Christmas Stories

by Max Lucado

  “Carmen was his daughter?”

  “Yes, the girl who survived. Let me show you something.”

  Joe removed his hat, either out of reverence for the crèche or regard for the low roof, and knelt before the crib. I joined him. The grass was cold beneath our knees.

  “Pull the blanket off the infant Jesus and look at his chest.”

  I did as he asked. Evening shadows made it difficult to see, but I could make out the figure of a small cross furrowed into the wood. I ran my finger over the groove. Maybe a couple of inches long and half that wide, deep and wide enough for the tip of my finger.

  “For nearly ten years a wooden scarlet cross sat in that space.”

  He could see the question on my face and explained. “Ottolman wasn’t a believer when he began. But something about carving the face of the Messiah . . .” His voice drifted off for a minute as he touched the tiny chin. “Somewhere in the process he became interested. He went to church, this very church, and asked the pastor all about Jesus. Reverend Jackson told him not just about the birth but about the death of Christ and invited him to Sunday worship. He went.

  “He took little Carmen with him. She was only a toddler. The two sat on the front pew and heard their first sermon. ‘Born Crucified’ was the name of the lesson. The message changed his life. He told everyone about it.”

  Joe smiled and stepped out from under the roof, then stood in the grass, his breath puffing clouds in the cold.

  “He used to retell the message to Carmen every night. He’d sit her on her bed and pretend he was the pastor.” At this point Joe lowered his voice and took on a pulpit rhythm.

  “‘Baby Jesus was born to be crucified. He came not just for Bethlehem but for Calvary—not just to live with us but to die for us. Born with love in his eyes and the cross in his heart. He was born crucified.’”

  Joe’s blue eyes blazed, and his meaty fist punched the air, as if he were the reverend making the point.

  “So you knew him?”

  “I did.”

  “And Carmen?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “Very well.”

  Still on my knees, I turned back to the baby and touched the indentation left by the cross. He chuckled behind me and said, “Ottolman told some of the members about his idea for the carving, and they thought it was crazy. ‘Baby Jesus doesn’t wear a cross,’ they said. But he insisted. And one Christmas when he brought the figures out and set them on the lawn, there was a wooden scarlet cross in the baby’s chest. Some people made a stink about it, but the reverend, he didn’t mind.”

  “And the cross, where is it now? Is it lost?”

  Joe put his hands in his pockets and stared off into space, then looked back at me. “No, it’s not lost. Come with me.” He turned and walked toward the church doors. I followed him into the building.

  Over here,” he called as I stood in the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the darkening room.

  I took off my cap, and Joe led me through a door off the right side of the foyer, down a long hall. We passed a row of portraits, apparently a gallery of pastors. I followed him around a corner until we stood in front of a door marked “Library.” There must have been thirty keys hanging from a chain on Joe’s belt. One of them unlocked the door. After he turned on the lights, we crossed the room to a corner where a stand held a thick scrapbook. In a couple of turns the old man found what he was looking for.

  “This article appeared in our paper on Christmas Day, 1958.”

  The yellowed newsprint told the story:

  STOLEN BABY JESUS HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

  He was silent as I read the first paragraph.

  “Mr. Ottolman must have been pretty angry.”

  “No, he wasn’t upset.”

  “But his baby was taken.”

  “Finish the article, and I’ll get us some coffee.”

  As he left the room, I continued reading:

  The baby Jesus, part of a set hand-carved by a local woodworker, was taken from the Clearwater Lutheran Church sometime yesterday. The minister had posted a sign pleading for the babe’s return. “At last night’s Christmas Eve service,” Reverend Jackson reported, “we had special prayers for the baby. With the homecoming of Baby Jesus, the prayers were answered.”

  I was staring at the photograph attached to the article when Joe returned with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “Look closely,” he said. “See anything missing?”

  “The cross?”

  Joe nodded. “Won’t you sit down?”

  We sat on either side of a long mahogany table. Joe took a sip of coffee and began.

