Christmas Stories

by Max Lucado

  “And your dismissal of miracles . . . Where will that lead us?”

  The reverend started to object, but Bea placed a motherly hand on his and, for the first time, addressed him by his Christian name. “David, something burdens you. What is it?”

  The young minister said nothing.

  Edward leaned forward. “The first day we met I asked you why Gladstone. You seem groomed for the cathedral, a city like Gloucester, not a country parish. You never answered that question. Perhaps this would be a good time to do so.”

  Reverend Richmond pressed his two hands into a tent and leaned his lips into them. After several moments he lifted his eyes and began to speak.

  “Four of us were at a pub. It was a year ago . . . a year this month. We were celebrating the coming holidays. The winter night was cold, the ale was good, and the fire was warm. So we drank. We drank until we, well, we became foolish, foolish and loud.

  “Patrons told us to be quiet. The pub owner threatened to throw us out. I told him my father’s name and position and dared him to do so. He didn’t hesitate.

  “Next thing I knew we were standing outside, bracing against the cold. The wind was bitter and I was too. The man had humiliated me in front of my friends. Embarrassment prompted me to do something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

  “I saw an empty delivery wagon in the street, still hitched to its team. I jumped on, grabbed the reins, and told my friends to go with me. They hesitated . . . so I prodded. ‘What are you, afraid?’ They finally climbed up.

  “I was imagining a fast ride, a few laughs. We’d have the wagon back at the pub before anyone missed it.”

  The reverend looked down.

  “What happened?” Edward asked.

  “Something horrible. I had no business handling a wagon. The wind was strong, I was drunk and inexperienced. I slapped the reins and off we went. I feigned being in control. My buddies knew better. They told me to slow down, go back. But no, I had my pride.

  “A narrow bridge crosses the Thames a mile north of the pub. The road bends sharply just before the crossing. The turn demands care on a clear day with a good driver. A drunk one on a dark, icy night has no hope. I missed it entirely. When I knew what was happening, I pulled up, but it was too late. The horses, the wagon, we all plunged over the edge of a steep ravine and fell fifteen feet into the water.

  “All of a sudden I was fighting to stay afloat. Three of us made it to the river’s edge. We looked frantically for George, our friend. We stomped up and down the bank, crying out his name, crying out to God.

  “We had to abandon the search—we were freezing. We found a house and got help. They located his body the next morning.”

  The trio sat in silence for a long time.

  Bea was the first to speak. “I’m so sorry, son. You must be heartbroken.”

  “More than you could imagine. I was so stupid, so childish. I got what I deserved. But my friend . . . he didn’t deserve to die. I suppose that’s why I see God in the fashion I do.”

  He turned and looked straight at Bea, lower lip quivering. “God could have helped. He should have helped. I used to think he hears us when we pray. But I prayed that night. With all my heart . . . Now, I don’t know anymore.”

  “This is how you ended up in Gladstone?” Edward asked.

  Richmond nodded. “We should have been expelled. My father intervened, however. But the don made it clear I would never know the likes of a preferred pulpit. I guess Gladstone is my penance.”

  “Or,” Edward adjusted, “Gladstone is where you find forgiveness.”

  Bea looked at her husband. “It’s all right that we tell him, don’t you think?”

  “About Abigail?” he answered.

  The clergyman looked at her. “Tell me what?”

  “We didn’t tell you the whole story. The fact is, our granddaughter used to live with us . . . until a year ago. She ran away last January. We think she is in London; a friend saw her there last spring.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “She made a mistake she must have thought we couldn’t forgive,” Bea explained.

  “We’ve tried to find her,” Edward added. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”

  Bea walked across the room and lifted a candle from the basket. “I guess we all need Christmas miracles, don’t we, David?”

  She handed the candle to the minister. “Take this, my son. You need some light.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think I should . . .”

  “Just take it.”

  He placed the candle in his coat and stood to leave. As Edward opened the door, he made a request. “Follow the tradition in the Christmas Eve service. Who knows what might happen?”

