Not My Will and The Light in My Window

by Francena H. Arnold

  Next week I start my Christmas shopping! You have me all excited about the big surprise you have planned. I can’t imagine what it can be. Four more weeks to wait!

  Love,

  Len

  Bethel, December 18

  Dear ones at home:

  Only six more days! If they weren’t so full, I couldn’t stand it! I haven’t finished my shopping yet, and tomorrow is the last chance I’ll have. Do you know this is the first time in my life I ever bought presents for children? And now suddenly I have seventy-eight on my list! Of course I can’t afford electric trains and French dolls for that many. (Wish I could, though.) But Billy and I determined that every one of the youngsters at the institute should have a nice Christmas this year. Now listen to what she has done.

  Her father gave her money for a new coat recently, and that dear child is spending every penny of it on the institute children instead. We have been shopping twice, and when we get into the toy departments we forget to come home. Our closet is full of games and books and toy automobiles, and there are thrity-two dolls under my bed! Billy’s father is going to send a truck over to take us, the tree, and the gifts down. We will trim the tree Saturday night—my class of high school girls will do that. On Monday evening we have the big party at seven o’clock. And Tuesday noon—oh, joy!—I start for home. I am more homesick right now than I’ve been all fall.

  I know you are anxious to know how the King baby is. He is one of my greatest joys. His mother is much better but can’t carry him around, and the poor little chap can’t walk. I still take him out every afternoon, and recently I have been feeding him his supper afterward, for he will eat better for me than for anyone else.

  Yesterday he twisted the spoon out of my hand and then threw it on the floor. When it hit the floor, he laughed aloud. I was so surprised I almost fell off my chair. Such tricks may not be unusual for most sixteen-month-old youngsters, but it was a decidedly new venture for that solemn little judge, and we both felt quite shaken by it.

  You asked what his name is. Believe it or not, he hasn’t any! The students all call him the Crown Prince, but I think that annoys Dr. King. Mrs. King jokingly says they will let him name himself when he gets older. They just call him “the little chap” and let it go at that. Strange way to treat a baby, I say.

  Time for bed. I’ll be with you next Tuesday in time for supper. Tell Mrs. Hunt I want hot biscuits and some of my very own raspberry jam!

  Love,

  Len

  Bethel, December 20

  Dear Connie:

  Your note came just now, so I am answering right away. It’s just like you, and all the rest of the wonderful family I am now a member of, to suggest that I bring some lonesome student home with me for the holidays.

  I’m going to do just that! I can promise one without even stopping to think. But, if it’s all right with you, I’ll bring a lonesome boy instead of a girl. Remember Dick Dunlap? He is so homesick he can hardly attend to his work. And he can’t afford to go home for Christmas. Having lived in Arizona all his life, he has no idea of the joys of a white Christmas. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I’m sure he will come.

  Once I bring him up into the pine and birch woods, so he can see the forest wrapped in its white mantle, I think the wonder of it will thrill him so much that he’ll forget his homesickness.

  We have had snow here for a week, but snow in a city and snow in the north woods are two entirely different things.

  If it isn’t all right, call me collect. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll invite him.

  In haste—love,

  Len

  Christmas Eve, and the snow falling in great feathery wisps. All afternoon as the train traveled northward, Eleanor’s heart and mind had raced far ahead. It was good to be going home for Christmas, back to that dear place where she had found joy and peace. It would be good to be a part of the family circle again, to feel once more around her those arms that had held her in the first “mother clasp” she had ever known.

  At her side sat Dick Dunlap. He, too, had fallen into a reverie, and they rode in silence except for an occasional exclamation of pleasure at the beauty of the snow-clad landscape.

  As the train approached their destination, however, Dick said with an embarrassed laugh, “It was fine of you to ask me to come, Eleanor, but I’m beginning to be nervous about barging in on a family party like this. Maybe they’ll think I’m in the way and will wish I hadn’t come.”

