Her voice dropped. “Yeah, we’d talked about it before I got pregnant, but we’d never decided. Not really. And then you practically ran to the doctor only two weeks after we lost Benjamin. You didn’t ask; you simply took charge, and . . . I felt bullied into the decision. I could barely think straight, and then suddenly . . . it was done.”
Ingrid wiped her cheek. “If Butter dies, then I have to figure out how . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to force out the words. “How to live with you. How to stop being so angry with you. I thought I was over it, but . . . but I’m not. And somehow I have to figure out how to forgive you. How to love you again, anyway.”
He didn’t move, and for a second, neither did she. Just the rise and fall of their breathing as she stared at him. At the terrible truth she hadn’t wanted to believe.
“You stopped trusting God. And I . . . I stopped trusting you.”
His mouth tightened. Thankfully, he didn’t reach for her. But his eyes glistened, and in a dark, nearly hidden place inside Ingrid, something howled when a tear dropped down his cheek.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why did I have to?” she whispered.
Kate came back into the room, holding a tray with a vial and needle. “I’m so sorry.”
Ingrid wiped her cheek fast, hard. “We should get Romeo.”
“He’s out back with the puppies.”
“Leave him,” John said. He put his hand on Butter’s body, then bent down to meet her eyes. They remained closed. “You were a good dog, Butterscotch.” He kissed her between her eyes. Stood. “It’s up to Ingrid.”
Ingrid looked at Kate and nodded. She clenched her teeth, watching as Kate inserted the needle. “How long will it be?”
“About a minute.”
A minute. Ingrid stooped and took Butter’s head in her hands, rubbing the soft skin inside her ears. Butter moaned and opened her eyes. Found Ingrid’s.
“I love you, Butter,” Ingrid whispered, but the words didn’t quite make it out.
And then Butter closed her eyes.
Ingrid leaned her head against the dog’s belly, listening to her breath until it finally stopped.
“It’s too cold outside to bury her,” she heard John say, somewhere behind the thundering of her pulse.
“We can take care of her,” Kate said quietly.
Ingrid closed her eyes. Bit her lip. Breathed out a long breath.
Then she stood and walked out of the room, leaving Butter on the table behind her.
No doubt Ingrid was right.
John hadn’t a prayer of fixing the problems between them. He couldn’t exactly go back in time and . . .
Frankly he couldn’t get past the idea that he had been right.
For two weeks after the day he’d found his wife in a pool of blood in the bathroom, after he’d rushed her to the ER, after they’d lost Benjamin, after he’d been shaken at his life unraveling before his eyes, he’d watched his wife descend into darkness. So with resolve in his heart, he headed to the doctor.
Because he—they—had six children to raise. Six children who needed their mother. And John couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
If Butter dies, then I have to figure out how . . . to love you again.
He hardly slept, those words seeping into his chest like poison.
At one point, he rolled onto his side, watching the night outline his wife. The desire to rest his hand on her hip, roll her over to himself, try to comfort her, nearly overtook him.
He rose in the darkness of 4 a.m., brewed a cup of coffee, then found Butter’s bowl and dog bed and took them out to the garage, hiking back through knee-high drifts.
The blizzard had died with the night, leaving only waves of snow across the deck, the lake a pristine ocean of white.
He hitched the plow to his truck and started in his driveway, clearing a path, then drove into town.
At the station, he climbed into the John Deere, finished his coffee in the thermos, and headed out into Deep Haven, clearing the roads, the snow peeling off his plow in curls of cream, banked in unblemished piles as the sun rose glorious and bronze over the horizon.
If I let Butter go, then it’s just you and me. And I have to figure out how to forgive you for that.
Why hadn’t she told him?
He parked the plow at the station, then took the truck to the church and cleared the lot. Finally he dug out the manger scene, cleaning it off, and plugged in the heaters.
He drove home with the sun still low, simmering across the icy lake, and thawed out in his living room, staring at their barren tree. He tried to rearrange a few ornaments to hide the empty places, to no avail.
