Christmas Treasures (9781101558720)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
READERS GUIDE FOR
The Cape Light Titles
CAPE LIGHT
HOME SONG
A GATHERING PLACE
A NEW LEAF
A CHRISTMAS PROMISE
THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL
A CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER
A CHRISTMAS VISITOR
A CHRISTMAS STAR
A WISH FOR CHRISTMAS
ON CHRISTMAS EVE
CHRISTMAS TREASURES
The Angel Island Titles
THE INN AT ANGEL ISLAND
THE WEDDING PROMISE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2011 by The Thomas Kinkade Company and Parachute Publishing, LLC.
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2011 by The Thomas Kinkade Company and Parachute Publishing, LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kinkade, Thomas, (date)–
p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-55872-0
1. Clergy—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Intergenerational relations—Fiction.
4. Faith—Fiction. 5. Cape Light (Imaginary place)—Fiction. 6. New England—Fiction.
7. Christmas stories. I. Spencer, Katherine, (date)–II. Title.
PS3561.I534C484 2011
813’.54—dc22
2011016467
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to my aunt,
Marion Giordano—
her beautiful, loving heart encourages and inspires all who know her.
—KATHERINE SPENCER
DEAR READERS
I am so pleased that we are again celebrating another Christmas together in Cape Light. But this year, Christmas may not feel like Christmas to many of our friends there. A crisis prevents Reverend Ben from presiding over the Christmas season as he has done for so many years. In his place is Isabel Lawrence, a young woman who seems so very different from their beloved minister. Meanwhile, Reverend Ben, who has always been the one to comfort and counsel others in their time of need, is finding that he may be the one in need of spiritual guidance.
And then there are the Rowans, who come to Cape Light looking for a chance to rebuild their broken lives. Richard and Regina have lost their home and their jobs. Now they’re on the verge of losing each other. Can they find the time and peace necessary to celebrate the birth of the Lord—and give their children a joyous Christmas? And can they heal old scars and rekindle the love that once drew them together?
We also meet the widower Jacob Ferguson and his teenage son, Max. Max is a good, smart kid but his mother’s death has left him hollow andvii
aching. Like many kids, he acts out, but Max makes the mistake of acting out in the church and damaging its beloved interior. It’s up to Reverend Isabel to find a way to reach an angry teenager and soothe an outraged congregation.
Certainly we can all relate to those moments when troubles weigh us down and seem overwhelming, times when it is hard to look for the divine inspiration that is always there. Perhaps that’s why the good Lord has given us the annual miracle of Christmas—a season filled with the spirit of hope and renewal.
The people of Cape Light will discover as we all do that, despite hardships, Christmas has the unique ability to open our hearts with its many treasures. We share them with you now, and hope that you, too, will be blessed by the joys of the holiday season.
Share the Light,
Thomas Kinkade
CHAPTER ONE
BEN PULLED BACK THE BEDROOM CURTAIN SUNDAY MORNING to find the world covered with snow, as if some unseen hand had lovingly draped a sleeping child with a soft white blanket. The lawn and garden behind the parsonage, the stone walls and the roof of the old barn, all snugly tucked in.
He stared out at the veil of flakes that continued to fall, drifting through the bare branches. It was the first snow of the winter, just a few days after Thanksgiving. The forecast had predicted only a few inches, but it looked as though more than a foot had piled up out there already.
Winter had arrived, a New England winter, which was not for the fainthearted. He often wondered if he and Carolyn were getting too old for this merciless kind of cold.
But this morning, instead of fantasizing about tropical vacations or retiring in year-round sunshine, Ben was caught up in the perennial thrill that always came with the first snowfall. It was the same wonder he had felt as a boy staring out his bedroom window down in Gloucester.
1
Sixty winters later, here I am, still amazed by the sight, the glory of God’s handiwork. The flakes fell so slowly, such a long journey down from the clouds. How many millions or billions of tiny, intricately shaped flakes did it take to make those drifts? How long did it take them to travel all the way down here?
He was still awed by the deep quiet of the morning and the pearly light that reflected into the room, a special light that told him what he would find outside before he had even pulled back the curtain. He was still humbled in his heart by this ordinary, extraordinary miracle.
