A Christmas Visitor

by Thomas Kinkade

  “The church should hire an antique or art appraiser,” Sara suggested. “They might be able to figure out its origins.”

  “I’d thought of that. But the church council will need to approve that kind of expense, and they won’t meet again until the new year.”

  By then, I might be run out of town over this. Especially if Sara’s grandmother has her way.

  “By the way, did you interview your grandmother for this piece? She had a lot to say about the situation yesterday.”

  Sara and her husband, Luke, had lived in Lillian’s huge house ever since last winter when Lillian had fallen and needed care. Now they remained there, keeping her company and allowing her to live more or less independently.

  “Oh, don’t pay any attention to Lillian. She always needs something to be outraged about. Otherwise, she gets low blood pressure,” Sara joked.

  “She did have a point,” Ben allowed. “I’ve been wondering if others in the congregation feel the same way.”

  “Well, if they do, they’re certainly not in the majority. I’ve interviewed dozens of people, and my grandmother is the only one who was so negative. I just chalked that up to Lillian being Lillian.” Sara packed up her camera and notebook in a big leather sack that seemed to double as both handbag and briefcase. “Thanks for your help, Reverend. It’s hard to say when we’ll run the story. Could be as soon as tomorrow. Definitely before Christmas,” she promised.

  Ben walked with her to the big wooden doors. “I’ll be interested to read it.”

  Not that he was looking forward to the publicity. But what could he do? The situation seemed to be spinning out of his control.

  As the day progressed, the idea of the news article coming out weighed on Ben’s mind. He decided he needed to call Reverend Hallock and explain what was going on, before his superior read about it in the paper.

  At the end of the day, after his secretary, Irene, had left, Ben dialed Reverend Hallock’s office number, half hoping he would find Hallock gone for the day. But surprisingly, Reverend Hallock answered the phone himself.

  Ben greeted him. “Sorry to bother you so late in the day, Thomas. But something’s come up here. You may read about it in the newspaper soon, and I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “Good to hear from you, Ben. What’s going on?”

  “Well…It’s a unique situation, really. Nothing I’ve personally come across before, though, of course, you do hear of these things from time to time.…” Ben paused. He wasn’t digressing on purpose, but it was hard to explain. He took a breath, willing himself to just get to the point.

  “There’s a statue in our church. It’s an angel. Very old, a beautiful piece of workmanship. The sexton and I found it in the basement a few weeks ago and put it up as a Christmas decoration. Since then, several people have come forward, claiming that the angel has answered their prayers and possesses…miraculous powers.”

  There. He’d said it.

  “Miraculous powers? What sort of miracles has this statue performed?” Thomas didn’t sound shocked or even that impressed, Ben thought. He sounded skeptical.

  Ben described the claims from Carl, Digger, and Grace. “I’ve heard those firsthand, from members of our congregation. There are others, too. People who have visited the church and left prayer petitions. There have been a lot of visitors lately.”

  “I see. This will all be reported in the newspaper?”

  “A reporter from the Cape Light Messenger stopped by today. She said the story would run before Christmas.”

  “Perfect timing. Should sell a lot of papers.”

  “Yes,” Ben agreed.

  Reverend Hallock didn’t speak for a long moment. Ben waited, wondering now if he should have called sooner, asking for permission to speak to the newspaper.

  Finally, Reverend Hallock said, “And what do you think about all this, Ben? What’s your position?”

  Ben took a breath. “I think that there are many explanations for these events—logical, mundane explanations. Yet the people who say they have experienced a miracle seem to believe it. I find it hard to deny their personal truth unequivocally. Who am I to say what they’ve experienced, Thomas?”

  “True enough.” But there was something reluctant in Hallock’s tone.

