A Christmas Visitor

by Thomas Kinkade

  Molly crossed the foyer and entered the living room where her guests seemed to be carrying on fine without her. They were sitting on the couches and armchairs, her fine china plates balanced on their laps as they ate dinner. It was not the formal sit-down meal with place cards she had prepared, but everyone seemed to be having a good time.

  “Great grub, Molly,” Sam called out, raising his fork.

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” Molly said sincerely. “There’s plenty, so help yourself.”

  Jessica appeared at her side and rubbed her arm. “Do you want to sit? Can I get you something? Maybe some plain pasta? I saved some in the kitchen.”

  “My food could have been a little plainer,” Lillian Warwick piped up before Molly had a chance to answer. “There are far too many spices. Anyone would think we were dining in Bombay, for pity’s sake.”

  Molly had not actually prepared any truly exotic dishes, but she knew that Lillian considered a dash of cinnamon “overdoing it.”

  She decided to take the high road, to play the perfect hostess and cater to her most finicky guest. “Lillian, I’m so sorry you aren’t enjoying your meal. Let me get you something else.”

  Lillian looked caught off guard as Molly whisked her dish away. “Well, all right. Perhaps a buttered roll. Nothing with seeds,” she added briskly.

  Jessica glanced at Molly. “I’ll get it for her.”

  “No, let me. I’m going to the kitchen anyway.” Molly smiled and headed for the kitchen.

  “A cloth napkin would be nice,” Lillian called after her. “These paper items irritate my skin.”

  Molly struggled to keep from laughing, though she also felt a prickle of exasperation. After all her preparations, Lillian had ended up with paper instead of linen.

  Let that be a lesson to you, Molly. Keep up these fussy ways and you’ll end up like Lillian Warwick.

  Molly found a fresh china plate and a linen napkin in the dining room. She searched through the bread basket and picked out an acceptable roll, a soft egg twist, no seeds. The butter dish, however, was nowhere to be found, so she headed for the kitchen.

  The kitchen was surprisingly empty, except for her nephew Darrell who was pouring soda for himself and his little brother.

  “Hey, Aunt Molly, do you have any more root beer? This one ran out.”

  Darrell held up the empty bottle as his little brother stared at her mournfully.

  “No problem, guys. I have cases of root beer. Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”

  She set down Lillian’s dish and headed to the mudroom, where she had left the extra soft drinks in cartons. As she walked down the narrow hall, the voices from the living room seemed very distant. Yet, she suddenly became aware of other voices, much closer.

  She paused, listening for a moment. It sounded like people whispering, not wanting to be heard. Then she heard someone crying very softly. She couldn’t imagine who it could be. Was it one of the girls, getting into some sort of mischief back here? Maybe they had teased Jill and made her cry, Molly thought. Weren’t they getting too old for that by now?

  She turned the corner and walked into the mudroom, looking around for the culprits, a motherly scolding on the tip of her tongue.

  The sight that met her gaze left her totally speechless.

  In the far, dark corner of the room, half-hidden by the coat tree, she saw Matt. His back was turned to her and so was the back of his companion—Alex. Matt’s arm circled Alex’s back and Alex’s head was snuggled in his broad shoulder. She seemed to be weeping, and Matt was gently comforting her. Molly thought they would notice her, standing there. But they seemed totally immersed in a world of their own.

  Molly took two quick steps backward, then walked quickly down the narrow hallway, back toward the kitchen. Halfway there, she paused and pulled open the door to a bathroom. She ran in and got sick all over again.

  It took her a while to compose herself. While she washed her face and combed her hair, she heard Matt and Alex passing by, returning to the party. They probably thought they had never been missed.

  Molly stared at herself in the mirror. How was she ever going to get through the rest of this party? She glanced at her watch. It was later than she had thought, past ten. She could either hide out upstairs again and stew—or keep herself busy and distracted down here. She decided on the latter and emerged determined to pick up the pace.

  She returned to the mudroom for the root beer, then went back to the kitchen where she buttered Lillian’s roll, arranged it on the dish with a fanned out strawberry. She drafted Darrell to deliver it. He didn’t look pleased with the assignment—his grandmother scared him—but he didn’t refuse.

  Jessica and her sister Emily were in the kitchen, already busy getting out the desserts. Molly thanked them then went into the living room and surveyed the group. Matt sat with his parents. Alex sat on the other side of the room, talking to Betty. Both looked very calm and collected, Molly thought, all things considered.

  “Hey, everyone, time to open the presents!” she announced.

  Within minutes, the room was a frenzy of gift giving, with Sam and Matt sorting through the presents and calling out names. For a while, it seemed to be snowing inside as wrapping paper and bows flew in all directions. Guests called out thanks, oohing and ahhing over their gifts. Some were surprises, others fulfilled requests, but all seemed a great success.

  Finally, the pace slowed and only a few small presents were left to open. Amanda and Lauren brought in big trash bags and began cleaning up. “Just make sure you don’t throw out any presents,” Molly warned.

  “That’s why I’ve been extra careful with mine,” Matt said, appearing beside her. He whisked a small box from his pocket. It was wrapped in gold foil paper and tied with a large white bow. “For you,” he said, presenting it to her.

