by Jan Karon
He had no idea whether his flock would be able to gather for the Christmas Eve Mass at Holy Trinity. If it snowed, as some predicted it would, passage to the church could be limited and risky. Give us Your grace to gather, Lord ...
The Grace to Gather, he scribbled. Sermon title.
And what would he give his helpmeet of eight years, his soul mate, his much better half?
Not a clue.
Last year, he had poured his very heart and soul, not to mention spleen, into restoring the twenty-odd derelict Nativity figures.
How could he top that?
It wasn’t all roses with Sammy.
But then, he hadn’t expected it to be.
Certainly, the almost-nightly phone talks with Dooley helped. No question.
The garden had helped.
His part-time job with Willie was helping.
And the trips to Bud Wyzer’s pool hall were definitely beneficial, though Sammy resented the fact that he hung around, especially in his collar.
Agreeing that his presence at Bud’s bar compromised Sammy’s sense of independence, the vicar decided to bite the bullet and do something more than hang around.
Come January, he’d take up the game, himself.
Cynthia was dumbfounded. “Glory be!” she said.
Where his Yankee wife had learned such talk was beyond him.
“I thought you was p-prayin’ f’r Kenny t’ be f-found.”
“I am. We are.”
“He ain’t showed up.”
“Perhaps God has something else for Kenny’s life. Something more important.”
“Wh-what could be more important than b-bein’ with ...”
“Family?” Sammy had never used that word in the vicar’s hearing. “I don’t know. But God knows.”
“M-maybe you need t’ ch-change y’rprayer.”
“I’m expecting God to send him, I believe God will send him, but in the end ...”
“In th’ end, what?”
“I continue to pray the prayer that never fails.”
“Wh-what’s it say, I f’rgit.”
“Thy will be done. It’s what our Lord prayed when He knew He was going to be crucified, it’s ...”
“An’ s-see what happened?” Sammy looked deeply troubled. “It d-didn’ work.”
“So! We’re hoping Dooley and Lace will be Mary and Joseph and of course, Father Tim will be a shepherd.You’ll make a perfect wise man, and the costume will be lots of fun; I’ll make it myself. We hope you’ll do it; we really need you to do it!”
His wife was aware that this wouldn’t be an easy casting job. “We’ll give him everything he likes for dinner, and I’ll use the word need. What can he say?”
“No,” said Sammy.
“I’ve got a great idea.”
They were sitting in the kitchen before a blazing fire. Lloyd had claimed the new chimney would draw better than it had in its heyday, and from the looks of things, he was right.
“We’ll get our tree from the woods on the Thursday before Christmas.You, Dooley,Lace, Sammy, Willie, we’ll all go out looking. How does that sound?”
He remembered how he and Peggy, his mother’s housekeeper, had gone to the woods with a wagon and ax and chopped down what they had imagined to be a forty-foot cedar. It had been an immense accomplishment, even if the tree, as it turned out, reached only halfway to the ceiling.
“Straight from a Victorian postcard,” said his wife. “And a perfect opportunity for hot chocolate in a thermos! I love it!”
“Cynthia, Cynthia, what don’t you love?”
“Shopping malls at any time of year, especially now; flea shampoo that does nothing more than attract a new colony of fleas; and roasts that cost a fortune and cook out dry”
“When I ask you this question, you always have the answer on the tip of your tongue. How do you do that?”
“I don’t know, I suppose it’s just in there, waiting to get out.”
“Where shall we put the tree?”
“On the window seat, don’t you think? There’s plenty of room. Of course, no one can see it from the road, which is a shame. I love to see Christmas trees shining in windows. But the kitchen is where we live.”
“Done!” He went to the drawer by the stove and searched for the tape measure.
“Our boy will be rolling in tomorrow afternoon. What if I take us all to dinner at Lucera?”
“Umm,” she said.
“Umm? You wouldn’t like a fancy, overpriced dinner?”
“No, darling. And Dooley wouldn’t, either, nor would Sammy, nor would you. But thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He measured the depth of the window seat, and the height and width of the cubicle.
“Short and fat!”
His wife looked up from her book.
“Not you, Kavanagh.”
He occasionally wandered through the house, gazing at the plaster Nativity scene.
While Mary and Joseph waited patiently on the window seat where the tree would be placed, the humble old shepherd and his flock resided in the library on the coffee table, and the wise men and their amusing camel had been appropriately placed “afar,” in the parlor bookcase.
Unbeknownst to anyone but the vicar, the Child lay in a bureau drawer, swaddled in one of his undershirts.
It was no surprise that he’d been sent to Mitford on more than one occasion to haul back items for the holy days:
Old sheets for costumes, rope from Harley’s vast supply of odds and ends, candles, wreath frames, ribbon, wrapping paper, gift boxes ...
“Plunder!” he said, off-loading it all onto the kitchen table.
“Did you tell Willie we’ll need straw?”
“Straw is easily come by, not to worry”
“I wish we could bring a lamb or two inside,” she said, actually meaning it.
“Where are we going with this thing? You’ll have me building the walls of Bethlehem as a backdrop.”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” she said, looking interested.
When his wife wasn’t doing a book or a wall calendar, she was a force to be reckoned with.
Two bowls of popcorn were making the rounds of their small soiree by the fire.
“I thought it would be lovely if we added something,” announced their director. “Lace, will you read a poem for us on Christmas Eve?”
“I will!”
“Since our entire cast is assembled, save for a wise man, which is very hard to find these days, I was thinking it would be good if you read the poem to us tonight. Then, when we hear it again on Christmas Eve, it should have fresh depth and meaning for us all. What do you think?”
Lace took the book Cynthia proffered; her amber eyes scanned the poem.
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 ha
ve 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 hel
p?”
“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.