  “I don’t encourage it in any way. Except perhaps to keep the statue in the sanctuary,” Ben allowed. “The deaconate met and discussed the matter. An excellent point was raised that has become a touchstone for me. One of the deacons pointed out that people come to the statue to communicate with some higher source, with God. They come with faith that their prayers will be heard. We felt that it wouldn’t be right to remove the statue right now and to deny those prayerfully seeking help and guidance…Not at Christmas.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” Reverend Hallock sighed.

  Ben sensed that his superior felt uncomfortable with the entire situation. Especially the impending publicity. He wondered if he should have mentioned the Internet chat board, then decided it was probably better if Thomas learned about that on his own. Sara’s article was sure to mention it.

  “After Christmas, we’ll probably put it away again,” Ben said. “We brought it out as a holiday decoration, not for permanent use.”

  “Well, that’s some compromise. To be honest, I would prefer that the statue was removed immediately. But since you feel so strongly and your church deaconate has decided upon it, I agree it can remain until the holidays are over.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. I do think that’s the right thing to do,” Ben added.

  “It’s sounds as if you’ve thought this through and given the question full consideration. It’s a complicated issue, Ben. Please be careful about what you say, what you endorse. Otherwise, we might both be starting the new year looking for new jobs.”

  Ben laughed, though he knew Hallock was serious beneath his joking tone.

  “I will be careful, Thomas. But thanks for your advice.”

  Ben hung up the phone and straightened out his desk. He felt relieved now that the phone call was over and he was eager to get home. He retrieved his hat and coat from the closet, shut off the office lights, and locked the door. Then he made the rounds to be sure all the lights had been turned off and the thermostat in the sanctuary turned to its low setting. It was really Carl’s job but one Ben needed to double-check. They were not a rich church and had to watch their pennies.

  He entered the sanctuary and was about to shut off the lights when he realized the church was not completely empty. A woman with elegant silver-gray hair stood near the statue. Ben watched as she slowly walked around the pedestal, studying it up and down. She wore a dark red coat, a patterned scarf, and black leather gloves. He recognized her. She had come to visit the statue several times before.

  When she came around the front again, she stood before it, looking up into its face for a long time. Then she knelt in a nearby pew, her head bowed at a graceful angle. Ben sat in the rear of the darkened sanctuary, waiting for her to finish. Finally, she rose, picked up her purse, and walked down the center aisle, passing him.

  He walked to the wall switches and was just about to turn off the lights, when she suddenly returned.

  “I forgot my scarf,” she explained, starting back to the pew where she had left it. She spoke with a slight accent, he noticed, possibly French. Her silver hair was thick, in a stylish cut, and her coat and large silk scarf looked expensive and chic.

  Ben walked over to her and smiled. “Did you come from very far to visit the statue?”

  “From Boston. I heard about it from a cousin, and I wanted to see it. I’ve come a few times. It calls me back.” She looked up at the statue again, her eyes lingering on its lines. A gentle smile formed on her face. “We are old friends, this angel and I.”

  Ben was puzzled, wondering if she was yet another pilgrim with a vivid imagination about the statue.

  “How is that?” he asked gently.

  “Do you have a minute, Past
or? I will tell you.”

  Ben nodded. “Please, do.” He motioned for her to sit and then he did, too.

  “I was born in a small village in the south of France. During World War Two, my family belonged to the Resistance. A young American soldier came to the village. He was to help the underground to prepare for the great invasion, D-day. Disguised as a bike mechanic, he worked in my father’s shop. I was sixteen and the soldier, only nineteen. We knew each other only a brief time but had a great love.” She paused and smoothed the silk scarf through her hands. When she looked back up at Ben, he could see that her wide brown eyes were glassy, filled with tears. She took a breath and continued.

  “The church in my village was a meeting place for the Resistance. The Germans discovered this. Our village was bombed, the church destroyed one night when our group had gathered for a meeting. The American soldier and I were the only survivors. We took shelter in a small side chapel, near this statue.” She pointed up at the angel. “It was as if her wings had spread above us. But not everyone was so protected. When it was over, I saw that my father was one who died, buried alive.”

