Mrs. Pearson wondered why I was at the church.”
Celia nodded. It wasn’t only Bertha who was curious. “She said you’ve been there every day this week. That piqued her interest enough that she asked her husband.”
Mark’s expression was inscrutable. “What did he tell her?”
When the kettle began to whistle, Celia removed it from the burner and poured the water over the coffee grounds. “He claimed it was business.”
Mark chuckled and took a seat at the table. “I guess that’s one way to describe it. I was there to talk about his business.”
Celia felt her heart skip a beat. If Mark had indeed been consulting Reverend Pearson about his business—his real business—that would explain the difference she had seen in Mark.
“You’re not talking about the blanket chest, are you?” Celia pulled two cups from the shelf and filled them.
As she approached the table, Mark’s smile lit his face, turning his eyes to silver. “No. It was something infinitely more important. The parson has been ministering to my soul.”