He glanced o
ver at Carolyn, fast asleep, the quilt curled over her shoulder. He felt the urge to wake her. But they’d been on babysitting duty last night for their grandchildren—two well-behaved but active kids—and she deserved another hour or so of sleep before she followed him to church that morning. Sunday was a workday for him, the most important of the week, and he had to get to church early, well before the service started.
Ben trudged off to shower and dress, his thoughts turning to practical matters. He didn’t look forward to shoveling out his driveway and cleaning off his and Carolyn’s cars, then at church, clearing a path from the parking lot to the sanctuary. He didn’t feel awed or humbled by that expectation.
Carl Tulley, the church sexton, was away for the weekend. The deacons would do most of the job, he knew, but there still had to be a clear path in case an older congregation member came to church early for the Bible study class or to help set up the coffee hour or flowers. Ben would never forgive himself if someone took a bad fall, so even the job of snow removal fell to the minister at times at so small a church.
Ben was used to serving at both the highest and lowest posts by now. As it should be, he often thought. He had never been the type of minister to put himself above the congregation. Though he sometimes wondered how long he would be able to keep up the pace, to have the stamina needed for this multifaceted job. He wasn’t a young man or even a middle-aged one anymore.
Ben was reminded of that fact once again soon after arriving at church. Prepared with a snow shovel from the trunk of his car, he industriously began to dig his way from the parking lot to the big wooden sanctuary doors.
About halfway to his goal, he straightened up and rubbed his back, then took a deep breath. Or tried to. The ice-cold air pierced his lungs and he felt choked, as if he could hardly take in enough air. He was breathing so heavily from the exercise that he opened his overcoat and even loosened his scarf and tie. Silly to get so winded after just a little shoveling, he thought. It’s never bothered me before. Clearly, I need more exercise.
Carolyn was so much better at that. She went for power walks every morning, rain or shine. He did admire her dedication—usually while seated comfortably in the kitchen, enjoying a second cup of coffee and scanning the newspaper headlines and sports pages.
Too much coffee this morning, he decided. It was catching up with him. His forehead felt clammy; he even felt light-headed. He took a wheezy breath and leaned heavily on the shovel.
“Morning, Reverend.” Ben turned at the sound of heavy boots crunching on the path. Tucker Tulley, the church’s head deacon, walked toward him. “You didn’t have to do all that work. I called around. A few of us are coming early to shovel.”
“I knew you’d have it covered, Tucker. I just wanted to clear a small path to the front doors. Just in case. There’s that early Bible study class now. Sophie Potter and Digger Hegman both belong,” he added, naming two of the church’s senior members. “And it is the first Sunday of Advent. There should be a large attendance today.”
“Usually,” Tucker agreed, “though some people will stay home in this weather.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Ben said. Not too many, he hoped. He had prepared a special sermon, the first of a new theme for the season of Advent. It was such a relief to move into the Christmas season. He got tired of preaching the long stretch of Sundays after Pentecost. Ordinary Time, it was called in the church calendar. Ordinary indeed. Not too much happening in the months from June to November, no holidays like Easter and Christmas to hang his preaching on.
He loved the Christmas season for many reasons, not the least of them being that it was an easy time to come up with meaningful, relevant themes for his sermons.
“You leave the rest of this to us.” Tucker reached over and took the shovel out of his hands. “You ought to go inside now, Reverend. You look like the cold is getting to you.”
Tucker stared at him curiously and Ben felt self-conscious. He took off his cap and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, though the temperature was below freezing.
“Are you all right, Reverend?”
Ben pocketed his handkerchief. “I’m fine, thanks. Just overdid it a little. I have to get in better shape. It will be my New Year’s resolution . . . as usual,” he murmured.
“I know what you mean. Two steps forward, three steps back. Now that the holidays are coming—watch out, diet!” Tucker shook his head and patted his middle. He was impressively fit for a man in his fifties, Ben thought. As a police officer, he was obliged to keep in shape. Unlike a minister.