  Edward and Bea watched him walk away, then Edward closed the door.

  “Bea,” Edward invited, “we have one more candle.”

  She knew his thoughts and smiled. He set the candle in the holder; the two sat at the table and prayed. They prayed for forgiveness, faith, and a young girl in a large city.

  CHAPTER 9

  Christmas Eve

  DECEMBER 24, 1864

  The candle basket was now empty. Thirty hopeful Gladstonians guarded their candles and secrets and looked for a miracle. A ten-year-old girl prayed for her arguing parents. The family of a sailor prayed for his safe arrival. A wife prayed for her husband to sober up. Reverend Richmond had never seen so many weekday visitors stopping to pray.

  As the Christmas Eve service drew nigh, however, Edward and Bea expressed occasional bouts with doubt. “What will people do to us when they realize we gave them common candles?” Bea asked.

  “Do you think your uncle in Preston could give us a place to live?” Edward teased, only partly in jest.

  “Credibility. Friends. Candle shop. We could lose it all,” Bea listed.

  “Still, we have to attend the service, if for no other reason than to explain.”

  “They won’t believe us,” Bea lamented.

  Edward planned his words and mentally rehearsed them over and over. By Saturday night he was ready. They waited until the singing had begun before stepping out into the cold night and walking to the church for the Christmas Eve service. The streets were empty; everyone was in St. Mark’s.

  “Well, dear husband, only God knows what awaits us.”

  “At least one person will be happy to see us.”

  The couple found space on the back pew and took a seat. Strands of garland draped between the windows, and a row of flames flickered in each sill. The children’s nativity play was in full swing. Emily Barstow had organized the cast and props. The locksmith played one of the wise men, as did Adam from the livery stable. A homemade doll rested in the manger, and a lamb kept bumping it over with her nose. Laughter and applause bounced off the church’s stone walls.

  Reverend Richmond began his welcome. “We thank the ladies who cleaned the floors, our men who repaired the door. We appreciate the Haddingtons for the window candles.”

  Several heads swiveled and looked at the couple. Edward and Bea kept their eyes on Reverend Richmond.

  “This is my first Christmas Eve service with you,” the reverend continued. “I understand that the church traditionally begins this gathering with testimonies and announcements of blessings. We have all been blessed, far more than we deserve. Yet I am told that among us sits one person who has benefited from an angel’s touch.” He paused, looked over the audience, and invited, “Could I ask that soul to stand?”

  Edward and Bea gulped. She closed her eyes. He took her hand and whispered, “We’ll be all right, dear.” He bowed his head and offered a silent prayer. Lord, these are your people, your flock. Look with kindness upon this moment.

  He heard the congregation begin to murmur. “What is this?” someone asked aloud. Another wondered, “How can this be?” Then a third, “What is going on?” Edward assumed the worst. No one is standing.

  But when he and Bea opened their eyes, they couldn’t believe what they s
aw: people standing all over the sanctuary.

  Reverend Richmond took a step back from the pulpit. “I don’t understand. Why so many of you?”

  Villagers began asking for permission to say a word. The reverend called on a farmer on the front row. “You know me, Edward.” He turned and spoke across the crowd. “I can’t resist the bottle. But since you gave me the candle, I’ve been here, in prayer, each evening. Why others are standing, I can’t say, but I haven’t touched a drop in four days.”

  “Reverend,” requested another man, “may I?” The young minister nodded, and James stood. “My landlord and I have been at odds for months about the rent. But last Sunday, Edward gave me the candle. The missus and I prayed, and yesterday the landlord came to me and said, ‘Who am I to make demands? Apart from God’s mercy, I would have nothing,’ and then he gave me a clean slate and said he’d extend more credit if I needed it.”

  Adam, from the livery, spoke next. “Like you, Reverend, I’m bewildered by this response. I know this, however: my head is better. Not healed, but better.”

  The Widow Leonard rose. “I rented out the back of my house.”