  “Nineteen fifty-eight. Carmen was eighteen. Lively, lovely girl, she was. Ottolman did his best to raise her, but she had her own ways. Would have been good had he remarried, but he never did.

  “Told people a man only has room in his heart for one woman; Carmen was his. She was everything to him. Took her fishing on Saturdays and picked her up after school. Every Sunday the two sat on the front pew of this church and sang. My, how they sang.

  “And every night he would pray. He’d thank God for his good grace and then beg God, ‘Take care of my Carmen, Lord. Take care of my Carmen.’”

  Joe looked away as if remembering her. For the first time I heard conversation in the hall. Parishioners were beginning to arrive. Somewhere a choir was rehearsing. Just as I found myself hoping Joe wouldn’t stop his story, he continued. “Carmen’s mother was a beauty from Mexico. And Carmen had every ounce of her beauty. Dark skin, black hair, and eyes that could melt your soul. She couldn’t walk down Main Street without being whistled at.

  “This bothered Ottolman. He was from the old school, you know. As she got older, he got stricter. It was for her own good, but she couldn’t see that. He went too far, Ottolman did. He went too far. Told her to stay away from boys and to stay away from any place where boys were. And she did, mostly.

  “Early in the summer of ’58, Carmen discovered she was pregnant. She kept it from her father as long as she could. Being small of stature, she hid it quite well. But by December it was obvious. When he found out, he did something very, very bad. For the rest of his life he regretted that December night.”

  Joe’s tone shifted from one of telling to one of questioning. “Why do people do the thing they swear they’ll never do?”

  I wasn’t sure if he expected me to answer or not, but before I could, he sighed and continued.

  “Well, Carmen’s dad got mad and he got drunk. He wasn’t a bad man; he just did a bad thing. He forgot his faith. And . . .”

  Joe shook his head—“you’re not going to believe this. Just before Christmas, he and Carmen had a wreck. Twice in one lifetime the man wrecked a car carrying the woman he loved.”

  Joe stopped again, I suppose to let me mull over what he’d said. He was right; I found it hard to believe. How could a man repeat such a tragic event? But then, it occurred to me that I was doing the same with Meg.

  Swearing to do better, only to fail again . . . and again. Maybe it wasn’t so impossible after all.

  “Go on,” I urged. “What happened to them?”

  “Ottolman came out of it okay, but Carmen was hurt, badly hurt. They took her to the hospital where her daddy sat by her bed every single minute. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he would pray, ‘take care of my Carmen. Don’t let her die.’ The doctors told him they would have to take the baby as soon as Carmen was stable.

  “The night passed and Carmen slept. Ottolman sat by her side and Carmen slept. She slept right up until Christmas Eve morning. Then she woke up. Her first words were a question: ‘Daddy, has my baby come?’

  “He bounded out of his chair and took her hand. ‘No, Carmen, but the baby is fine. The doctors are sure the baby is fine.’

  “‘Where am I?’

  “He knelt at her bedside. ‘You’re in the hospital, darling. It’s Christmas Eve.’ He put her hand on his cheek and told her what had happened. He told her about his drinking and the accident and he began to we
ep. ‘I’m so sorry, Carmen. I’m so sorry.’

  “Then Carmen did a wonderful thing. She stroked her father’s head and said, ‘It’s okay, Papa. It’s okay. I love you.’

  “He leaned forward and put his face in the crook of her neck and wept. Carmen cried too. She put her arm around her daddy’s neck and cried.

  “Neither said anything for the longest time; they just held each other, each tear washing away the hurt. Finally Carmen spoke: ‘Papa, will the baby come before Christmas?’

  “‘I don’t know, princess.’

  “‘I’d like that.’ She smiled, her brown eyes twinkling. ‘I’d like very much to have a baby to hold this Christmas Eve.’

  “Those were her final words. She closed her eyes to rest. But she never woke up.”