  “Listen, you,” Eleanor reproved, “I have already told you ten times that the folks all said I must bring you. And after you meet them, you’ll know they meant it. Sometime, Dick, when you know them all better, I’ll tell you the story of how I barged in on them, as you say. That’s a real story. It’s a story so full of my willfulness and their big-heartedness and God’s goodness that I can’t think of it yet without feeling overwhelmed by it all. After I had insulted them and wronged them, they took me in and cared for me and loved me and made a place in their home for me. They taught me what it means to live daily in close fellowship with God. And they made heaven seem so near and real that all the hurt and sting of my husband’s death turned into a quiet peace that nothing can disturb. Oh, they are a wonderful family.”

  “After such a buildup, I’m almost afraid I’m not good enough to meet them,” Dick said soberly.

  “You needn’t be afraid,” Eleanor assured him. “They aren’t long-faced. Billy would call them a ‘jolly bunch.’ And I predict that your visit will be a lively one. Oh, here we are, and the train is stopping! I didn’t realize! Dick, I’m so excited to be getting home again. Let’s hurry!”

  They slipped into their coats, and Eleanor started for the door, both arms full of bundles. Dick followed with two big suitcases. When the train stopped, they were the first to come down the steps, and Eleanor looked around eagerly for the familiar gray car. She failed to see it, and her face fell.

  “Eleanor!” called a voice from the far end of the platform, and a small figure in a snowsuit and high boots came flying toward the returning girl.

  “Len, oh, Len, is it really you? Oh, I’m so glad!”

  “I’m glad, too, little sister, but I can’t hug you until we get to the car and I put these packages down.

  Mary Lou began to laugh. “There isn’t any car. Come and see.”

  She led the way to the rear of the station, Eleanor and Dick following in amused curiosity. There a novel sight awaited them. At the curb stood the familiar farm team hitched to an old-fashioned bobsled. Bob was sitting in the driver’s seat, and Connie and Marilyn were curled up on the floor of the big wagon box.

  Introductions were properly made, then Dick helped Eleanor and Mary Lou in with the other girls, tucked the blankets all around, and climbed up in front with Bob. The bells on the horses jingled a gay, silvery tune as they started for home.

  “I suppose you are used to sleigh rides,” said Eleanor gaily, “but this is quite a novelty to me.”

  “No,” said Connie, “we’ve had very few in our lifetime. The snowplows come along and clear the roads almost as soon as it stops snowing, as a rule. But listen. Bob’s telling Dick how this happened.”

  “We keep these old bobs in the shed,” Bob was explaining, “for on a dairy farm where the milk has to go to market every day, we have to be prepared for anything. This morning when we got up, there was a regular blizzard on, and the road was too deep for the car to tackle. So I got out the old sleds and put this box on them. The snow has kept up all day, so the plow hasn’t got through yet. And when it came time to start for the train, all the girls wanted to come along for the ride.”

  “I don’t wonder,” returned Dick. “I’ve heard of sleigh rides all my life, but I never even saw snow until two weeks ago in the city. It was beautiful there for a few minutes but soon turned to a nasty muck that almost drove me back to Arizona.”

  Eleanor spoke up. “Yes, when I found him the other morning to invite him to come home with me, he was serious
ly considering giving up his ministerial career and departing for the Southwest by the first train.”

  “It wasn’t quite that bad,” Dick remarked, a little embarrassed at being the center of attention. “But I was plenty homesick. If I hadn’t been, I would never have had the nerve to descend on you folks like this.”

  “Say, fellow,” said Bob earnestly, “you can’t know how glad I am to have another man in the crowd. There are four females in the back of this sleigh and two more at home. I’m the most henpecked man in the county, and I surely welcome a little reinforcement.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” came Connie’s voice from the back. “Really the whole household waits on him, and he’s the most spoiled man in the county!”

  “That’s true,” said Marilyn. “When we got ready to come to the train, I even had to put his boots on for him.”

