by Max Lucado
He returned to Oxford the following day and awaited the next opportunity: the call from London, Southampton, or at least Bristol.
The don made it clear: no other options were coming. “Given the problems you’ve had, Gladstone is your only option.”
“Gladstone doesn’t fit me,” he said, shrugging.
The Gladstonians held the same opinion. “Not quite right for us,” was Barstow’s tactful comment in his note to the Oxford don. The citizens returned to their routine, hoping for someone older, married— seasoned. A pastor with thick skin for the winters, a warm heart for farmers, and an open mind for the mystery of Christmas miracles and angel-touched candles.
He never came.
Reverend Richmond came.
He arrived in June. June labored into July. Summer cooled into autumn. Apple trees dropped fruit and then leaves. Maples turned a rusty tint, and blackthorn bushes produced their purple sloe berries. Early October felt the first freeze, and Gladstone’s new minister purchased an extra blanket from Barstow’s Mercantile.
As he made his selection, Emily Barstow watched. When he looked up, she blushed and looked away.
In the church vestment box, Reverend Richmond found a warmer cape to wear in the pulpit. It was this robe that he donned the first Advent Sunday in December, the day he refused to preach about the candle.
The young mother pulled the blanket over the face of her infant son. Even seated inside the train, she felt the chill of the December air.
“Ticket?”
She looked up to see the uniformed conductor.
“Oh yes.” She’d forgotten to keep it handy. Reaching over her sleeping child, she found the ticket in her purse. The conductor checked it and handed it back.
“We’ll warm up as the train leaves the station,” encouraged the lady in the adjacent seat. She was matronly in appearance: gray hair peeking from beneath a bonnet, wrinkled face still red from the chill. “Long trip for you and the baby?”
“All day,” Abigail said.
“I’ll keep you company, then.” The lady looked around the crowded car. “Lots of travelers. Busy season.”
The young mother nodded, cradled her son closer, and looked out the window at the sea of travelers. All wore coats and hats; most carried bags or children. Everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere. The train lurched, and Abigail grabbed the seat, then smiled at her neighbor.
“Jerky things, these trains,” the woman sympathized.
Iron wheels slowly rolled the locomotive, mother, and child out of Paddington Station and into the city. Buildings passed, signs blurred, and Abigail felt moisture form in the corner of her eyes. She looked down at her sleeping son and spoke softly so no one would hear. “Are we doing the right thing, little man?” Then, as if answering for him, she asked, “What else can we do?”
She sighed, reached into her bag, and extracted a large brown envelope. She looked at the address, ran a thumb across her printed name, removed the letter, and did what she’d done a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours. She unfolded it and stared at the words. She thumbed away another tear.
“Are you all right?” asked the lady.
Abigail nodded but didn’t look up. “This letter. I, uh, I can’t read. But my landlord read it to me. So I was just looking at it.”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
Abigail smiled. “I would like that very much.” She handed her neighbor the paper and looked down into the face of her child and listened as the woman read.
CHAPTER 3
First Sunday Of Advent
DECEMBER 4, 1864
As Edward took his seat in the church, he heard snatches of conversations, enough random sentences to reveal the topic on everyone’s mind.
“If I get the candle, I know what I’ll pray for . . .”
“I hear Edward already knows who he’ll give it to . . .”
“Do you suppose he’d talk to me about it?”
Edward was relieved to see Bea take her seat at the hundred-year-old organ. Now the service would begin and the whisperings cease. People followed the cue of the ten-member choir as they stood to sing “Come, Thou Almighty King.” Limestone walls echoed with “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow . . .” As the congregation sang, Edward looked out the window and spotted the reverend walking from the parsonage through the cemetery. As he leaned into the bracing wind, he held the neck of his coat closed and then loosened it as he neared the doors of the church.
I wonder what Reverend Richmond has prepared to say to us, Edward considered. He knew what Reverend Pillington would have said. He had understood the cherished place the candle held in the lives of Cotswold villagers. They endured difficult days: crawling out of bed on dark, cold mornings; closing the barn after the sun had set; sewing by the light of the fire; laboring through weeks of rainy, sunless seasons. The former rector had understood the life of the villagers and how the legend of the candle always lifted their spirits. Were he preaching today, he’d speak of surprises and angels and fresh hope in the midst of dark Decembers. He’d speak about the candle.
“No. I can’t do that,” the young minister had told Edward earlier in the week. “I’m not Pillington. I don’t preach about candles. People don’t need old wives’ tales.”
“But this is . . .”
“I know. This is the year. But I give people practical help and solid facts. I stay away from mysteries.”
“You don’t believe, do you?”
“I believe in the Bible. I believe in the church. I believe in God. But I see no reason to promote superstitions or raise false hopes.”
“Don’t you think God can work however he chooses?”
“I believe God worked, and the rest is up to us.”
So, as the singing ceased and the choir took their seats, Edward shifted in his pew, anxious to hear what the reverend would say.
