by Jan Karon
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath, and began to read.
“Let the stable still astonish;
Straw—dirt floor, dull eyes,
Dusty flanks of donkeys, oxen;
Crumbling, crooked walls;
No bed to carry that pain,
And then, the child,
Rag-wrapped, laid to cry
In a trough.
Who would have chosen this?”
Father Tim watched the firelight cast shadows on the faces of his loved ones. The recovered Bo snored at his feet.
“Who would have said: ‘Yes.
Let the God of all the heavens
And earth
Be born here, in this place’?
Who but the same God
Who stands in the darker, fouler rooms
of our hearts
and says, ‘Yes.
let the God of Heaven and Earth
be born here—
in this place.’”
There was a thoughtful silence among them. The fire crackled.
“It d-don’t rhyme,” said Sammy.
“Not all poetry rhymes,” said Father Tim. That was absolutely everything he knew about the subject. “Beautiful, Lace.You have the voice of an angel.”
“Perhaps you could let everyone assemble around the manger, then you come into the room, read the poem, and take your place in the scene. What do you think?” Cynthia queried the cast.
“Brilliant!” said Father Tim.
“Sure,” said Dooley.
“I like it,” said Lace. “Should I just tuck the poem in my robe, afterward, and sit on the hay bale beside the manger?”
“Perfect!” said their director. “And Father Tim will kneel to Joseph’s right—with Barnabas, of course. Timothy, do you have the shepherd’s crook?”
“On top of the old cupboard, ready to roll.”
“And then, we’ll all sing ‘Silent Night,’ and Sammy will plug in the tree.”
“What are you going to be?” Dooley asked Cynthia.
“I’ll be the innkeeper.”
“That’s sort of a mean role—to have to say there’s no room in the inn, sorry, go sleep in the stable.”
“Business is business. If you’re an inn and you’re full up, well, then, there’s no room. Just think of all those people swarming into town to pay their taxes, poor souls. And how many inns could there have been? Certainly not enough!”
“And who knew they would be turning away the King of Kings?” asked Lace.
“There’s the rub!” said the vicar, getting into the spirit of things.
“Of course, there won’t be any speaking,” Cynthia advised the cast.
Dooley looked aghast. “Just ... silence?”
“Yes. We’ll use that time to look inside ourselves, to try and feel what they were feeling.”
“How could we know what they were feeling?”
“How did Lee J. Cobb know what Willy Loman was feeling? He wasn’t a salesman, he was an actor. Better still, how did John Gielgud know what Hamlet was feeling when he killed Claudius—Mr. Gielgud wasn’t a murderer, he was an actor.”
“She has a point,” said Father Tim.
“Man!” said Dooley. “Do we have to do this? They say cows talk on Christmas Eve; I’d rather go to the barn and hear cows talk.”
“I’ll g-go with you,” said Sammy.
“I have a question.”
“I love questions.”
They sat before a low fire in the kitchen. As the Harpers hadn’t yet left for Dallas, where Hoppy’s school chum would be having brain surgery, Dooley had taken Lace home. Sammy was watching a pool tournament on TV
“Who’ll be here to observe our living Nativity scene?”
“No one, I suppose.” His wife was attempting to repair a hole in her favorite sweater. “Since you’re celebrating Mass, I thought we’d have a quiet Christmas at home, just the five of us.”
“It seems a lot of trouble to do it all for ourselves.”
“It could be a very moving experience.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “it could be.” But he didn’t think that each and every member of this particular cast would get the hang of being moved. “Maybe we should have a few people in. A buffet or something. Willie? Harley?”
“You’d feel up to all that?”
“Definitely. Let’s see, there’s Blake Eddistoe without a relative to his name, though I believe there’s a girlfriend in the picture. And if Harley comes, he could bring Hélène.”
“Yes, and what about Lon Burtie? Sammy would like that.”
“Good thinking!”
“I suppose Louella wouldn’t want to come out at night. But we could ask.”
“Absolutely!” he said. “Since she’s who she is, I’m sure Hope House would bring her in their wheelchair van. And Miss Lottie, what would you think of inviting Miss Lottie?”
“Of course!” She studied the kitchen intently. “We could move the table to the corner by the window seat, which would open up the room, and rent folding chairs ...”
He peered into the drawer of the small table at his elbow, and took out a notepad and pen.