Ingrid trod down the stairs an hour later. She said nothing as she brewed new coffee. Then she cracked eggs and stirred up waffle mix. The smell turned the room familiar, and he walked over to the counter, sat down.
She didn’t look at him as she forked out a waffle and handed it to him on a plate.
“Ingrid—”
“I need to get over to the church and set up for the Nativity this afternoon. I have a million things to do—including finding wise men. I can’t believe I forgot to cast them.” She set the syrup in front of him, then headed upstairs.
He ate in the quiet, missing Butter’s nudge on his knee, asking for a bite of waffle.
Ingrid left the house before Romeo rose, and John didn’t ask what they might be doing for supper, why the annual wild-rice soup didn’t simmer on the stove or why the smell of fresh buns baking didn’t fragrance the house.
He was standing, staring out the window, lost in himself, when he heard Romeo rise.
“Um, are these waffles for me?”
Two cold waffles sat on a plate on the counter.
John nodded. “Heat them in the microwave.”
He heard the appliance running. Apparently Romeo could take care of himself. Perhaps they all could.
Romeo stirred his waffles through syrup. “Are we going to the live Nativity thing?”
John didn’t feel like going anywhere. Still, he nodded.
“Do you think . . . ?” Romeo made a face. For the first time, John noticed his eyes were red, even puffy. “Do you think dogs go to heaven?”
John slid onto a stool. Oh, boy. “I think God loves animals, but the truth is, I don’t know the answer to that question. I think we’ll have to wait and see.” He rested a hand on Romeo’s shoulder.
Romeo stared at his waffle, blinking. “Uncle John, do you think . . . do you think I’ll go to heaven when I die?”
Oh. He didn’t know why, but the words became a fist in his chest, and he couldn’t breathe.
You might consider that you’re one of the few father figures he’s ever had. Nate’s words rattled through him.
“That’s a great question, Romeo. And the answer is God loves you, and He wants you to be with Him in heaven. That’s the point of Christmas.”
Romeo bit his lip. Let out a shuddering breath. Nodded.
John wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders, his voice thick. “You know, God is just a prayer away. Right there. All you have to do is say you need Him.”
Romeo wiped a thumb across his eye.
Oh, God, I’m so sorry I didn’t want this kid. This son of Yours. Thank You for giving him to me, for making me realize, again, the gift of being a father.
He, too, wiped his eye, dislodging the moisture there. In fact, it could be that Romeo gave John and Ingrid more than they had given him.
When the phone rang, John got up, found it on the sofa.
“Hey, Dad. . . . Uh, Ivy and I can’t do this Nativity thing today. She’s . . . she’s not feeling well and . . .” Darek’s voice wavered, and John lowered himself onto the sofa.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mom asked Ivy and me to be in the Nativity scene today, but she’s throwing up and cramping. . . . I . . . I don’t know what to do.”
Panic. John heard it in Darek’s voice, an
d it peeled back time to his own moment, standing in the Deep Haven ER, waiting . . . fearing.
Yeah, maybe he hadn’t acted out of responsibility but panic when he decided they wouldn’t have any more children.
The knowledge turned his voice raw.
“Darek, listen. Don’t worry about the live Nativity. I’ll take care of it. We’re leaving right now to get Tiger. You be ready to take Ivy to the ER.”
“Dad . . . do you think she’s going to lose the baby?”
“I don’t know, Darek. I do know that it’s not in your hands. Don’t panic. Just pray. That’s your job.”
That’s your job. The words pinged inside him, registered, hung on as he went upstairs to change, hollering at Romeo to do the same.
Darek met him at the apartment door with Tiger, a backpack, and a grim look.
“Hey, Tiger, want to sleep over tonight?” John asked.
“But what about Santa? How will he find me? I don’t have a stocking at your house.”
“He’ll find you, kiddo,” John said. He ran in and retrieved Tiger’s homemade stocking from the hearth. “We got this,” he said as Darek shut the door.