  Joe’s eyes misted, and he looked at the floor. I started to say he didn’t have to tell me the rest of the story, but when he lifted his head, he was smiling—a soft, tender smile. “It was around lunchtime when Ottolman had the idea. ‘You want to sleep with your baby, Carmen?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll get you your baby.’

  “For the first time in weeks he left the hospital. Out the door and across the street he marched. He walked straight past the courthouse and slowed his pace only when he neared the church. For a long time he stared at the crèche from across the street—the very crèche you saw this afternoon. He was planning something. He took a deep breath and crossed the church lawn.

  “He began adjusting the manger scene, like he was inspecting the figures, looking for cracks or marks. Anyone passing by would have thought nothing of Mr. Ottolman examining his handiwork. And no one passing by would have seen that when he left, there was no baby Jesus in the manger.

  “Only an hour later, when the reverend was showing the display to his grandchildren, did anyone notice. By then, the baby with the scarlet cross was wrapped in a blanket and nestled under the covers next to Carmen.

  “Her final wish was granted. She held a baby on Christmas Eve.”

  For a long time neither Joe nor I spoke. He sat leaning forward, hands folded between his knees. He wasn’t there. Nor was I. We were both in the world of Ottolman and Carmen and the sculptured baby in the manger. Though I’d never seen their faces, I could see them in my mind. I could see Ottolman pulling back the hospital sheets and placing the infant Jesus next to his daughter. And I could see him setting a chair next to the bed, taking Carmen’s hand in his . . . and waiting.

  I broke the silence with one word:

  “Carmen?”

  “She died two days later.”

  “The baby?”

  “He came, early. But he came.”

  “Mr. Ottolman?”

  “He stayed on in Clearwater. Still lives here, as a matter of fact. But he never went back to his house. He couldn’t face the emptiness.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  Joe cleared his throat. “Well, the church took him in—gave him a job and a little room at the back of the sanctuary.”

  Until that moment, until he spoke those words, the possibility had not entered my mind. I leaned forward and looked directly into his face. “Who are you?”

  “You have her eyes, you know,” he whispered.

  “You mean, Carmen was . . .”

  “Yes. Your mother. And I’m, well, I’m . . . your . . .”

  “ . . . Grandfather?”

  His chin began to tremble as he told me, “I’ve made some big mistakes, son. And I pray I’m not making another one right now. I just wanted you to know what happened. And I wanted to see you while I still could.”

  As I struggled to understand, he reached into his shirt pocket. He removed an object, placed it in my palm, and folded my hand around it. “I’ve been keeping this for you. She would want you to have it.” And I opened my hand to see a cross—a small, wooden, scarlet cross.

  Later that evening I called Meg from my room. I told her about Carmen, Ottolman, and the family I’d discovered. “Were you angry at Joe?” she asked.

  “Funny,” I said, “of all the emotions that flooded me in that church library, anger wasn’t one of them. Shock? Yes. Disbelief? Of course. But anger, no. Joe’s assessment of himself sounds fair. He is a good man who did a very bad thing.”

  There was a long pause. Meg and I both knew what needed to be discussed next. She found a way to broach it. “What about me?” Her voice was soft. “Are you angry at me?”

  With no hesitation, I responded, “No, there’s been too much anger between us.”

  She agreed. “If Carmen forgave Joe, don’t you suppose we could do the same for each other?”

  “I’ll be home tomorrow,” I told my wife.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she replied.

  So Meg flew to Texas to be with us. She made it to Clearwater in time to have dinner with two men who, by virtue of mistakes and mercy and Christmas miracles, had found their way home for the holidays.

  Oh, the things we do to give gifts to those we love.

  But we don’t mind, do we? We would do it all again. Fact is, we do it all again. Every Christmas, every birthday, every so often we find ourselves in foreign territory. Grownups are in toy stores, dads are in teen stores. Wives are in the hunting department, and husbands are in the purse department.

  Not only do we enter unusual places, we do unusual things. We assemble bicycles at midnight. We hide the new tires with mag wheels under the stairs. One fellow I heard about rented a movie theater so he and his wife could see their wedding pictures on their anniversary.

