by Randy Singer
Jasmine wrapped her fist tight around the whistle. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch. She could feel her mom’s arm on her shoulder and Ajori’s hand on top of hers. And somewhere out there, Jasmine knew, her dad was smiling, pointing at her like he did when she made a good play. Thumping his chest, telling her that she had heart.
She loved the sound of that deep, deep voice. Soothing. Confident. Proud. “That’s my girl,” he was saying. “That’s my girl.”
Elizabeth had fallen asleep on the way home. Theresa was proud of herself for having the other kids in bed by nine. She had read the Christmas story from the book of Luke, they had said their prayers, and she had fetched two glasses of water for Tiger, leading to one bathroom run for her excited little boy.
Theresa finally got ready for bed herself, put her pajamas on, and wrapped a few more presents in her bedroom, no small chore since she had to fight King off for every piece of wrapping paper. She was exhausted, but she knew she couldn’t go to sleep just yet. She crawled into bed, turned off her light, and listened.
Fifteen minutes later, she heard him. Little feet pitter-pattering down the hallway, sneaking toward the living room. King heard him too and jumped up in bed. “Shh,” Theresa said to the dog. She petted him and rubbed his tummy, calming the little puppy. Next she heard the gentle clinking of a few dishes, a chair being moved on the kitchen floor, and the refrigerator door opening and closing. Theresa smiled to herself as she continued to soothe King. A few minutes later, the pitter-patter occurred again, this time ending in Tiger’s bedroom.
Theresa switched the light back on and waited another fifteen minutes, reading to pass the time. Then she shut King in the bedroom and tiptoed down the hall to Tiger’s room. He was now sleeping, his mouth wide-open as he lay sprawled across the bed.
She padded through the kitchen and into the cramped living room. She found the plate that Tiger had just prepared, with two Christmas cookies and a napkin on it and a glass of milk sitting next to it. There was also a note that said For Santa, written on the white paper with wide blue lines that Tiger used to make sure his capital letters were just the right height.
Theresa smiled, proud of her son’s careful penmanship. She ate most of the cookies, leaving only a few bites. After drinking the milk, she wrote a quick note of thanks on the paper, telling Tiger and Hannah what good kids they were, reminding them to obey their parents. She knew that technically the kids weren’t supposed to believe in Santa, but this had been her and Tiger’s routine the past two years, and she really didn’t see any harm in it. She burped—Santa Claus couldn’t have done it better—then headed back to bed.
She turned off the light, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and listened to the cold wind howling outside. She closed her eyes and started in on her prayers, thanking God for sending His Son as a babe in a manger. She thanked God for the warm bed and her food for the day and the fact that she had made it to Christmas without going completely broke. She prayed for Thomas and her pastor and the president and missionaries. She prayed until her thoughts became jumbled so badly that she wasn’t sure even God could figure them out. And then she quietly drifted to sleep before she could say “Amen,” content in the knowledge that when she awoke it would be Christmas and that soon Thomas would be coming home, the greatest Christmas gift of all . . .
She hadn’t been asleep long when she began to dream that she still had all her Christmas shopping to do on Christmas Eve and she couldn’t find Thomas, despite searching frantically. Then she was back home, trying to wrap presents for the kids, when she heard a voice outside. King heard it too and let out a throaty little growl.
At first she was scared, but she was drawn like one of her children to the Christmas tree. She practically floated through the kitchen, flicking on the light as she went, then into the living room, where . . . there he was! Thomas! Standing in the middle of the room, big as life. Bigger. Dressed like Santa! Heavier than the last time Theresa had seen him . . . and with a long white beard . . . but it was definitely Thomas. “Theresa,” he said. “Theresa, it’s me.”
For a moment she stood there frozen by the shock of seeing Thomas next to the fireplace and the presents under their Charlie Brown tree, but this one was as tall as the tree in Rockefeller Center. She rushed toward him, embraced him, felt the whiskers on her cheek. He kissed her, then licked her on the cheek.
“Theresa,” he said softly, holding her arm. “I’m home.”