  “How terribly sad for you,” Ben said. “What an awful thing to witness.”

  She smiled grimly. “There were many awful sights in wartime, Pastor. We learn to go on. Not to forget but to live as best we can.”

  “How true. And what happened to you then, to your family?”

  “The soldier and I managed to take the angel with us. The statue was amazingly unharmed. We knew the Germans would come and sift through the rubble of the church, looking for anything of value. We didn’t want them to have it. We carried it to my house and hid it there for safekeeping. Of course, the Resistance group had been decimated. The soldier was sent to another part of the country. We made all the promises young lovers do, to be faithful and find each other after the war. I received one letter some months later. Then not a word. Then I learned he was captured and killed by the enemy.”

  Ben sat back, speechless. She had endured so much yet seemed to possess a great spirit. A great faith.

  “After the war, my family left France. My mother had relatives in London, and we lived there for a time, then came to the U.S. My mother had tried to return the angel before we left France, but there was no church left to return it to. We took it with us to England, and there, she took it to an art dealer to raise money for our emigration. I believed I would never see it again.”

  “And you’re sure it’s the same statue?” Ben asked carefully.

  “I know it is. I would recognize her anywhere. See the right hand, where she grips the banner? Her little finger was broken off in the explosion, the only harm done.”

  Ben looked at the statue closely. It took him a moment to find the damage she mentioned. He would not have noticed it otherwise.

  He turned to her. “Tell me, do you remember what the banner said? The paint is faded and I can’t make out the words. It appears to be written in French, so I wouldn’t have been able to understand it anyway,” he added.

  She smiled at him, her eyes shining. “It says, ‘Do not lose heart.’”

  He nodded. Of course. That made perfect sense.

  “So, tell me about your life. How did it turn out here in America?”

  “Oh, very happily, to be sure. I’m a widow now but had a long, happy marriage. We raised three children and had many grandchildren. My life has been long, filled with blessings, Pastor. But I never dreamed I would see that statue again, not in this world. I do believe she is a miracle.”

  He had heard that said before. But this time Ben did not counter with some rational, debunking explanation. He let it be.

  THAT EVENING BEN TOLD CAROLYN THE STORY AS THEY ate dinner. He could see from her expression that she was as moved by the woman’s story as he had been.

  When he was done, neither of them spoke for a long time.

  Finally Carolyn said, “What was her name? You never mentioned it.”

  “Marie-Claire Perretti. I asked her to sign the visitors’ book when she left.”

  “How do you feel about the statue now? Do you still think there’s nothing special about it?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure,” Ben admitted. “There have been so many odd stories from so many people, some of them people I’ve known for years. And now this woman, coming from so far…”

  “And me, too,” Carolyn added quietly.

  Ben searched her face to see if he had understood her correctly. “You experienced a miracle?”

  “I believe I’ve had some experience that was out of the ordinary after visiting the statue.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Carolyn’s calm gaze told him that she was. “It was last week. I was waiting for you to change and finish in your office,” she explained. “The sanctuary was almost empty. I sat there a moment and prayed. About a lot of things—our children, you…” She shrugged. “I’m not sure I even remember everything.”

  “That’s all right, you don’t need to tell me.”

  “About two days ago, I was giving a lesson. I started to play the piece, to show my student some fingering. It took me a minute to realize, I was playing with my left hand, too. After all these years…” She paused and dipped her head then held out her hand—her left hand, the one that had been partially paralyzed by her stroke. She wiggled her fingers. “The movement has returned, Ben. The doctor said it would never happen.”

  Ben could hardly believe it. He reached out and took her left hand in his. Her hand clasped his, all their fingers interlocking. He had never thought he would feel that again. “Oh, Carolyn,” he said, blinking back tears of gratitude. He lifted her left hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “I know.” Carolyn smiled at him through her own tears.

  Ben folded her into his arms and for a long while they just held each other. Silently, he sent up a prayer of thanks.