The congregation heard the click of Richmond’s boots as he ascended the stone steps to the pulpit. He looked nervously over his flock and unfolded his notes with the ease of a suitor asking for a maid’s hand in marriage.
He spoke of Christmas kindness and neighborly love and Christian charity. Most other churches would have appreciated the message. But not the parishioners of St. Mark’s. As they left the building, some refused to shake the reverend’s hand. Others did so with disappointment. “The candle?” they asked. “Did you forget?”
Edward tried to hide his frustration but had trouble doing so. “Your sermon could have been better, Reverend.” He then followed Bea as she and Sarah exited the nave.
“Nothing!” Sarah whispered. “He didn’t say a word, not one word!”
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Bea replied.
“People are already so . . .”
“Persistent,” Edward finished for her.
“Persistent, indeed,” Bea continued.
CHAPTER 4
Monday
DECEMBER 12, 1864
An outside noise interrupted Edward’s sleep. He opened his eyes and stared into the dark, not wanting to climb from beneath the covers. The bell in the ancient tower struck the five o’clock hour with lingering vibrations, as if its teeth were chattering in the belfry.
“It’s cold,” he muttered, as he snuggled up to his wife.
He was almost back to sleep when he heard the noise again. This time Bea heard it too.
“Edward,” she whispered, “did you hear that?”
“Probably just a hedgehog.”
“Go and see.”
“It’s freezing, Bea.” But even as he protested, he knew he had to go. He grumbled and obliged.
He grabbed his coat off the back of the chair, threw it on over his nightshirt, and opened the door.
Moonlight illuminated a shivering hump against the wall of his house.
“Bea! Someone is out here!”
“Actually, Edward, there are two of us.”
“James, Elizabeth, what are you doing?” Edward asked.
“Waiting on you,” the woman answered, making ghosts with her breath.
By now Bea, wrapped in her bed’s blanket, stood next to her husband. “Come in, you two,” she urged. “You’ll die of chill.”
They were only too happy to oblige.
As the couple settled in by the fire, Edward begged for an explanation.
“Can we warm up a bit first?” James requested with trembling chin.
In short order Bea filled four cups with tea. The unsolicited guests wrapped their hands around the warmth and sighed as they sipped.
James and Elizabeth Clemly ran the Queen’s Tavern south of town in a century-old building they rented from the lord of the manor in Chipping Campden. The two served as the first line of hospitality for Gladstone-bound travelers. As he offered hay and rest to the horses, she filled pints and plates in the pub. This morning they had walked the length of Bristol Road in the predawn darkness.
Edward’s curiosity mounted as the couple’s cups emptied. He was soon drumming the table with his fingers. “What is this all about?” he finally asked.
Elizabeth looked at James. He bore a heavy salt-and-pepper beard and a mop of matted hair. He pulled off his hat and wrung it like a wet rag and looked toward Elizabeth, who urged him on by pressing her lips together.
“The missus and I have a request.”
A request? Edward was puzzled.
James squeezed his hat again and shifted forward in his chair. “Me and Elizabeth were wondering . . . You know I never ask anything of you, Edward. I always pay what I owe.”
“That you do,” the chandler offered. “So how can we help you?”
“My luck ran out. A couple of months back I was rollin’ quite nice in a game in the pub. All cards were comin’ my way. I knew I couldn’t lose, so I bet it all. I even bet the next six months’ earnings. Every shilling.”
Elizabeth groaned.
James looked down at the floor and said, “I lost.”
“You lost?”
“Everything. Elizabeth still has a few pence, but that’s all we have left.”
Edward scratched his head. “Well, I can’t say that I know much about cards, but if you’re looking for some advice, I know a fellow in Bibury—”
“The candle!” Elizabeth blurted.
“The candle?” Edward asked.
“Edward,” offered Bea in a firm tone, “the Christmas Candle. After the angel’s visit. They would like us to give them the candle.”
“We’re broke, Edward,” James said. “The lord of the manor wants his rent money, and, well, he has been wanting it for two months now. He’s talking eviction.”
“Oh, I don’t think . . . Surely he would listen to you.”
“He won’t. We’ve tried. Edward, you’re our only hope.”
“I see.” Edward looked at Bea for a few moments, then at the floor and back to his friend.
“Well, you know, James, your need poses a bit of a problem.” He cleared his throat. We’re still a week from the angel’s coming, and many people have already stopped by.”
Bea kept her hand on Elizabeth’s as Edward continued his explanation. The same explanation he had given the farmer whose oldest son had broken his leg just before harvest, leaving the farmer shorthanded. “I left a year’s earnings in the field. I could use a miracle.”
The same explanation he had given to Widow Leonard. Too old to work, she lived on what she took in from renting out the back of her house. She told Edward how new tenants were hard to find and how there wouldn’t be enough money to buy coal for the rest of the winter.
“The Smith family needs help too,” Edward continued. “They have twins, you know, sweetest little things. Have you seen them? Why, when Mrs. Smith walked in my shop with one in each arm—”
“Edward,” Bea interrupted, once again bumping him back on track.