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes to kiss him, then . . . wait, he had licked her? A fireplace? Their trailer had no fireplace!
She opened her sleepy eyes, and he was leaning over the bed, shaking her gently, holding her right arm. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs of her dream, then blinked, but he was still there!
“Thomas?”
“I’m home, Theresa.”
“Thomas!”
She threw her arms around him, squeezing him for all she was worth. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
King was jumping and licking, jealous of the embrace, making a nuisance of himself.
“It’s a long story,” Thomas said. “But before I answer that—what in the world is he doing here?”
CHRISTMAS DAY
The word traveled around Possum like wildfire, slowed only slightly by the inconvenience of gossiping on Christmas morning when the kids were trying to open presents. “Thomas is out!” There were several different versions of what had happened, including a spectacular version that resembled the biblical jailbreak from the book of Acts, but with a strong gust of wind taking the place of the earthquake. By midmorning, however, the television news had confirmed a far less heroic version of events. To some, it was downright disappointing.
Thomas had signed a promise not to set up his manger scene (or any manger scene) in the Possum town square.
Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline had won.
About 10:00 a.m., local stations began reporting that Judge Baker-Kline had visited the jail late on Christmas Eve and talked with Thomas for nearly an hour. It was a private meeting, and nobody knew the details, but afterward Thomas signed a document saying he would behave himself and not erect any manger scenes on public property. The judge immediately lifted the contempt order and, according to reliable inside sources, even went so far as to give Thomas Hammond a ride home.
It was bad enough that the Possum town hero had folded at the eleventh hour, but then the news started circulating that the judge had the audacity to call a press conference to rub it in. She scheduled it for two in the afternoon at her house, and soon the phone lines in Possum were buzzing with a plot for a hastily called protest. It was Christmas Day, usually a slow news day, so the national spotlight would be focused on Judge Baker-Kline. In a show of solidarity, hundreds of Possumites vowed to drive to the judge’s property and take part in a somewhat-organized demonstration. The townspeople all decided to meet in the parking lot at Freewill Baptist Church at 1:00 and drive to the judge’s house together. They would make their own signs—no four-letter words allowed—and would sing old-fashioned Christmas carols at the top of their lungs, drowning out any efforts by the judge to take credit for another national step down the slippery slope toward paganism.
By 1:30, more than two hundred Possum vehicles (mostly four-wheel drives) and at least a dozen satellite trucks were waiting outside the gates to the judge’s driveway, held back by federal marshals until the judge was ready to start her show. The weather couldn’t have been better—one of those brisk winter days where the air seemed particularly pure. There were a few wispy clouds high in the sky, but it was mostly sunny and the high was predicted to reach fifty. Pete Winkle circulated past every SUV to collect signatures for his Impeach the Judge petition and to wish folks a merry Christmas.
At precisely 2:00 p.m., the marshals let the first vehicles through, and the long line of SUVs started down the judge’s driveway. Thomas was already in place, waiting for them. He had great fun watching the stunned looks on
the faces of his fellow Possumites as they rounded the corner and caught their first glimpse of the scene before them. Instead of turning into a raucous crowd, shouting and singing, they quietly parked their vehicles all along the length of the driveway and disembarked solemnly, forming a long line in front of Thomas.
Since many of the townsfolk had been first in line, it took several minutes for the first satellite trucks and news vans to break through. When they did, all of the parking spots on both sides of the driveway had already been taken, so they simply parked in the middle of the drive, creating a traffic jam that would undoubtedly take hours to unsnarl. They didn’t care—the biggest story of the season was unfolding before them in living color.
There, in the front yard of the elaborate estate of Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline, flanked on each side by a huge and majestic elm tree, was the humble plywood manger scene of Thomas Hammond, with the line of worshipers growing by the minute. Bebo, as always, was the center of attention. The plywood lamb and ox were holding up quite well, though the ox had to be propped up with some boxes behind it since its stand was broken. The shepherd’s staff had been reinforced with a fresh layer of duct tape and now seemed to be pretty sturdy. And, of course, the manger itself had been rebuilt, complete with hay overflowing the top.
