Marlin smiled at the pieces John had selected from two dozen available in the barn’s loft. There had been other putz pieces over the twenty-five years of his parents’ marriage, but these were the ones that survived the weather and six children poking at them. Now the oldest grandchild, Leroy’s boppli, tested a finger against the nativity stall fashioned from potter’s clay. It had been Marlin’s first independent putz creation half a lifetime ago. It was not symmetrical, and the front trim crumbled more every year, but John had chosen this piece to shelter the Christ child that their sisters had stitched and stuffed from rags.
“O Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie,” Lyddie sang.
Marlin did not sing this time, instead savoring the weight of his wife’s head on his shoulder.
Chapter 11
The aromas of Magdalena’s evening meal tantalized Glory from the moment she stepped from the crisp air outside into the cozy warmth of the Grabill kitchen. Supper was usually the simpler meal, compared to the midday dinner, but tonight with all the family gathered for Christmas Eve, Magdalena had managed to have pork, potatoes, and vegetables roasting in the oven. She opened the stove for the briefest inspection before declaring the feast would be ready in twenty minutes.
“Glory,” Magdalena said, “would you and Marlin mind lighting the candles in all the windows?”
“Of course.” Glory turned toward Marlin’s nod. Magdalena handed her a box of matches. The other rooms would not be as warm and welcoming as the kitchen until David and John stirred up the coals in the fireplace, but Glory anticipated satisfaction in lighting the candles she had arranged the evening before. This time her husband would be at her side.
Marlin picked up a slender starter candle from the counter and struck a match. Glory chose a second loose candle to tip into Marlin’s and transfer the flame to the window candles without disturbing the arrangements.
“We can start right here in the kitchen,” Glory said. At the first window Marlin held his candle low enough for Glory to easily catch the flame and light the candle on the sill. She moved carefully to the window’s twin. With both lights burning bright against the darkness outside, sighs sounded around the kitchen. Magdalena and Marianne stilled their food preparations. Joannah turned the baby in her arms around and his fussing eased.
“The candles are sure to be beautiful inside and out,” Sadie said. “My favorite tradition.”
“What is your favorite tradition, Glory?” Lyddie asked.
The question caught Glory off balance. She raised both shoulders toward her ears. “Simple moments like this one.”
Magdalena smiled, nodded, and turned back to the stove.
Marlin and Glory went to the main rooms next, with their rank of windows across the front of the house. The benches were set up for church in the morning, so the family would not enjoy these rooms tonight, but as they passed through them or paused to stand and warm themselves at the fireplace, they could still catch a glimpse of the burning flames. Upstairs Glory went first to John’s room, then to the girls’, then to her in-laws’, and finally walked beside Marlin to their room to light the last candle.
“Look,” Glory said. “Buggies.”
They had not been there a few minutes ago, but now two buggies had drawn up in front of the Nativity and another approached Marlin’s Angels.
“I have not been around to see putz in years,” she said. “Until tonight, I mean.”
“I hope you will not want to wait so long before doing it again,” Marlin said.
“No, I do not suppose I will.” She leaned her forehead against the glass, careful of the candle. “Do they always come?”
“Every year for as long as I can remember,” Marlin said. “We are quite well-known.”
“We never drove this far across the district when I was little. My mamm simply wanted to have us all home together on Christmas Eve.” Another buggy rolled down the lane. People seemed to know which direction to circle around to avoid knotting the flow of rigs. “I hope they enjoy the candles.”
“They will.”
Glory pictured the symmetry of the view from outside—a putz off each corner of the front porch, glowing candles centered in an even number of windows on the front of the house, four downstairs and two upstairs forming well-measured triangles of light. As one of the buggies departed, an English wagon arrived, and children leaned out of the back pointing in delight. Glory let her weight fall against Marlin’s chest.
“How long will this go on?” she asked.
“A couple of hours, or as long as we leave the candles and lanterns burning,” he said. “And I am sorry for my burning spirit earlier. Please forgive me.”
The rap on the open door startled both of them. Light from the hall framed Lyddie’s contented expression.
“Mamm said to find you for supper.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Marlin ached to recover the quiet moment of listening to the wonder in Glory’s breath and feeling her near.
Supper was, as always, where conversation exploded as soon as Daed pronounced the Aemen on the silent prayer that opened the gathering. The brothers were free now to talk about how they had accomplished their putz, where they kept them hidden from prying eyes—mostly Marlin’s, the others agreed. His brothers’ wives, his own sisters, and his mother shot bits of information toward each other that lacked context to other listeners, but gradually Marlin pieced together that they were talking about tomorrow’s church dinner after the worship service. Eventually he discovered that Glory had deviled four dozen eggs for the occasion.
Now the kitchen was cleared, and Magdalena had alerted her family that breakfast the next day would be simple and prompt. They would want the counters and table clear for the dishes arriving with worshippers. Leroy and Josef had collected their sleepy children, bundled them in buggies, and taken them home. In the post-meal commotion, Marlin had lost track of Glory, and now he wandered into the front rooms.
Glory stood before the one candle that had not yet been snuffed for the night.