  “Oh, wow…” Molly looked down at the tiny box, obviously jewelry. She felt a burst of excitement and pleasure…then remembered Matt with Alex in the mudroom and felt all the joy sucked out of the moment.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Matt tilted his head toward hers, so that they were almost touching.

  “Yes, of course.” She ripped off the paper and pulled open the box. It was a gold ring set with rubies and diamonds. She had admired it in a jewelry shop in Newburyport months ago and promptly forgotten all about it. Matt had remembered, though, and gotten it for her.

  She put it on and held out her hand. “It’s…beautiful. Really…”

  “Do you really like it?” he asked eagerly. “We can pick out something else. I just remembered that you said you liked this one.”

  “Oh, yes. I do. I love it. Honestly,” she assured him. She glanced at him, feeling confused. He seemed to be confused by her reaction, too.

  She leaned over and hugged him. “Thank you, Matt.”

  He hugged her back. “I’m glad you like it, honey.”

  “I love it. It’s perfect,” she said quietly.

  It wasn’t really. It was such an extravagant gift, it made her wonder—had Matt gone to all this trouble because he wanted to please her and show her how much he cared?

  Or was he just feeling guilty?

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHRISTMAS DAY AND EASTER SUNDAY ALWAYS DREW THE highest church attendance. Members of the congregation who were virtually invisible the rest of the year would show up for those two services. This Christmas, Ben noticed, attendance was almost literally through the roof. Every spare folding chair the church owned had been set up behind the wooden pews. Even so, the side aisles were filled with people standing. Ben wasn’t sure he had ever seen so many in his church before. He felt excited and pleased—and somewhat anxious.

  He stood at the back of the sanctuary behind the choir as they walked up the center aisle, singing the opening hymn, “Hark, The Herald Angels Sing.”

  Ben followed, walking at a stately pace, surveying the vast group gathered for worship, everyone dressed in holiday finery. Their energy and sense of e
xpectation lifted him up.

  While he always felt this way at the start of a Christmas service, somehow this morning, it seemed different. Even more intense. The church itself seemed brighter, more festive, with even more red and white poinsettia plants arranged on the altar than usual. More candles, more boughs of pine tied with white ribbons. This year the small but dedicated group of women who were in charge of such matters—Grace Hegman, Sophie Potter, and Marie Morgan—had outdone themselves.

  His gaze came to rest on the angel, poised on the wooden pedestal just to the left of the altar. She certainly had a presence, he thought, silent yet undeniably powerful.

  Suddenly, it seemed clear. The overflow of excitement and wonder this Christmas morning was all because of her. She was the one who had inspired the extra flourish of decoration. The one who had drawn this crowd of worshipers.

  She seemed to be saying, “I’ve brought them all here this morning, Ben. Now, what do you have to say?”

  What did he have to say?

  He hoped his sermon was up to her standards.

  He turned to face the congregation just as the choir finished the hymn. “Good morning, everyone. Welcome and Merry Christmas. A special welcome to any visitors at our church today…” He quickly reviewed the church announcements, reminders of committee meetings and other activities. The list was short; there wasn’t much going on this week.

  “Now, let us bow our heads, still our minds, and open our hearts, preparing ourselves to worship, and to celebrate a blessed miracle, the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ. This day marks the start of new life. Let it also mark the renewal and rebirth of our spirits.”

  The congregation stood up, singing the next hymn along with the choir, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

  When the hymn was over, Lucy Bates rose and walked to the pulpit to give the day’s reading from the Old Testament. Dressed in a satin blouse and a black velvet skirt, her red hair freed from its usual ponytail, she looked a bit nervous. Ben smiled at her encouragingly as she found her place in the large Bible.

  Lucy began, reading from the Book of Isaiah, her voice steady and clear.

  “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,” she began, “those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them a light has shined…”

  When she finished and began walking back to her seat, Ben rose and took his place behind the pulpit. He looked out over the congregation a moment, then began the second reading, which was from the Book of Luke, chapter two, the passage that told the story of Mary and Joseph’s travels to Bethlehem and the birth of Jesus in the manger.

  About halfway through, he read, “…And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, an angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ, the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger…’”

  As Ben finished the reading, he sensed the attention of his audience drift to the other side of the sanctuary, to the angel statue. He, too, felt its presence in an almost palpable way, a wave of energy or perhaps just his own heightened awareness. He wasn’t sure what it meant, or if he was only imagining the phenomenon. But it was definitely distracting, and it felt…strange.

  Ben closed the Bible and paused to take a sip of water. He heard the usual restless shifting and muffled coughs. He opened the folder on the pulpit with his neatly typed sermon. Then closed it.

  He took a breath and looked out at the group: so many familiar faces he had known most of his life. They trusted him. They looked to him to be a guiding presence. He could deliver the sermon he had prepared and practiced, which was a good one, he thought. But it completely—and perhaps consciously—ignored any mention of the angel. The elephant in the room. The one with the golden wings.

  He knew what he had to do.

  “There’s been much talk about miracles at this church the past few weeks,” he began. “Much talk in this town and even places very distant from here. I’m sure that some of you have come to our church this morning because you’ve heard this news.