“Oh yes. Well, she fears for their health. And then Phineas Austen dropped by. Let’s see, Bea, was it last Friday? Saturday? No matter. His wife is losing her sight. You’ve seen her. She’s using a cane now. All those years of making . . . What is it she makes, dear?”
“Bonnets, Edward. She stitches lace on bonnets.”
“She’s going blind, and that’s what I thought Phineas wanted to discuss. But he is more concerned about their son. He’s in trouble with the law, and they fear”—by now Edward was lighting his pipe—“that he may”—he stopped midsentence to take a couple of puffs from his pipe—“end up in prison.”
James stared at the floor, and Elizabeth leaned her forehead into her fingers.
“And who was it that came yesterday after Sunday services, Bea?”
“I believe you’ve made your point, Edward.”
“I have?”
“Yes, you have,” James assured. “Many requests. Many requests. I just thought . . . We just thought that, well . . .”
Bea slid her chair next to Elizabeth’s. “We do understand. And we will pray. That’s all we can do. Pray. We don’t know why God has given us this gift. But we pray that he will direct us. He did before.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I think often of Charles Barstow,” she said. “Twenty-five years ago—before you gave him the candle—he was as directionless as a ship with no rudder. Now look at him. He is a fine man, fine indeed. You chose well.”
“God led us then, and he will again. Now,” Bea said, “we’ve all got work to do.”
Bea and Edward stood in the doorway as their visitors departed. Edward wrapped an arm around his wife, and she asked, “What are we going to do? So many people need the candle. How can we decide who to give it to?”
Edward said nothing.
“I’ve been thinking,” Bea said.
“About what?’’
“That we could use the candle for ourselves. Our need is as deep as they come.”
Edward shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, dear. Our family has always given it away.”
“But has any Haddington faced what we’re facing?”
Edward reached across and took her hand. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”
Abigail passed the morning the way she had begun it: seated on a train, holding her baby, pondering the words of the letter. London streets gave way to England countryside. Even under the blanket of winter, the hills maintained their charm. Abigail could see villages in each valley marked by tall towers, gabled roofs, and clustering elms.
It felt good to be going home. She just wished for different circumstances. Her fingers twisted the corner of her baby’s blanket as if her hands needed something to hold on to. Will it be the same? She wondered.
CHAPTER 5
Saturday Evening
DECEMBER 17, 1864
Guests occupied every corner of the Barstow parlor. With full bellies and filled glasses, they lingered long after the meal. Charles Barstow discussed politics with two guests from Upper Slaughter. Mr. Chumley listened politely to an elderly friend’s complaints about arthritis. Mrs. Barstow relayed the latest gossip on romance and marriage.
Bea and Edward had declined the invitation to dinner. Everyone understood why. This was, after all, the night. The eve of the final Advent Sunday. They had preparations to make, a guest to receive.
The reverend, however, had accepted the Barstows’ invitation.
“You came.” Emily brightened as he arrived. In six months the two had shared no more than six sentences, but he had noticed her watching him.
“I saw you last week joking with the Johnson children,” she noted as the two talked.
The rector smiled, pleased to be caught in an act of kindness. “I, uh, I enjoy them. Their mother is sick, you know.”
“I know.”
“The twelve-year-old asks me many questions.”
“Does he?”
“Great questions. Questions of faith and God.”
“Like?”
The reverend’s voice animated just slightly. “The other day he mused, ‘How do we know we aren’t butterflies
dreaming we are humans?’”
Emily smiled. “And you told him?”
“I told him, ‘That’s a good question.’”
The two laughed, and his face softened.
“You should do that more often,” Emily urged.
“Do what?”
“Laugh!” She clapped her hands. “I never see you laugh.”
Richmond looked down at his tea.
“Do you find Gladstone dull?” she ventured.
“Dull? Of course not . . .”
Her eyes betrayed her disbelief, so he adjusted his response, admitting, “At first, yes. I confess, my heart was set on going elsewhere.”
“London?”
“I was raised there. My father is a friend of the bishop. It made sense that I serve in London.”
“But . . .”
“London was not an option.”
“I thought you had family connections.”
“Other factors were considered.” As soon as the words left his mouth, the reverend’s face flushed, and he looked away. Emily waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“The candle.” Emily finally changed the subject. “You must know everyone is upset that you aren’t saying anything about the candle in your sermons.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I don’t understand. Don’t you believe in it?”
“I can’t encourage false hope. I want no part of disappointing people.”
“And the candle disappoints people?”
“How can it not? One candle. A village of needs. God would not single out one person and ignore the others. It’s not fair.”
Emily replied with measured words. “Perhaps he singles out one person to show the others what he can do.”
The reverend started to speak, then stopped. “Can I think about that?”
She smiled her yes.
“Excuse me, but Sarah and I are bidding our farewells,” Mr. Chumley interrupted.
“Our bedtime nears. We aren’t young like you,” Sarah added. “Have you had a good evening?”