“Thanksgiving was the kickoff,” Ben agreed. “Maybe that’s it. That extra slice of pumpkin pie has slowed me down.” Ben’s tone was light, but the truth was, he hadn’t felt quite right since the family’s Thanksgiving Day feast, held at his daughter Rachel’s home this year. He had gone to bed that night with a tight feeling that had persisted now for days. Almost as if a weight pressed down on his chest. It would abate for a while, then return—sometimes in the middle of the night, waking him from a sound sleep. He felt that way this morning, too. He must have taken half a bottle of antacids by now.
I’ll eat very lightly today, he promised himself. Just soup and crackers for lunch and dinner. That should set me right.
“Good luck, Tucker. It’s all yours.”
Ben headed into the building, where he was greeted by a blast of warm air. He quickly made his way to his office, feeling as if he couldn’t shed his coat and muffler fast enough. He hung both on the coatrack, then sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. He did feel dizzy. The room was spinning.
Guess I overdid it out there. I was working too quickly, worrying about getting the job done.
What was it you were supposed to do if you felt faint? Put your head between your knees? Ben stared down at his knees for a moment. He would feel silly doing that. He took a few deep breaths and waited until the mild spell of vertigo passed.
Then he took out his reading glasses and opened the folder on his desk that held his sermon. He typed out his notes every week, though he usually didn’t deliver the sermon exactly as it was written. He jumped around at times or embellished certain sections.
There was an art to delivering a sermon that moved your listeners both emotionally and spiritually. You needed to catch their attention using humor or drama, bringing in stories from real life, from history, and from the Bible, of course. But you needed to relate the Bible stories so that they seemed real and relevant, so that the audience could feel themselves standing in the place of Job or the Good Samaritan. Or even Jesus. Facing the challenges, making the hard decisions of conscience, suffering the consequences or reaping the rewards.
Sometimes events in the news helped bring the message home, or even statistics and surveys. Ben had learned to draw from many sources, weaving it all together into a cohesive design.
One would think that after all these years, writing a sermon would come automatically. But it was still a challenge, a moment of anxiety before he began, knowing what he wanted to say but not quite the best way to say it. Wondering if the idea was complex and meaningful enough—or too superficial or obscure.
Sometimes you struck a home run without even trying. Sometimes—not often, but there were still rare occasions—Ben could tell he’d totally struck out. The expressions on the faces of his congregation said it all.
Some ministers had changed the course of history with their sermons—sparked revolutions, overturned despots, and helped to free the oppressed. Ben felt honored to march in those ranks, even as a lowly foot soldier, bringing up the rear. But each week he tried earnestly to introduce some fresh new ideas to the little stone church on the green. It was a serious responsibility. And a privilege.
Delivering a sermon every Sunday was the most obvious and perhaps most important part of his job. Though there was much more to the job, for better or worse, ministers were often judged solely on that ten or twelve minutes in a Sunday service when they stood behind the pulpit.
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He did enjoy hearing other preachers and had even gone to seminars to sharpen his style. He might be more emphatic, more dramatic. Tell more jokes or serious, true-life stories. Weave in more personal experiences, a confessional, soul-baring style. He might do a lot of things up there.
Finally, he just did the best he could, speaking to the congregation as he would a circle of friends: from his heart. He’d been preaching at this church for more than twenty-five years. Seminars or not, he wasn’t going to change much at this stage of the game. Ben felt pretty sure that most of the congregation wouldn’t want him to, either.
He settled himself again in his seat and took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the pages, practicing his delivery in his mind’s eye. He usually rehearsed at least once in the sanctuary, but this morning he decided that reading it through silently would suffice. He felt too tired for a full-blown dress rehearsal. The service began at ten, and now it was just a few minutes before nine.
He could hear the Bible study class discussing the day’s reading in the room next to his office. The sound was music to his ears. It told him that his church was thriving, the members intellectually and spiritually seeking to grow their relationships with God. A minister could lead them, even inspire them, but he couldn’t do it all for them. Sometimes Ben felt as if that’s what people did expect of him. It was a heavy burden, feeling responsible for the spiritual lives of so many.
Maybe that’s why I feel this heaviness in my chest. It was the workload, which got even heavier during the holidays. His responsibilities as minister were catching up with him.
Or perhaps he had a chest cold coming on? He had to laugh at his own choices.