“Glory,” Marlin said softly.
She turned, her face shifting from the candle’s glow into the shadows of the large room.
“Your mamm asked me to tend the candles,” she said.
“Bedtime,” Marlin said.
Glory nodded. “A busy day ahead.”
“Christmas.”
“And church.” Glory turned back to the window. “The putz lanterns are still on.”
“Let’s go turn them off together,” Marlin said. “I will get your cloak.”
“All right.”
He retrieved their outerwear and a rarely used lantern from the mudroom with particular swiftness. He did not want to give Glory time to change her mind and say she would go upstairs instead. As he spread her cloak over her shoulders, she leaned toward the window and extinguished the final flame. Marlin adjusted the lantern he carried so they could safely see their way through the maze of church benches and displaced furniture and down the steps off the front porch.
The yard was clear of buggies. By now many of the English would be on their way to a late-evening Christmas Eve service, and the nearby Amish who had admired the putz would have turned their minds to checking on animals and being ready for the shared worship and feast tomorrow. But in this moment, Marlin could be alone with his wife.
They went first to the Nativity.
“Did you really make that clay stable?” Glory asked.
Marlin smiled. “I had to glue it together in a few places. I do not suppose I will ever be much of a sculptor.”
“I love the idea of looking at something you made as a child.” Her voice drifted in a gust of wind. “I do not have many things like that. My daed did not want us to be vain or attached to worldly goods.”
“Your daed wanted you to learn the way of eternity,” Marlin said. “Fathers see eternity in different ways, I suppose.”
She went silent. Marlin reached into the display for the lantern, turned it off, and picked
it up. They moved to the opposite corner and stood before the Angels.
“You may not be a sculptor,” Glory said, “but you are a carver.”
Marlin shook his head. “I am only beginning to learn what the craft requires.”
“But you will learn.”
“I hope to learn many things in the next forty or fifty years.”
Glory was quiet again. Marlin waited, leaving the lantern on the ground. Her face was turned toward the Angels, but her gaze was unfixed.
“Marlin,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Your family’s traditions are very different than mine.”
“My eyes have seen that this week.”
“You love the way your family is.”
“And you love your family’s ways.”
She nodded. He should have paid more attention when her mother’s letter arrived three days ago. Glory had taken to her bed for an entire day and had not been herself since.
Or perhaps Marlin did not understand her as well as he thought he did.
“Marlin.”
“Yes?” The tremble that had overtaken her voice alarmed him.
“Do you regret that we married?”
♦ ♦ ♦
Having spoken the words, she could not snatch them back. The question had tangled itself into Glory’s spirit for three days. Marlin’s love was certain. But were they suited to be husband and wife? Could they be happy? Could they spend a lifetime together? Glory stared at the Angels and the lanterns that lit them. If Marlin extinguished the flames now, they would be standing in blackness save only for the dimness of the old mudroom lantern no one liked to use because it did not work well. Perhaps full darkness would have been better. She did not want to see his face as he inhaled.
Marlin leaned his head toward Glory and brushed her cheek with his chin.
“It is not so scruffy anymore,” he said.
Glory nodded. Marlin’s beard had been slow to come in after they married, its uneven patches giving him the look of a newlywed longer than many new husbands.
“It is a proper married beard now and will only get better,” Marlin said. He stood behind her and brushed his beard across the back of her neck, first in one direction and then the other. “I intend to be doing that for at least fifty years.”
“Marlin, I want to be the best frau,” Glory said. “I am just not sure…these last few days…your family.”
“Our family,” Marlin corrected, putting his arms around her from behind. “Everyone loves you already. Do not worry about being the best wife. Just be the best you, and all will be well.”
Glory gulped.
Marlin began to sing softly in her ear. “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.”
He stopped, but Glory did not want the song to end.
“Silent night! Holy night!” she sang. “Shepherds quake at the sight, glories stream from heaven afar, heav’nly hosts sing alleluia; Christ, the Savior, is born! Christ, the Savior, is born!”
“This carol is my favorite of them all,” Marlin said.
He nuzzled the back of her neck again. Some of her friends complained about their husbands’ scratchy beards on their more delicate skin. Glory never would. Marlin could brush the back of her neck as often as he wanted if it made her feel as safe and loved as it did in that moment.
“It is my favorite as well,” Glory said. “Let’s finish.”
They started together. “Silent night! Holy night! Son of God, love’s pure light, radiant beams from Thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.”
Marlin let go of her long enough to snuff the Angels lanterns and set them beside the others at their feet. He turned the mudroom lantern down even further.
“Look up,” he said.
The night was not a perfect cloudless velvet bed of glittering diamonds, a description Glory once read in a book during her school years. It was an ordinary slightly overcast winter night, but enough starlight sparkled for her to know what Marlin intended.
“Love’s pure light,” she said. “Right from the heart of God.”
“‘And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’”
“From John 1,” Glory murmured. “It would be lovely if that were the passage for church tomorrow.”
“Practically today,” Marlin said. In one hand, he gathered the handles of the lanterns. In the other, he grasped Glory’s fingers and led her back into the house.