  “I think you girls are teasing Bob,” came the grave tones of Mary Lou. “He really isn’t badly spoiled. And he couldn’t put on his boots because he had so many clothes on he couldn’t stoop over. And he had just eaten three pieces of pie.”

  Much to Mary Lou’s bewilderment, everyone shouted with laughter. Then Bob said, “Thanks, honey, but next time just let ’em tease me. It’s easier to take.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then the sleigh rounded a curve in the road, and they were suddenly confronted by a beautiful picture—the moon just peeping over the white-clad pines and birches.

  Softly Eleanor quoted:

  The moon above the eastern wood

  Shone at its full; the hill range stood

  Transfigured in the silver flood.

  Silence reigned again, only broken by Bob’s urging the horses to a swifter pace. As they obeyed, the bells began a livelier tune, and then Connie’s sweet voice was heard.

  Jingle bells, jingle bells,

  Jingle all the way.

  All the others joined merrily in the song, even Dick.

  “Where did you learn to sing that?” asked Eleanor when the song was finished. “I thought you never were in any snow.”

  “That’s right,” Dick responded. “But we sing ‘Jingle Bells’ in Arizona anyway, just for the fun of it. It’s a nice song even if it doesn’t fit the climate.”

  As the sleigh turned into the drive, its occupants could see a white head watching from inside the front door, and the door opened as soon as the sleigh stopped. In a moment Eleanor was flying up the walk and into the arms that welcomed her.

  “It’s so good to be here!” she cried. Then, lowering her voice to a quick whisper, she questioned, “It was all right for me to bring Dick, wasn’t it? I’ll sleep on the cot in your room, and he can have my bed.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Mother objected. “There’s an empty room upstairs. I knew you would want to be back in your own nest. I’m delighted that you brought him, my dear.”

  Then the others swarmed up the walk and into the house, where a hot supper was waiting.

  The wide doors to the living room were closed, and Eleanor guessed that the Christmas tree, of whose marvelous quantity and quality she had already been forewarned in Mary Lou’s letters, was waiting behind the doors. All through the meal Mary Lou’s impatience was noticeable, and when all had finished eating she began to carry off the dishes with a speed that threatened to be disastrous. The older girls rallied to the aid of the chinaware, and while Bob and Dick went on a tour of inspection to see that the chores were properly done and the precious herd was safely bedded for the night, the girls washed the dishes and put the kitchen in shining order.

  When the family reassembled in the dining room, Connie was missing. But soon, from the living room, came the sound of the piano. Mary Lou drew open the doors, and there before the eyes of all stood the great tree, shimmering with many-colored lights and ornaments.

  Connie began to sing and they all joined in.

  Oh, Christmas tree!

  Oh, Christmas tree!

  How lovely are thy branches!

  In summer sun or winter snow,

  A dress of green you always show.

  Oh, Christmas tree!

  Oh, Christmas tree!

  How lovely are thy branches!

  Glorious as the Christmas tree was, it was not that which held Eleanor’s attention. Her eyes were riveted on a great fireplace that had been built into the end of the room opposite the door.

  Under cover of the song, she whispered to Marilyn, “The fireplace? When?”

  “Just finished. Keep still, and Mother will tell about it later.”

  So Eleanor’s curiosity had to wait. She turned to Mother Stewart and said, “Do you distribute the gifts this evening? Mine are still in my room.”

  “No” was the reply. “We just enjoy the tree and have music and the Christmas story on Christmas Eve. Then after the lights are out, we each slip back and put our gifts at the foot of the tree. Tomorrow morning we will open them as soon as we get up.”

  “We get up early on Christmas,” added Mary Lou, and everyone laughed.

  “Indeed we do,” corroborated Connie. “Last year that little lady woke me up at half-past two and insisted it was morning.”

  “Well, it was,” argued Mary Lou. “Our teacher says morning begins at one minute after twelve. And it seems very foolish not to get up when you’re so wide awakeful.”