  A man stood up next to her. “And I found a place to live.”

  Even Emily raised her hand. Looking directly at the minister, she said, “I’m not sure he notices me, but the more I pray, the more I know God does.”

  Blessing after blessing.

  “My husband’s been gone since summer. But he promises he’s back to stay.”

  “Our son is back from sea.”

  “Mr. Barstow hired me at the mercantile. I don’t have to sell my farm.”

  Edward and Bea watched with wide eyes and listened with happy hearts. Finally, after a harvest of good news, Edward stood. “I need to say something.” He walked down the aisle, turned, and looked into the weathered faces of the villagers.

  Digging his hands deep in his pockets, he began, “The night the angel came something happened that no one expected.”

  He told them the story, every detail: the deep slumber, the glowing light, the tingling foot, and the fall. (All chuckled at this point.) “Who has the real Christmas Candle? Only God knows, but he does know. And I know he uses the mistakes of stumblers.” He cast a knowing glance at the reverend. “And he has heard our prayers.

  “Perhaps we trusted the candle too much. Perhaps we trusted God too little. So God took our eyes off the candle and set them on himself. He is the Candle of Christmas. And Gladstone? Gladstone is one of his Bethlehems. For he has come to us all.”

  A chorus of amens boomed in the church.

  “Bea, I’ve preached enough. Come to the organ. It’s time to sing!”

  Bea played every Christmas carol she knew, from “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Queen Victoria heard no sweeter music than St. Mark’s did that Christmas Eve.

  But midway through “Silent Night” the service came to a frightening halt. The entrance doors slammed open, and a disheveled man ran in screaming, “Help! Someone help!” Sudden air gusted, whipping the flames on back window candles. Singing stopped and a hundred heads turned toward the rear of the sanctuary.

  Edward, with a clear view from his aisle seat, recognized the man as the driver of the coach wagon. He was a stark contrast to the worshippers—they, gleeful and warm; he, saucer-eyed and freezing. Ice clung to his beard and fear hung from his words. Grasping for breath, he sputtered, “One side of the bridge . . . Collins Bridge . . . it gave way.”

  Gladstonians gasped at the thought. “Are you hurt?” someone shouted.

  “No . . . my passengers . . . they fell over the side. I looked for them, but it’s too dark.”

  “Them?” Richmond asked. He stepped up the aisle toward the man. “Who was with you?”

  “A girl and her baby. The other passengers got off at Upper Slaughter. We should have stayed the night there, it’s so cold and icy. But she insisted.”

  Richmond spun toward the front of the church. “Hurry. The creek is shallow. She may be all right. All able-bodied men come with me.”

  “I’ll have a fire going in my house,” Sarah volunteered.

  “I have extra lanterns in my pub,” shouted James.

  “And I have more in my store,” Barstow offered.

  “Get them. Grab blankets and rope as well,” Richmond instructed. “We don’t have a minute to waste. Adam, bring a wagon. This girl will be in no condition to walk.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Meet at the bridge! May God have mercy.”

  The moment the people said “amen,” the midnight bells began to ring. Worshippers scurried into the frigid night under the commission of twelve chimes.

  CHAPTER 10

  Midnight

  DECEMBER 24, 1864

  Clouds blocked stars and wind howled through the trees. Edward wrapped a scarf around his face and felt a stab of dread in his heart. Could anyone survive this cold? he wondered to himself.

  He and Richmond were the first to leave St. Mark’s. The reverend grabbed a lit lantern that hung by the exit, and Edward followed. They hurried down Bristol Lane onto the muddy, wagon-wheel rutted road. Edward stayed a step behind his young companion, benefiting from the light and the windbreak. Neither spoke for the ten minutes it took to reach Collins Bridge.

  They paused for a moment at the crossing. One of the corner beams, weakened from weather and wear, tilted forward causing the bridge to slope steeply toward the water. The wagon remained on the suspension, thanks to the two horses standing firmly on dry ground. Edward envisioned the young mother, struggling to hold on, and then falling over the edge.