He would make a list.
My dear Aunt,
I know you haven’t heard from me in an eon but remember I told you once that neither time nor distance would ever diminish my affection for you? Though you may doubt it this sentiment remains decidedly true.
Africa is not for sissies not where I’ve been. After years of roaming the world I am as ready as anything to come “home” and rest my weary bones if only for a time. I am perilously on the verge of becoming an old reprobate. Perhaps I will settle down and have a great number of children—I hear they can be a solace in old age!
Could I possibly put up at your place until I get my bearings? Only for a few days I promise.
I know you’re married again—I received your letter in the previous century am a blackguard for not responding sooner—and am thrilled to hear it’s to a very decent sort of fellow (at last!).
Will be arriving in the states on 23 December and will draw up to your door on the following evening if that will not trouble you overmuch. Good heavens it just occurred to me that the 24th is Christmas Eve!
I shall bear gifts.
Following is my international cell phone number you may reach me at anytime. And if this awkwardly last-minute self-invite doesn’t work for you, I shall fly on to another roost you mustn’t worry not even for a moment.
Your loving and devoted albeit adopted nephew
David
She handed him the letter, beaming. “David never did enjoy using the comma.”
When he finished reading David’s letter, she handed him another before he could comment on the one he’d just read.
“When it rains, it pours,” she said.
Dear Father and Mrs. Kavanagh:
Mother says she told you I will be making a new life in the mountains of North Carolina.
If it would not be inconvenient, I would greatly appreciate being able to spend a few nights with you at Meadowgate, beginning December 23, when I arrive in Charlotte. I would drive up and be there around four in the afternoon. I truly do not wish to trouble you in any way. I will happily take care of my own needs, as my years in foreign service have so well prepared me to do.
I will ring you on Monday next, and look forward to speaking with you. I know how very much Mother and Father treasure your friendship, and appreciate that you’re watching over things in their absence. I have a pleasant memory, Father, of meeting you some years ago, and look forward to seeing you again.
Sincerely,
Annie Owen
“Where will we put them all?” he asked.
“My brain is in a spin. What do you think?”
He had no idea. Nor did he have any idea about what he was giving his wife for Christmas. He was in a pickle, big-time.
He picked up the list and smoked it over.
Cynthia
Dooley
Lace
Sammy
T. K.
Lon
Harley Hélène
Willie
Blake
Laura
Louella
Miss Lottie
David, he wrote.
Annie ...
Cards galore. Many forwarded from Mitford; one envelope bearing a note scribbled by the postmaster: We owe you 32 cents. Merry Christmas, Jim.
A postcard. That was refreshing. A Jersey cow in a meadow, with a banner reading WISCONSIN.
All is well with my soul, and pray same with yrs. Hope to see you in Mitford on Dec 24, my new territory brings me to western NC. I thank God you lead me in that prayer on Thksgiving Day in Lord’s Chapel. Your brother in Christ, Pete.
He picked up the notepad. Pete, he wrote.
It was two in the morning. He heard some sort of shuffling about in the room.
“Are you up?” he asked.
“Yes!” she whispered.
“What for?”
“The usual.”
“Aha.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Scary”
“We need help.”
“What sort of help?”
“Lily. And Del!”
“For Christmas Eve?”
“Yes, for heaven’s sake, there’ll be sixteen of us, and heaven only knows who we might bring home from church.”
“Where are you?”
“Sitting in the rocker.”
“Come back to bed. Go to sleep. It’ll all work out. I promise.”
“We’ll need gallons of oysters.”
“Willie said he would be a wise man.”
That should be some consolation, right there.
If he were Harold ...
If he were Harold, he’d be married to Emma. There was a thought to make what was left of his hair stand on end.
Good grief, now he was a consultant on gift giving—he who couldn’t come up with a gift for the single most important person on his list.
There were no nice books on war.
He couldn’t wait any longer for it to drop down at his feet, already gift-wrapped. What he needed was a consultant.
“Katherine? It’s Tim.”
“Teds! How good to hear your voice! A blessed Advent.”
“And to you and Walter. I’m fairly desperate...”
“A gift for Cynthia?”
“Yes. I’m vicar, now, as you know, of a mission church, and time slipped up on me. I keep drawing a blank.”
“Pearls? She seems a pearl kind of girl to me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe a cross?” Quite suddenly, his mind was working. “I’ve never given her a really nice cross.”
