by Max Lucado
“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 said 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 saw: 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.”
“They?” 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.”
Noises emerged from behind them.
“What is this light?” Barstow asked as he and four others hurried to help.
“An answered prayer, Charles.” Edward smiled. “Let’s get these two out of the cold.”
Richmond rode in the back of the wagon with Mr. Chumley, the mother, and the child. They covered the two with blankets. Edward sat in front with Adam. The rest of the men hurried along behind.
True to her word, Sarah had a blazing fire with which to welcome them. “She’s drifting in and out of consciousness,” Chumley told her. “Must have hit her head.”
“Let me have the baby.”
Chumley handed his wife the child, and he and Richmond carried the mother into the small parlor and seated her near the fire. Edward and Adam quickly followed. Within moments, all of Gladstone, it seemed, was in the room or on the porch.
Bea placed a warmed blanket on the girl’s shoulders. “We’ll let you rest a bit, then get you out of those wet clothes.” As of yet, no one had seen the young mother’s face. It was completely scarf-wrapped, leaving room only for a set of eyes that, Edward noticed, seemed to grow wider by the moment.
“There, there,” motherly Bea comforted, offering a cup of tea. “This will help. Let me take your wrap.”
Bea undraped the scarf as one unwraps a gift, and what Bea saw was the finest gift she could have imagined.
“Abigail!”
Edward leaned forward from the fire.
Sarah gasped.
Mr. Chumley shook his head. “It’s Abigail.”
“Abigail?” Richmond asked everyone.
“My granddaughter,” Edward explained as he knelt by the chair and embraced his prodigal child. Bea joined him and, for the first time in too long, the three held each other and wept.
Abigail finally pushed back. “Papa, Grandmother . . . where is my baby?”
Sara handed her the child. Abigail slipped the blanket away from the baby’s face. “I named him Edward.”
Whispers of the news and name rippled across the room and out the door to the men on the porch.
Edward looked up and searched out the eyes of Reverend Richmond. “Looks like God still gives babies at Christmas,” he winked.
“And light,” the minister agreed. “He still gives light when we need it the most.”
EPILOGUE
I know it’s dark. I should be home within an hour,” the store owner assured his wife over the phone. He stared out the window at the snow-covered cars. “But tomorrow is Sunday, and I want to take the day off. Put the baby to bed. I’ll be home soon, and we’ll finish decorating the tree. Besides, I only have four more boxes to empty.”
“Okay, dear. I’ll take care.”
He hung up and returned to the task. He cut open the cardboard and placed the candles side by side on the shelf. Each box contained different shapes, and each shape went to a different section of the store. By the time he finished, the shelves were full, and the time was well past the hour he had promised to be home.
Rather than hurry out, however, he sat at the desk to pay a few bills. “I’ll feel better getting these ready,” he justified. But he made it only halfway through the stack when he leaned over the desk and fell sound asleep on his arm.
The next thing he knew, light exploded in the room. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Ed Haddington gulped as the figure within the flame extended a finger toward one of the fat candles on the lower shelf . . .
THE CHRISTMAS CHILD
Dedicated to all single parents.
May God give you strength.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
FOREWORD
In the mystery of Christmas, we find its majesty. The mystery of how God became flesh, why he chose to come, and how much he must love his people.
Such mysteries can never be solved, just as love can never be diagrammed. Christmas is best pondered, not with logic, but imagination.
This book contains Christmas imaginings. Since its release in 1998, God has used it to stretch minds and warm hearts. My earnest prayer is that it does both for you.
—Max Lucado
I lowered my windshield visor, both to block the afternoon sun and retrieve the photo. With one hand holding the picture and the other on the steering wheel, I inched my rental car down Main Street.
Clearwater, Texas, was ready for Christmas. The sky was bright winter blue. A breeze just crisp enough for a jacket swayed the large plastic bells hanging beneath the lamp lights. Aluminum garlands connected the power poles, and Frosty the Snowman chased his hat on the Dairy Kreem window. Even the pick-up truck in front of me had a wreath hanging on its tailgate. This central Texas town was ready for Christmas. But I wasn’t.
I wanted to be back in Chicago. I wanted to be home. But t
hings weren’t so good at home. Meg and I had fought. Weeks of suppressed tension had exploded the day before. Same song, second verse.
“You promised to spend more time at home,” she said.
“You promised not to nag,” I replied.
She says I work too much. I say we’ve got bills to pay. She feels neglected. I feel frustrated. Finally, she told me we needed some—what was the word? Oh yeah, we needed some “space”. . . some time apart, and I agreed. I had an assignment in Dallas anyway, so why not go to Texas a few days early?
So, it was the fight with Meg that got me to Texas. But it was the photo that led me to Clearwater. My dad had received it in the mail. No return address. No letter. Just this photo: a black-and-white image of a large, stone building. I could barely make out the words on the sign in front: Clearwater Lutheran Church.
Dad had no clue what the photo meant or who had sent it. We were familiar with the town, of course. Clearwater was where I was born and adopted. But we never lived there. My only previous visit had been when I was fresh out of college and curious. I had spent a day walking around asking questions, but that was twenty years ago. I hadn’t been back since.
And I wouldn’t have returned now except Meg needed “space” and I could use an answer about the photo.
I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped in front of a two-story brick courthouse. Cardboard cutouts of Santa and his reindeer teetered on the lawn. I lowered my window and showed the photo to a couple of aging cowboys leaning against the side of a truck.
“Ever seen this place?” I asked.
They smiled at each other and one cowboy spoke. “If you’ve got a strong arm, you could throw a rock from here and hit it.”
He instructed me to turn right past the courthouse and turn right again. And when I did, I saw it. The church in the photo.
My preconceived notion of a small-town church didn’t match what I was seeing. I had always imagined a small, white-framed building with a simple belfry over the entrance. Something like an overgrown dollhouse. Not so, this structure. The white stone walls and tall steel roof spoke of permanence. Long wings extended to the right and left. I had expressed similar surprise when Dad first showed me the photo. But he had reminded me about the large number of German immigrants in the area—immigrants who took both their faith and their crafts seriously.