  “Well, I’m giving you a sleeping powder tonight,” laughed Connie. “Anyone who gets up before six o’clock tomorrow has to do the breakfast dishes all alone!”

  Mary Lou looked so distressed that Eleanor hastened to promise her help in case of that dread event. Then Connie began to play again, an old Bohemian Christmas carol, but only Bob and Marilyn sang, while the others listened with pleasure.

  “Mother,” said Mary Lou suddenly, “Eleanor’s been wanting to know about the fireplace. Can’t you tell her now?”

  “Yes, I will. The dedication of this fireplace must be a part of our Christmas Eve program. And I want Eleanor to know that she is responsible for the building of the fireplace.”

  “I?” questioned Eleanor, amazed. “Why, I didn’t do a thing—I didn’t even know about it.”

  “Nevertheless, you brought it about,” said the mother. “Come here, my dear, and sit by me while I tell all the story. Even my own dear children, who have helped to carry out the building plans, don’t know why it was done. It’s a rather long story, but I want you all to hear it. Dick, you’ll pardon a little family reminiscing, won’t you?”

  Dick, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace watching the firelight flicker on Connie’s curls, nodded his consent.

  “Dad and I,” continued Mother, “bought this farm when Chad was a small baby. The house was old and run down, with no modern conveniences at all. We worked hard to pay for it, and we spent many happy hours planning how we would remodel ‘our dream house,’ as we called it. Then Bobby came to us, and two years later, Connie. We were happy with our three little ones and our plans for a lovely home.

  “Dad was especially interested in having a fireplace in this room. He said he and his brothers and sisters had grown up around a coal heater, and he wanted his children to have memories of a cozy family fireplace. So he drew diagrams of all the improvements we planned, centering everything about the fireplace he longed for.

  “Then, one night—the very night that God brought our little Mary Lou to us—Daddy went home to be with the Lord. No one except the dear Savior Himself can ever know how hard it was for me to go on without him.”

  Mother Stewart paused for a moment to steady her voice, then continued briskly, “But the children needed me so I had to live and work for them. They were brave little soldiers, and we struggled on together. Using what was left of Dad’s insurance money, I remodeled the house and made the little hospital he had planned. In fact, every detail of the plans was carried out—except the fireplace. I couldn’t do that. The other improvements seemed necessary, but the fireplace was our lovely dream, whic
h we had shared together.

  “Then Chad left us, too, but in our loneliness his wife, Eleanor, came to us. And last summer she gave the rock garden that she and Chad had dreamed together, in order to beautify our little churchyard. The day we dedicated that rock garden, I realized how selfish I had been. That day I resolved that this fireplace should be built. And here it is.

  “That’s the story of my fireplace. Tonight I want to dedicate it to our Lord. May its light and warmth be a blessing to all who gather about it.”

  All were quiet as the story concluded. Then Mary Lou put her arms about her mother and said, “I’ll always love the fireplace ’specially because my daddy wanted me to have it.”

  “Let’s have the Christmas story now,” suggested Bob.

  The well-worn Bible was taken from the table, and Mother read the stories of the shepherds and the wise men and the wonderful gift from heaven, the little Baby in the manger. Then they all knelt together for a circle of prayer.

  Once more Connie took her seat at the piano, and the little group began to sing “Silent Night,” “Away in a Manger,” and all the well-loved Christmas hymns. Dick was on familiar ground and sang out lustily.

  Eleanor and Mary Lou soon dropped out from the singing and just sat by the fireside listening, Mary Lou elated at having Eleanor home again, Eleanor happy to be in the dear parlor once more.

  Mother Stewart’s voice was next to become silent as she sat gazing at the flames, deep in reverie, thinking of other Christmases when Doctor Dad had been with the family.

  When the fire had burned low, and Mary Lou was asleep with her head in Eleanor’s lap, Eleanor suddenly said, “Before we go to bed, I’d like to hear Connie and Dick sing a duet. Won’t you try ‘O Holy Night’?”