They drove to the church and unloaded Tiger with the other children getting ready to don wings. A wreath hung at the apex of the entrance, and a trail of lights in paper bags surrounded the portico he’d cleaned.
Someone had layered straw on the ground, but the heaters had even thawed a semicircle of snow outside, right down to the grass. A layer of light snow blanketed the top of the stable, but inside, it looked cozy enough to . . . well, host the baby Jesus.
Something even the original Joseph might have approved of.
Inside the church, he found chaos. Edith and her hospitality crew decorated the tables with plates of cookies as a crew of mothers helped their children don angel wings.
Romeo headed over to a gated Sunday school room. Tiger tugged at John’s hand. “Grandpa—there’s puppies!”
John released him, then followed him to see. Inside the room, puppies from the shelter frolicked with a handful of children, Kate in the middle, minding the fun.
She met John’s eye. “It was Romeo’s idea,” she said. “He called me about an hour ago and I thought, why not?”
John looked at Romeo. “Really?”
Romeo lifted a shoulder. “Aunt Ingrid was having trouble getting enough animals.”
“John, what are you doing here?”
He turned to find Ingrid holding a pair of broken wings and tape.
“Did you find your wise men?”
She frowned, shook her head, then glanced at Tiger. “What’s going on? Where are Darek and Ivy?”
John stood there, the words caught in his chest. “Romeo, can you help Tiger with his wings?”
“Sure thing, Uncle John.”
“And then come and find me because you’re going to be a wise man.”
Romeo raised an eyebrow but nodded.
“He’s a wise man? Oh . . . okay.”
“And . . . honey, we’re Mary and Joseph.”
“What?”
He grabbed her elbow and brought her into the quiet sanctuary, away from the bustle of the preparations. “I know I should wait to tell you this, and it was going to be a surprise, but . . . Ivy is pregnant and she’s a little sick right now, so Darek is bringing her to the hospital.”
He didn’t let her protest, simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to himself. “It’ll be okay.”
And for a moment, she clung to him. Everything righting itself, her words from last night vanished. For this moment, he could be what she needed.
“Really, you’ll be Joseph?” She looked at him, her eyes so beautiful that he felt sick for ever turning her down. He nodded.
“Okay.” She pressed her hand to his chest. “The costume is in the nursery, along with your staff and a wool overcoat. I’ll go track down the Mary part.”
He leaned in to kiss her, but she moved out his arms. Probably not intentionally. He hoped not.
Joseph’s attire, along with the wise men’s—or man’s—hung in the nursery, as Ingrid said. Romeo knocked on the door as John pulled on the tunic.
John handed him his costume, a red flannel jacket with fake rhinestones and a crown. “You know, the most important skill the wise men possessed was their ability to recognize the Savior when they saw him. It’s up to you to decide if you’re a wise man.”
Romeo stared at the robe, back at John, and he couldn’t help it—he wrapped an arm around the kid’s neck. Just for a second, but long enough.
“I’ll be outside, trying not to freeze to death.”
The sky had turned dusky with the fall of the afternoon. John found Nate relighting a couple of candles in the bags.
“Wow,” Nate said.
“Don’t start.”
“Hey,” Nate said, “I’ve always thought you’d make a good Joseph.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Joseph was a carpenter.” He nodded to the stable. “And that fortress could withstand a hurricane.”
“Or a blizzard.” Ingrid stepped out from the entrance, wearing a blue dress, a white scarf. And mittens.
“Mary might have had mittens,” she said.
John smiled at her, and a heat swept through him at the sight of his pretty wife dressed in motherly garb. No one fit the part better.
“We don’t have a live baby,” Ingrid said, producing a doll in a blanket. She tromped over to the Nativity, putting the baby bundle in the manger. “By the way, I called Darek. They’re in the ER, but they think maybe it’s just the flu. They’re doing an ultrasound.”
John stepped up behind her. Put his hand on her shoulder.
Don’t panic. Just pray. His own words reverberated through him. If only he’d had such a voice sixteen years ago.