  “Many now believe God is working through the statue you see, right here.” Ben made a gesture toward the angel. “They believe that by offering their intentions and deepest hopes, their prayers have been answered. They believe that by touching the statue, their bodies have been healed. They believe they have been blessed with miracles.”

  Ben paused and looked around the sanctuary. His listeners were completely silent, staring up at him with rapt attention. He saw Carl, Digger, and Grace Hegman, and of course, Carolyn. In a pew up front, he saw Marie-Claire and Gerald, sitting side by side, holding hands. His mouth grew dry.

  “I’ve listened to these stories, some of them completely amazing and defying any rational explanation. I’ve been shocked and often…overwhelmed. I would be the last one to ever deny that these reports are sincere. Nor would I ever attempt to dissuade those who truly believe they’ve experienced some…divine intervention. The question I’ve been wrestling with, though, is: are these truly miracles?”

  He paused and took a breath. “Some of you are probably thinking, ‘If anyone in this church should know, it should be you, Reverend.’ But I’ll confess, I’ve searched my heart and soul over that question and still…I don’t know. I can’t say.”

  Ben gazed out into his audience, sure that there were many who were disappointed by his reluctance to come to some definitive conclusion, to give a public rubber stamp to this phenomenon.

  “I don’t believe we can ever know for sure what’s happened here. Perhaps this beautiful statue, so inspiring and evocative, has been an instrument that’s helped to focus our faith. Making it far stronger, more intense. Like a tuning fork, putting us on the right pitch. Or a magnifying glass refracting a single beam of light until it’s powerful enough to light a fire.

  “Ultimately, I believe it’s faith that fuels miracles. Faith that finally saves us. In the Book of Matthew, we hear of the Canaanite woman who begs Jesus to heal her child. At first, she’s brushed aside and ignored. But her faith is so strong, her plea is finally recognized. Jesus says to her, ‘O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt.’ And her daughter is suddenly—miraculously—healed.

  “The Bible is filled with reports of miracles. Far too many for me to mention here, even if I could remember half of them…” He paused while a few quietly laughed. “A quote from the poet Walt Whitman comes to mind, though. He wrote, ‘A mouse is a miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.’ And I must agree. A mouse. A flower. A flash of lightning. A child’s laughter. The sight of a bird in flight. Falling in love. Making a friend…The list can go on and on…

  “I do know God created a universe that abounds in miracles. Our ordinary world, our everyday experience, is filled with amazing events we completely take for granted. We stumble along, numb and jaded, blind to the beauty, the astounding experiences that fill our lives every day. We fail to recognize their true meaning, fail to see their essence, what they truly are—blessings and amazing gifts.

  “Just as the infant sleeping in the manger on that first Christmas morning remained overlooked, unrecognized…except by the shepherds and three wise men. And even they would not have recognized him, but for the angels.

  “But think of it. Think how that newborn baby, wrapped in rags and sleeping in a barn, would save the world and bring us eternal life. Think how lowly, how ordinary, how un-miraculous the scene must have seemed. How it would have looked to you or me, if we had been there.”

  He paused and stared down at the pulpit a moment, gathering his thoughts. He wasn’t really sure if he had made his point or given them any insight at all. Yet, he didn’t know what else
to say.

  “My friends…it seems to me that we don’t need to search the world, or even search the Internet for miracles. We need only to meet the challenge God sets for us in this earthly lifetime—to truly recognize and appreciate the miracles that are part and parcel of each waking day. The miracles that surround us, but are often under wraps, in disguise. Perhaps that is one lesson of Christmas Day, of Jesus Christ’s humble birth. One that can radically change the way we live in this world.”

  The sanctuary was nearly silent as Ben left the pulpit. He felt both drained and relieved. The choir began the next hymn and the congregation rose to sing along. He couldn’t tell how his sermon had been received.

  The rest of the service seemed to pass quickly. After the final blessing, he stood at the rear of the sanctuary, just outside the big wooden doors, shaking hands and exchanging good wishes for the holidays.

  Molly Willoughby Harding was one of the first to greet him. He had often seen her husband, Matt, and their daughters on Sundays but rarely saw Molly, due to her work schedule. He had known Molly since she was a girl, had watched her bravely meet more than her share of life’s challenges. She had made some mistakes but had learned from them and gone on to do better. She had raised two wonderful girls on her own, no small accomplishment.

  Now she had found her place and seemed happy. With all his heart, he wished her well. Molly greeted him with a hug. “Merry Christmas, Reverend Ben.”

  “Molly. How good to see you. How’s business?”

  “Oh, business is fine. Too busy, actually.” She glanced at her husband who stood beside her. “We have some news to share. I’m expecting a baby.”

  “A baby? That’s wonderful. God bless you both.” He hugged her again and shook Matt’s hand. “When are you due?”

  “Oh, mid-July. We have a while to wait.”

  “And get used to the idea,” Matt glanced at his wife with a tentative smile.

  She looked at Reverend Ben and sighed. “It has been a surprise,” she admitted. “But I really liked your sermon this morning. It gave me something to think about.”