Unlike prior manger scenes, this one came complete with an enthusiastic brown and white cocker spaniel named Ollie running from person to person, wagging his tail and greeting everybody in sight while a miniature copy of the dog strained against his leash and barked. Hannah tried her best to calm King but eventually realized it was a lost cause.
The camera crews rushed to get in place, and reporters hustled to the front of the line and started shouting questions.
“Mr. Hammond, is it true you signed an order prohibiting you from setting this manger scene up in the Possum town square?”
“What made you change your mind last night?”
“Is this part of a deal you worked out with the judge?”
It gave Thomas great satisfaction to ignore the reporters. He looked off to his right and exchanged a knowing glance with Theresa. She had the sweetest smile on her face, an expression that reflected his own thoughts. This is what Christmas is all about.
Thomas turned a little farther and caught a glimpse of Jasmine and her family. The aspiring lawyer winked, and Thomas nodded, then turned back to the crowd.
“Judge, what’s the point of this display?”
“Do you have a statement for the record?”
It was obvious to Thomas that the reporters were wasting their breath, and they soon figured that out as well. The judge was busy. Thomas took a half step to his left, a little closer to the judge, and she glanced at him. As if embarrassed by this split second of eye contact, they both glanced down at the center of attention—the swaddled baby doll in the judge’s arms.
In Thomas’s humble opinion, Theresa had made a better—at least a much better looking—Virgin Mary than the judge did. But he had to admit, the symbolism was pretty powerful.
The line before them now stretched well down the judge’s driveway as people came forward one at a time or in small family groups to stand solemnly before the baby or gently touch the doll’s grubby little cheeks. Cameras flashed and whirred, but the talking was subdued, as if the judge’s front lawn had somehow been transformed into a cathedral. The first time that somebody knelt, Thomas watched the bewildered expression on the judge’s face as she stood there, uncertain what to do.
Thomas moved closer as the kneelers rose and headed back to their cars. “It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it, Your Honor?” he asked softly.
“I wanted to tell them to stand up,” the judge whispered. “But I sensed that I shouldn’t. Who am I to tell them how to worship?”
Though Thomas felt the statement was strangely ironic, he knew that this was not the time to bring it up.
The songs started somewhere in the middle of the line, a family or two singing softly, and the voices spread like falling dominoes. One song would finish and another would spontaneously start—“O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”
After ten or fifteen minutes of this, people singing, shuffling forward, touching the Christ child, telling the judge and Thomas thanks, the judge did something that gave Thomas chills—goose bumps up and down both arms. Though it wasn’t part of the plan, and nobody had even suggested it, she walked forward and tenderly knelt beside the manger, placing Bebo in the middle of the straw. Then, instead of rising to rejoin Thomas, she stayed on her knees and bowed her head.
Thomas stood flabbergasted by the sight, so stunned he couldn’t move for several seconds. He glanced at Theresa again and saw the tears welling in her eyes. Scripture flashed through his mind—“At the name of Jesus every knee should bow.” Instinctively he walked next to the judge and took a knee himself, bowing his head too. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
Kneeling there together, they worshiped.
Author’s Note
Fiction authors love this section the way lawyers love disclaimers. We get to remind readers that we’ve made up most of this and that’s why the book is fiction. There is no Possum, Virginia. There is no Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline or Jazz Woodfaulk or Tiger Hammond. As for Santa Claus . . . well, you make the call on that one.
One thing I don’t make up is the law. I try to be accurate on the substantive issues and legal proceedings. There is enough conflict and drama and majesty in our legal system that you don’t have to go beyond what’s there to write a good story. One particularly thorny issue we confront is the right of citizens to acknowledge God and religious traditions in the public square. I’ve got an opinion or two on this, but I also know there are good people on both sides of the debate. I’ve tried to reflect that in this book.
I’ve also tried my best to do justice to the spirit of my favorite holiday. In all of history, no event is more worthy of our meditation and best storytelling efforts than this: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” You’ll be the judge of whether I succeeded.