  Carolyn was the one who broke the embrace. “Tell me, Ben,” she said, pulling back a little and looking up at him. “Can you possibly doubt the angel now?”

  Ben took a breath, sensing that his wife wouldn’t like what he was about to say. “I don’t mean to answer a question with a question, Carolyn, but can you remember what the doctor actually said? Did he say you would never regain full movement in that hand? Or did he just say that it was highly unlikely?”

  “What’s the difference?” Carolyn asked. “What’s the point of splitting hairs? You’ve got the proof in front of your eyes, Ben. After three years, I’ve suddenly regained the movement in my hand!”

  “Maybe it was your faith that made the difference,” he said finally. “You believed so strongly, it’s possible that your mind cured your body.”

  “Maybe,” Carolyn replied. “But I’m not sure I would have believed if it wasn’t for the statue. I believe that there is something special about it, Ben. Something…blessed.”

  Ben met his wife’s clear blue gaze, and wondered if he wasn’t starting to believe it, too.

  DR. ALEXANDRA COLE JOINED MATT’S PRACTICE ON Tuesday. Molly tried her best to keep a low-key attitude, asking Matt only a few questions that night about how the new partnership was going. He was annoyingly spare with his answers.

  Despite her own hectic schedule, Molly kept finding herself distracted by the thought of her husband and Alex Cole, working side by side.

  By Thursday afternoon, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She packed up a basket with some of Matt’s favorite foods, pulled on her coat, and headed for his office.

  In the old days, when they were dating and then engaged, she used to bring him lunch nearly every day. They would take a break together, sometimes even having a brief picnic on the Village Green, or they would find a bench along the harbor. It was sweet…and romantic. She had not appreciated those days, Molly realized now. How did they ever get here from there?

  Molly swept into the office, the basket hooked under her arm. The waiting room was empty except for one man reading a magazine. Molly greeted Matt�
��s receptionist. “Hi, Amy. Is Matt around? I brought him some lunch.”

  “How thoughtful. He hasn’t had his lunch yet. He’s in back, with Dr. Cole. I’ll give him a buzz.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Don’t bother.” Molly waved her hand. “I’ll just run back there. He won’t mind.”

  Amy gave her a puzzled look but didn’t pick up the phone. Molly headed for Matt’s office.

  She quickly knocked then walked right in. Matt was sitting behind his desk and Alex stood nearby, looking over his shoulder at a file. Beneath her open white lab coat, she wore tapered wool pants and a close-fitting cashmere sweater, both of which accentuated her slender build. She’s probably all of a size four, Molly thought.

  “Hi, everyone,” Molly said, managing to sound cheerful. “I had a minute so I brought you some lunch, Matt. Amy said you haven’t had a break yet today. You must be famished.”

  Matt looked surprised to see her. “Hi, honey…sure, lunch sounds great.” He glanced at his watch. “It is late.…Alex, why don’t you eat with us? I’m sure Molly brought enough to feed an army.”

  Gee, Molly thought, that made me sound so…motherly.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Alex hesitated, and Molly wondered if she was picking up on Molly’s need to be alone with her husband. “I think I’ll just grab a cup of yogurt at my desk.”

  Matt rose and put his hand on her shoulder. “No, you stay. Come on, let’s all sit over at the table. Here, Molly, I’ll take that.” He picked up the basket and pretended to stagger under its weight. “Wow, what do you have in here, a turkey dinner?”

  “It’s the water bottles,” Molly said quietly.

  “It’s good to drink plenty of water.” Alex nodded, taking a seat at the table. “Especially when you’re pregnant. It fills you up, too, so you won’t overeat.”

  Molly smiled at her. Thanks for the diet tip. Was that a subtle insult aimed at her size?

  Matt spread the pretty yellow and blue checked tablecloth Molly had brought, then set out the paper plates and plastic utensils. Molly took out the food, which she had arranged on attractive plastic platters.