“This is so simple. Do you have a pen?”
“I have.”
“Write down sapphires, they’ll complement her gorgeous eyes. Platinum setting. Eighteen-inch chain. The jewelry department at Tiffany. Here’s the number.”
He scratched down the number. “Is this going to cost the moon?”
“Shameful that you’d ask! Merely the North Star, or possibly Orion, but not the moon.”
Since their birthdays in June and July, he was seventy; Cynthia was sixty-four. They didn’t have forever and a day.
“Done!” he said, feeling brighter. “I’m in your debt.”
His teetotaling “cousin” laughed. “Buy me a ginger ale in an Irish pub.”
Miss Martha had supervised the greening of the church this afternoon. The sharp, pungent odor of pine and cedar filled the nave; sticks of hardwood burned bright in the firebox.
“In the name of the Father ...”
He crossed himself. “... and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
“I wrote a sermon this week, but discovered something as I reflected upon it.
“It told us more than we need to know.”
Someone chuckled. He could have some fun with that, but time was of the essence; a big snow was predicted for tonight.
“Well, Lord, I said, please give me what we do need to know. And He did.
“As many of you are aware, this pulpit was built and beautifully hand carved by one of our own—Clarence Merton. The church was not open when he did it; in fact, there was no earthly assurance that it would ever be open again.
“Yet Clarence chose to make this pulpit, anyway.
“Why would he do that? He did it to the glory of God.
“And then, a vandal broke in, and he took out a knife and began to do his own carving, right on this magnificent pulpit.”
Someone gasped.
“For those of you who haven’t seen that particular carving, it’s right here.” He leaned to his left and made a gesture toward the oak side-panel.
“I consider it to constitute the most profound sermon that could be preached from this or any other pulpit.
“‘JC,’ it reads, ‘loves CM.’
“When Agnes and Clarence saw what had been done, they might have wept. But what did they do? They gave thanks.
“They might have felt it a sacrilege. But what did they do? They considered it a word from God.
“JC, Jesus Christ ... loves CM, Clarence Merton.”
A relieved murmur sounded among the congregants.
“The thrilling thing about this inscription is that it’s filled with truth, not just for Clarence Merton, but for every one of us on this hallowed eve of His birth.
“In everything God has told us in His Word, He makes one thing very clear:
“He loves us.
“Not merely as a faceless world population, but one by one.
“J.C., Jesus Christ, loves you, Miss Martha. He loves you, Miss Mary. He loves you, Jubal.
“And you and you and you—individually, and by name. ‘My sheep hear my voice,’ He says, ‘and I call them by name.’
“On this eve of His birth, some of you may still be asking the age-old question, Why was I born?
“In the book of Revelation, we’re told that He made all things—that would include us!—for Himself. Why would He do that? For His pleasure, Scripture says.
“There’s your answer. You were made by Him ... and for Him, for His good pleasure.
“Selah! Think upon that.
“And why was He born?
“He came that we might have life. New life, in Him. What does this gift of new life in Him mean? In the weeks to come, we’ll talk about wh
at it means, and how it has the power to refine and strengthen and transform us, and deliver us out of darkness into light.
“Right now, Clarence has a gift for every one in this room. And a wonderful gift it is.” He nodded to his crucifer. “Would you come forward, Clarence?”
Clarence came forward, carrying a large, flat, polished board.
He held it aloft for all to see.
“Oak,” said the vicar. “White oak, the queen of the forest.
“This is a place for us to carve our own inscription, like the one on the pulpit. The board will be here every Sunday until Easter, and whoever wishes to do it will get help from Clarence, if needed. You don’t even have to bring your own knife, we have one. When that’s done, we’ll hang the board on the wall over there, where years later, others can see it, and be reminded that He loves them, too.”
He gazed a moment at the faces before him, at those whom God had given into his hand. Shine, Preacher! In thy place ...
“For God so loved the world,” he said, “that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever ...”
Many of the congregants joined their voices with his as they spoke the verse from the Gospel of John.
“... believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
“For this hour,” he said, “that’s all we need to know”
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace ...
Silent night, holy night,
Son of God, love’s pure light ...
As the congregation and choir sang a hushed a cappella, he processed along the aisle behind Violet, Dooley, Lloyd, Rooter, and Clarence to the narthex.