He took his position behind Mary as she sat by the manger.
The heat blasted out, the coils red-hot behind him. He hadn’t realized what a tight fit it would be, but the enclave was warm. Not exactly cozy, but bearable.
The church choir stood under the entrance and began to hum. Cars pulled up, and a meager handful of community members stopped to take pictures or stand and watch, singing with the choir.
John shivered despite the heater and backed up just a little. Maybe they could go in for cookies early if no one else showed up.
The angels filtered out and stood on the hay around the manger while parents snapped pictures. Tiger waved to him, and John winked.
In his brain flashed a memory of Casper and Owen as angels. To his memory, they’d gotten in a wrestling match and come home wet and frozen.
Then the shepherds appeared—a handful of grade school boys dressed in bathrobes. Finally the wise man. Romeo approached carrying a gold box.
“I can’t believe I forgot the wise men,” Ingrid said under her breath. “Thanks.”
Pastor Dan stood on a hay bale and welcomed everyone.
“The first Christmas wasn’t even this well attended,” he said. “But the participants were handpicked by God. The shepherds, who were asked simply to believe and to go and worship. The wise men, who recognized the star of Bethlehem before Jesus’ arrival and set off on a journey to find Him. Their searching was rewarded with joy. The angels, the trumpeters of glory born on earth. Joseph, the Savior’s earthly father, his only job requirement that of listening and obeying God. Being trustworthy. And finally Mary, who trusted God and allowed herself to be used by the Almighty for the good of us all. We invite you tonight to the manger and ask, who are you? Is God asking you to believe? Is He rewarding your search tonight with Himself? Are you here with a heart of joy? Or perhaps you need to listen, to trust and obey. Maybe, however, you’re Mary, and God is simply asking you to be willing to say yes to whatever He asks.”
He stepped down, and the choir sang a verse of “Silent Night.”
John stood there, warm in the enclave.
Perhaps you need to listen, to trust and o
bey. He found Romeo’s eyes on him and remembered his question. Why did God pick Joseph? A simple man who worked with his hands, with the one skill God wanted for raising His Son. The ability to listen.
Not provide. Not protect. Not even lead, but listen, trust, and obey.
Like when God appeared to Joseph in a dream and told him to keep his engagement to Mary. And later, when God told him to move to Egypt in the night to protect Jesus. After that, the dream to return home so Jesus could grow to be the Nazarene, a fulfillment of prophecy.
Listen. Trust. Obey.
You stopped trusting God. And I . . . I stopped trusting you.
Oh. He swallowed hard against a gasp. He had stopped trusting God—he’d simply decided that he should be in control, rather than God. He’d held his children in his arms and thought, I must provide. But what if God handed him his family and said, Trust Me; listen and obey?
He pressed his hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. She glanced at him.
He met her eyes, held them, struck by how young and beautiful and immensely blue they still were.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His throat tightened. “I’m so sorry.”
She blinked and bit her lip. Then her eyes widened and she jumped up. “John! You’re on fire!”
AT LEAST NO ONE had to stand out in the cold for an hour.
John’s robe had caught fire against the hot coils of the heaters, and as he shrugged it off, flames bit at the edges of the straw. He’d practically picked up Ingrid in his arms and tossed her into the snow. By the time Pastor Dan found the shovel, John and Nathan and a handful of other men had been scooping snow with their bare hands, throwing it onto the flames of the engulfed manger.
The fire streaked into the sky, searing the night and calling out the neighbors. Someone alerted the police and then the volunteer fire department and even the rescue squad, which came in handy when the Bethlehem star affixed above the manger exploded in a shower of glass and sparks.
Parents scattered with their children back into the church, where the EMTs checked for injuries.
Then the newspaper staff showed up with photographers.
Someone must have alerted the Lutheran church prayer chain because the pastor and his wife—not to mention a handful of carolers—arrived, probably straight from the senior center, where they’d been hosting a Christmas Eve service.
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