  And we’d do it all again. Having pressed the grapes of service, we drink life’s sweetest wine—the wine of giving. We are at our best when we are giving. In fact, we are most like God when we are giving.

  He Chose the Nails

  THE ANSWER

  IS YES

  Five-year-old Madeline climbed into her father’s lap.

  “Did you have enough to eat?” he asked her.

  She smiled and patted her tummy. “I can’t eat any more.”

  “Did you have some of your Grandma’s pie?”

  “A whole piece!”

  Joe looked across the table at his mom. “Looks like you filled us up. Don’t think we’ll be able to do anything tonight but go to bed.”

  Madeline put her little hands on either side of his big face. “Oh, but, Poppa, this is Christmas Eve. You said we could dance.”

  Joe feigned a poor memory. “Did I now? Why, I don’t remember saying anything about dancing.”

  Grandma smiled and shook her head as she began clearing the table.

  “But, Poppa,” Madeline pleaded, “we always dance on Christmas Eve. Just you and me, remember?”

  A smile burst from beneath his thick mustache. “Of course I remember, darling. How could I forget?”

  And with that he stood and took her hand in his, and for a moment, just a moment, his wife was alive again, and the two were walking into the den to spend another night before Christmas as they had spent so many, dancing away the evening.

  They would have danced the rest of their lives, but then came the surprise pregnancy and the complications. Madeline survived. But her mother did not. And Joe, the thick-handed butcher from Minnesota, was left to raise his Madeline alone.

  “Come on, Poppa.” She tugged on his hand. “Let’s dance before everyone arrives.” She was right. Soon the doorbell would ring and the relatives would fill the floor and the night would be past.

  But, for now, it was just Poppa and Madeline.

  Rebellion flew into Joe’s world like a Minnesota blizzard. About the time she was old enough to drive, Madeline decided she was old enough to lead her life. And that life did not include her father.

  “I should have seen it coming,” Joe would later say, “but for the life of me I didn’t.” He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to handle the pierced nose and the tight shirts. He didn’t understand the late nights and the poor grades. And, most of all, he didn’t know when to
speak and when to be quiet.

  She, on the other hand, had it all figured out. She knew when to speak to her father—never. She knew when to be quiet—always. The pattern was reversed, however, with the lanky, tattooed kid from down the street. He was no good, and Joe knew it.

  And there was no way he was going to allow his daughter to spend Christmas Eve with that kid.

  “You’ll be with us tonight, young lady. You’ll be at your grandma’s house eating your grandma’s pie. You’ll be with us on Christmas Eve.”

  Though they were at the same table, they might as well have been on different sides of town. Madeline played with her food and said nothing. Grandma tried to talk to Joe, but he was in no mood to chat. Part of him was angry; part of him was heartbroken. And the rest of him would have given anything to know how to talk to this girl who once sat on his lap.

  Soon the relatives arrived, bringing with them a welcome end to the awkward silence. As the room filled with noise and people, Joe stayed on one side, Madeline sat sullenly on the other.

  “Put on the music, Joe,” reminded one of his brothers. And so he did. Thinking she would be honored, he turned and walked toward his daughter. “Will you dance with your poppa tonight?”

  The way she huffed and turned, you’d have thought he’d insulted her. In full view of the family, she walked out the front door and marched down the sidewalk. Leaving her father alone.

  Very much alone.

  Madeline came back that night but not for long. Joe never faulted her for leaving. After all, what’s it like being the daughter of a butcher? In their last days together he tried so hard. He made her favorite dinner—she didn’t want to eat. He invited her to a movie—she stayed in her room. He bought her a new dress—she didn’t even say thank you. And then there was that spring day he left work early to be at the house when she arrived home from school.

  Wouldn’t you know that was the day she never came home.

  A friend saw her and her boyfriend in the vicinity of the bus station. The authorities confirmed the purchase of a ticket to Chicago; where she went from there was anybody’s guess.