A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology (4 page)

The situation was totally crazy, but Ellen's
extended family took both it and Tim in stride. Dinner was served
buffet style in a kitchen crowded with people, casseroles, and an
enormous punch bowl. Grandma led them all in prayer before
presiding over the chaos, a smile wreathing a face as wrinkled as
the raisins spotting the rice pudding.

With a plate of food balanced awkwardly on
his knee, Tim laughed over the retelling of family holiday stories.
He enjoyed watching the play of expression on Ellen's vivid
face.

Tim had grown up an only child. If his mother
were here, she'd be appalled by the shabby furnishings and
disgusted by the loud voices and hearty laughter. She would have
fainted if a child scuffed his shoes on the carpet, much less
spilled punch as a brown-eyed tot did here tonight. But in this
household, family reigned supreme, each person an integral part of
a loving, complete picture of togetherness.

Eating a piece of pecan pie, Tim savored the
warmth of Ellen's leg against his as they crowded together on the
sofa. Looking up, he caught sight of Charlie, who was gazing at his
mother with a sorrowful expression that tugged at Tim's heart.

Grandma Maria opened her presents, insisting
as each package was placed in her lap that the giver “shouldn't
have bothered.” Tim applauded with the others when the wizened
little woman opened Ellen's gift; a shimmering pink silk slip, and
let out a squeal of pleasure. The back of Ellen's hand brushed
Tim's as they tried to coordinate their clapping.

Ellen's perfume blended with the scent of the
evergreen branches. She was so precious—and he had no claim on her
except for the thin metal circles which temporarily linked
them.

Suddenly, Tim felt like an outsider, doomed
to be forever shut out of the warmth of family life. He bit his
lip, murmuring an inward prayer for strength.

Turning to Tim with a smile, Ellen said, “I
think we 'd better go so you can get on with whatever you were
doing when we kidnapped you.”

Their coats lay across their laps. Because of
the handcuffs, they each had been forced to leave an arm in one
sleeve. With the ease of long familiarity, Tim reached over to help
Ellen pull her coat up and around her shoulders.

In the doorway, Ellen turned. “'Merry
Christmas, everybody!”

“Mom!” Charlie pointed upward, his eyes
sparkling. “You're standing under the mistletoe!”

Tim knew his duty. “So we are,” he said
promptly and bent to place a tender kiss on Ellen's mouth.

He wanted to prolong the intimacy. The kiss
must have betrayed his feelings—when they parted, Ellen gazed up at
him in surprise. A delicate flush mounted in her cheeks.

Both adults were silent in
the elevator, with Charlie yawning and heavy-eyed. As they walked
toward the bus stop, the boy's feet dragged.

“Come here, sweetie,” Ellen said. “I'll carry
you.

“Let me.” Tim boosted the child into his
arms.

Charlie snuggled his head against Tim's
shoulder in a gesture of complete trust. Above, the stars gleamed
in competition with the street lights. Tim walked slower,
pretending his lagging pace was due to his burden, but he didn't
want the trip to end. This is sheer lunacy, he thought, his heart
swelling, but I love it!

Ellen's home was in a modest neighborhood
where houses were decorated with Santas, snowmen, and multiple
strings of lights. Snow frosted the bushes; a wooly white cap
covered each roof.

“Let's get Sleepyhead tucked in and then look
for the key,” Ellen suggested as she unlocked the front door. “'I
hope it's still in the box where Charlie found the handcuffs.”

Tim nodded, looking at the evergreen standing
in the corner with its popcorn chains, the candle in the window,
and a nativity scene, all evidence that Ellen had tried to make
this a normal Christmas.

“Are you happy, Mom?” Charlie asked drowsily
as his mother tucked him into bed.

“Yes, munchkin.” Ellen bent to kiss him.

Tim admired a close-up view of the sweep of
dark hair falling away from the delicate nape of her neck.