Glory had forgotten to be cold or doubtful or anxious. She hummed the notes of love’s pure light, and Marlin picked up the tune as they climbed the stairs together.
Chapter 12
Marlin’s mother kept her word about Christmas breakfast being simple and prompt. As Lyddie removed his coffee cup from his hand before he had finished with it, he raised his eyebrows toward Glory. They had agreed to exchange gifts after breakfast, before church. Glory nodded and started up the back stairs. Marlin followed.
“It is not fancy wrapping,” Glory said, kneeling to pull a package from under the bed.
He took it from her hands. Oddly shaped, firm, with lumps.
“Open it,” Glory urged.
Marlin untied the green string that held the butcher paper in its irregular form and folded back the flaps. Then he opened a leather pouch. “Carving knives!”
Glory’s head bobbed. “My grandfather’s. I know they are old, but he collected them over many years and always kept the blades sharp and the handles sanded smooth.”
“Last night I had three not very good knives,” he said, “and now I have twelve that belonged to a craftsman. I will have no excuse not to become a much better carver.”
“You do not mind that they have been used by someone else?”
“They were your grandfather’s. They are a tradition.” He folded the pouch closed and set it on the chest of drawers. Glory’s bundle of cookies still lay there. He grinned and took out one of the Glory Divine cookies and popped it in his mouth. “It’s Christmas morning. Another tradition fulfilled. Did you write down the recipe?”
She tapped her temple. “No need for a pencil.”
Marlin took Glory’s hand and tugged her toward the door. “We have to go to the barn for your gift.”
“You are not giving me a cow, are you?”
“Just come.”
They still had a few minutes before church families would start to arrive. Marlin pushed open the barn door and led Glory to the empty stall where he had been working for weeks. His effort was no longer hidden behind a half bale of hay.
“Move the covering,” he said.
Glory picked up one corner of the horse blanket and carefully rolled it back. Marlin watched her face. Confusion. Astonishment. Elation. Gratitude.
“You made all the parts of the putz!” Glory said.
“Just the main pieces.” Marlin tapped a shepherd on the head while Glory knelt before Mary holding her child. “What do you notice is missing?”
“The angels,” Glory said quickly. “But I know where we can get some.”
Marlin laughed. “One day we will have our own home, and we can begin our own traditions. We can add to this every year—sheep, barn animals, more shepherds, a manger, magi, a star to hang above it all. Your grandfather’s knives will be perfect.”
“I hope you will not mind if a child is underfoot,” Glory said.
“Of course not. That will be part of the tradition.”
“We are barely used to living with each other,” Glory said, “and now we will be three before next year’s first snow.”
Marlin’s hand began to shake and he could not stop it.
♦ ♦ ♦
Glory unfolded her knees and glanced around the barn, relieved to see no prying human eyes. There was nothing to stop Marlin’s kiss.
His arms were around h
er before she had found her full height, lifting her off the ground and swinging her in a circle before settling his mouth on hers with exuberance. He had not kissed her properly all week, and Glory eagerly received his enthusiasm now. Even through the bulk of their coats his arms swarmed to hold her close. When his hat dropped off his head, neither of them tried to catch it.
“Happy Christmas,” Marlin murmured.
“Happy Christmas,” Glory said, taking a breath before finding his lips again. The moment was bliss.
And then the morning’s reality broke in. The clip-clop of horses approached, and voices called across the farmyard. Glory would have to go inside the house, welcome guests, collect coats, and carry food to the kitchen. Marlin would guide rigs to safe parking, and he and his brothers would assist any church members who preferred to unhitch their buggies and shelter their horses in the stable or another of the outbuildings.
They walked, arms around each other, to the barn door, where Glory had to let go of her husband so he could open it. Several buggies were in the lane now. Church would not begin for another hour, but it might take that long for everyone to arrive and the horses to be settled and food situated to heat during worship. Church on Christmas Day was unusual, and Glory had wondered if some families would prefer to stay home and enjoy their own traditions, but one after another the buggies came. The Grabill house would be full that morning, warmed both by the fire in the hearth and faithful hearts.
When she was settled in her seat between Lyddie and Marianne and the bishop was announcing Christmas greetings, Glory looked across the aisle to where Marlin sat among the men. His married status now meant that he sat farther forward than the unmarried men, and he was shoulder to shoulder with Leroy and Josef. Her eyes moved to John, a few rows back, the last of the Grabill men waiting for the blessing of marriage. His gaze ought to have been forward, but like Glory’s it wandered at a subtle angle. He had found Sarah, and she had found him. Perhaps next year would be their wedding season.
Glory pulled her attention to the bishop’s words.
“Our brother David Grabill has made a wise recommendation,” the bishop said. “His son, Marlin, has suggested that our reading for this Christmas Day should come from the Gospel of John. As the Holy Ghost has also given me this passage for our reflection this morning, we celebrate the agreement of our hearts with God as we listen to these words. I invite Marlin Grabill to come forward and read for us.”
A Plain and Sweet Christmas Romance Collection Page 38