  “Hurry, Edward, let’s search downstream.”

  A gust of wind picked up as the two walked toward the ravine. Edward heard voices behind him and turned to see another set of lanterns. He couldn’t distinguish the carriers and didn’t wait to try.

  “We’re going on the west side,” he yelled. “You cross over!”

  “We will!” It was Mr. Chumley.

  Edward caught up with Richmond, who was illuminating the slope with the lantern. “Be careful, Edward, it’s muddy.”

  Edward tried his best but lost his footing and slid the five feet down the edge.

  “I’m okay,” he assured. “Just glad I wasn’t holding the lantern.”

  “Indeed,” Richmond agreed as the two began to slush their way along the bank.

  “Any idea who the girl is?” Richmond yelled over the wind.

  “No.”

  “Hello!” they cried. “Hello!” But they heard nothing.

  The two were in the water as much as out of it. The steep slope and trees left them the slenderest path. The water soon soaked their boots, numbing their legs from the knees down. Richmond, with the lantern, led the way, careful not to advance too far ahead of Edward. He paused often to yell:

  “Still there?”

  “Yes, yes,” Edward assured.

  As it turned out, it was Richmond who took the fall. He ventured around a tree by stepping into the water, one hand on the trunk, the other holding the lantern. His foot slipped, and he and the lantern fell into the stream.

  Edward saw the reverend splash and stopped in the abrupt darkness.

  “I’m fine, Edward. I’m fine,” he heard the reverend assure. Through the inky night Edward made out the form of Richmond struggling to his feet and back to the shore.

  “We have no light,” the reverend bemoaned.

  They heard the water rushing, leaves rustling, and then . . . from downstream, a call for help.

  “Edward! Did you hear that?”

  “I did.”

  The call came again. This time Edward responded. “We’re coming!”

  “But I can’t see one step ahead of me!”

  “Feel your way forward.”

  Richmond didn’t budge. “I can’t move. This is too familiar. The cold. The darkness. The water. Oh, God,” he pleaded, “not again.”

  Edward placed a hand on
his shoulder. “Don’t give up on God, son.”

  Richmond folded his arms and shivered. As he did he felt something in his coat. A candle. The candle Edward had given him earlier.

  “Do you have a match, Edward?”

  “A match?”

  “I found a candle in my pocket.”

  “It will do no good,” he told Richmond. “The flame can’t withstand the wind.”

  “It may for a moment. And a moment of light is better than none!”

  Edward reached for the matches he kept to light his pipe. “Let’s lean together and block the wind!”

  The two stood side by side as Edward struck the match. It flared, then disappeared.

  “Closer! Stand closer to me!” the candle maker instructed.

  Both men bent at the waist. Richmond held the candle as still as his shaking hands allowed. The match flame touched the wick, then expired.

  “It’s wet,” Edward explained.

  “One more time,” Richmond urged.

  Edward took another match, struck it, and held it toward the candle. Richmond cupped his hand around the wick. The flame held, dancing for a moment. “I think it’s going to light.”

  It did more, much more. Before the two men could straighten, radiance exploded. The light of a dozen torches pushed back the darkness. A bonfire couldn’t have been brighter. Edward could see the wide eyes and dropped jaw of the reverend. “What is happening?” Richmond asked.

  “A miracle is happening, son. Hurry, these lights tend to pass quickly.”

  Richmond reached the girl first. She was on the ground, huddled against a tree, clutching a bundle to her breast. “Looks like she was trying to find her way out,” Richmond suggested. He squatted and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  No response.

  “Is she alive?” Edward asked.

  Richmond removed his glove, lifted her chin, and placed two fingers beneath her scarf.

  He scarcely breathed as he felt for a pulse. He never got one but didn’t need one. The girl groaned.

  “She’s alive, Edward.”

  Richmond turned his attention to the child. He lifted the blanket and placed a hand beneath the small nose. “This one is fine too. Sound asleep, likely better off than the mother.”