“I knew he was the right one 'cause he smiled
at the kids sleddin' in the window. I asked God to get you a really
good present,” the boy murmured obscurely and fell asleep.

Ellen closed the bedroom door behind them.
“What was he mumbling about?”

Tim indicated their metal bond. “Me, I
think.”

She stared up at him, her lips parted.

“He sees how much you're hurting without
David,” Tim explained.

“When he saw us together, he must have
decided I was just what you needed for Christmas. I guess he thinks
I'm an answer to his prayers.”

Ellen's free hand flew to her throat. “And
are you?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper, her gaze
downcast.

Tim cupped her chin with his free hand,
gently compelling her to look at him. Somewhere downstairs, a clock
struck midnight. By unspoken consent they kissed. Breathless, they
reluctantly pulled apart.

“I'm glad God had Charlie bring us together,”
Tim whispered, smoothing back Ellen's hair. “I feel reborn. It's a
miracle wrought by a very small Christmas angel named Charlie.

Tonight I met a woman whose loveliness of
spirit makes me long to know her better. If someone handed me the
key to these handcuffs, I'd throw it away.”

“Christmas is the time for miracles. Grandma
says so, and she's always right.” Ellen's vivacious face sobered.
“But as much as you hate the idea, it's urgent that we find the key
and free ourselves.”

Tim knew he was grinning like an idiot.
“What's wrong with our present situation? I find it quite
cozy.”

Ellen laughed, a chime sweeter than silver
bells. “I confess, so do I. But I also drank three cups of punch at
the party—and my bathroom is definitely a one-seater.”

Tim pulled her closer and kissed those
adorably quirking lips, confident that both God, Grandma and
Charlie would approve.

THE END

Star of
Bethlehem

A Star and a tree. Such a humble request. The
snow came to just above my ankles, fresh flakes powdering the
shoulders of my coat. The memory of Jill’s wistful brown eyes
haunted me as I struggled to open the sliding door of the barn.

The calico cat with a crumpled ear, an ever
gracious host, met me as I stepped inside. The cows were standing
patiently in their stalls, waiting for the milkmaid and her
pail.

I could visualize the noisy chaos within the
house—my four children were making Christmas cookies, candy
sprinkles and drops of icing decorating the floor, their faces, the
tablecloth and, hopefully, a few of the cookies. Steven was
supervising from a kitchen chair, his smashed leg in its bulky cast
propped on a hamper, the leg which was responsible for keeping him
from his winter job as a garage mechanic.

The chicken coop had been my first stop and
as I spread the corn in the feeder, I had avoided looking at the
heat lamps which would have to be run 24 hours a day in bitter
weather. The heat lamps reminded me of the electric bill lying in
the unpaid pile in the kitchen drawer.

Tonight was Christmas Eve and before going to
bed I still had to put the yarn hair on Jill’s rag doll, hem
Donna’s skirt and sew the buttons on the boys’ shirts. Christmas
Eve, and there was no tree.

I had broken the news to the children less
than a week ago. The breakfast table had been the scene of a
stimulating debate as to the placement of the tree and very little
oatmeal was being eaten.

Jill waved her spoon in ecstasy, seeing inner
visions of evergreen splendor. “I want a star on the tree. A pretty
star like the one I carried in the Christmas play! Jesus was born
under the Christmas star, you know.”

I could wait no longer. Joining them at the
table, I explained that we couldn’t afford to buy a tree this year.
“We can’t cut down any of the trees Grandpa planted, can we?”

Four heads shook a vigorous “no”. “But where
will we put our presents?” Lars, age nine, inquired plaintively.
“They always go under the tree.”

“We’ll find a special spot.” No one smiled.
“Please don’t talk about the tree in front of your father,
children. He feels terrible about being unable to work and I can’t
get a job because he needs special care.”

My voice broke and Donna jumped up to put her
arms around me. “We can string popcorn and put it on the spruce
outside the family room window. That way the birds will have a
Christmas tree.”

“Lars and I can have fun making snowmen,”
Jeff chimed in.

Jill was silent, but a crystal drop rolled
down the babyish cheek and plopped into her untouched oatmeal.

I was a failure as a mother—couldn’t even
supply a tree to put my homemade gifts under. A honk signaled the
arrival of the bus and triggered a wild scramble for coats, books
and mittens.

Wrapping a scarf around my kindergartner’s
parka hood, I kissed the tip of her nose. “We’ll have fun this
Christmas, Jill. Leave it to Mommy.”

The brown eyes looked at me solemnly. “I’ll
ask Jesus for a tree and a star. The star is really for Him.”

The silence in the barn allowed Jill’s words
to echo in my mind. The radio in the house had been playing
Christmas carols and I switched the radio set on a shelf to the
same station and turned it on, hoping to soothe my inner turmoil. A
tree and a star. Jill prayed every night for Jesus to bring her a
tree and a star.

If I couldn’t supply a tree, would her faith
be shattered? Seated on the milking stool, I leaned my head against
the warmth of Buttercup’s flank, and ran through a mental list of
friends who would be happy to loan me the money. Steven’s pride
would be hurt, however, realizing as he did that it couldn’t be
paid back. The doctor, the hospital and the various utility
companies all claimed first priority.

Dippy, part-Siamese, as his crossed eyes
attested, rubbed his cheek against my leg and purred. He was
waiting for a squirt of milk and I obliged. Opening his mouth wide,
he gulped happily and licked off the drops which had spattered
across his whiskers.

As I fed Fawn, I began to feel more at peace.
The animals, the scent of straw from the loft and the manger I was
filling with hay reminded me of a stable in long ago Bethlehem.
Jesus was born in humble circumstances among the animals and grain
because there was no room in the inn.

I froze, pitchfork upraised. No room in the
inn? There was no room in my heart for Him, either. My worries
about bills, the children and Steven had crowded out the love and
warmth of the Christ Child. No wonder I stumbled from task to task
with a heavy heart.

I found myself singing along with the radio,
anxious to get back to get back into the house and enjoy the wonder
and majesty of Christmas with my family; the tinsel and glitter now
seemed unimportant—we had each other.

I poured some milk into a pan for the cats
and wished them all a “Merry Christmas” before going back out into
the falling snow, the lights form the kitchen beckoning me with
their warmth and cheer.

Jill was very quiet during supper. Throughout
the day she had kept checking the spot in the family room she had
reserved for her “tree” in hopes that it had been delivered, but
without success.

After the meal, Donna and I cleared the table
and Lars brought the family Bible to his father for the reading of
the Christmas Story.

Steven had just reached the point where the
wise men inform King Herod, “For we have come to worship Him,” when
the strains of “Silent Night” became audible.

Jeff ran to the window. “Look, everybody!
We’ve got carolers!” There was a scraping of chairs as his brother
and sisters ran to join him.

The snow fell softly, muffling the sound of
young voices. I opened the window and we listened as our visitors
sang three more songs. Donna and Lars ran outside to invite them in
for cookies and hot chocolate. Al Miller, a Sunday School teacher
and a good friend, was the leader of the group and warned his
charges to wipe their feet on the mat before turning to Steven.

“We brought you a surprise,” Al said. “I sent
some of the older boys back out to get it.”

The surprise was a three-foot-tall evergreen
set in a tree holder and decorated with construction paper chains
and handmade ornaments. Jill danced around excitedly, stepping on
people’s feet and strewing cookie crumbs on the family room carpet
as the tree was carried in in triumph.

Her cup of joy overflowed, however, when Al
reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a star trimmed in
glittering gold. “This belongs on top of the church tree,” he told
Jill. “But I thought it might be happier here for a few days.”

He lifted Jill so she could place it on the
top of the tree. The chatter of people in the kitchen rang in my
ears as I stared at the sweet smelling evergreen.