A Wish for Christmas

by Thomas Kinkade

  David reached the boulder, sat down, and took a long drink from the water bottle in his pack. Yes, he had come here with Jack once, in the summer, during one of their family camping trips. He was sure of it now. He suddenly remembered something else about this place, something strange and interesting. Was it still here? Could he find it?

  He stood up and began to search the ground.

  Not too far away from the boulder, David spotted what he had been looking for. A path of rocks, laid in the ground in a spiraling pattern. He expected to find it hidden by the weeds by now, but it looked well-used and carefully tended.

  David remembered how, as a boy, he thought the pattern of stones was so strange. “Did aliens leave them here?” he had asked his father.

  Jack had a good laugh at that one. “No, Dave. I’m positive they did not. Some people who lived here a long time ago laid the stones down.”

  David had been disappointed to hear that. But he still had more questions. Like what was the point of this place? What were you supposed to do here?

  It was odd how clearly he remembered it now. “This place is called a labyrinth,” Jack said. A labyrinth is not a maze or a puzzle. It’s a circular path that winds to its center. “Some people come here just to slow down and find a peaceful moment,” Jack had explained. “They come when they feel sad or troubled or have a question.

  “There’s no right way to do it,” his father told him. “You can follow the path all the way around and walk in slowly. Or go right to the center. On the way in, you let go of all the stuff bothering you and try to open your heart. When you get to the center, you can stand there as long as you like. Think things over. Pray maybe. Some people like to trace the same path going out that they used going in. But I can never remember,” Jack admitted.

  “I do remember I was told that going out, you’re joining God. Feeling healed from whatever is hurting. Going out to do good work in the world.”

  David recalled his father’s words and also remembered that, at eight or nine years old, he hadn’t understood very well. What did he know about pain and confusion at that age? About yearning for healing. For peace in his heart and mind.

  Now he did.

  He stared at the path of stones, noticing some visitors had left little souvenirs at the center, dried flowers held down by small rocks and even a few coins and bits of folded paper.

  He did not believe that walking the path would instantly heal him or solve all his problems. But he had made it this far. Might as well give it a try, David thought. He used his cane to steady himself on the bumpy ground as he chose a place to start.

  He paused and took a breath. He looked down at the flat gray stone at his feet and then out at the rolling waves and the wide stretch of slate-blue sky, where the afternoon sun was just starting to sink toward the sea.

  Alone on the bluff, in the middle of the meadow, David felt close to something larger than himself, some power greater than he could imagine.

  He began to walk the path, very slowly, putting one foot in front of the other.

  NEW YEAR’S EVE WAS A HOLIDAY LILLIAN DISLIKED MORE THAN ANY other. So puffed-up and prefabricated. So superficial. The media pressure to be happy, to be gay. It positively turned her stomach. It was a holiday she ignored on principle. That was her New Year’s Eve tradition.

  Of course, she would spend New Year’s Eve with Ezra. They were together nearly every year on that night, and this one would be little different.

  Lillian had been spending almost every day at Ezra’s and practically every night, too, since his return from the hospital. During the Christmas week, Mrs. Fallon was often visiting relatives in the evening, and Lillian thought it best for Ezra to have some company, just in case there were any emergencies.

  They would get involved playing cards or watching a television show, and it would grow late before she realized. Too late to go home. So she had come into the habit of spending the nights staying over in the guest room.

  Some people might gossip about the situation, she realized, but what did she care? At her age, being gossiped about was quite a feather in her cap. The live-in housekeeper made it all appropriate, Lillian believed, especially someone like Mrs. Fallon.

  Lillian had never believed she could abide live-in help in her own house. But Martha Fallon was not like all the silly women—and a few silly men—Emily had sent her way. Mrs. Fallon was able and unobtrusive, and she had a wealth of common sense. You hardly knew she was there, yet she took care of everything so smoothly, so perfectly.

  Mrs. Fallon was a jewel. Period.

  For instance, she had left them a wonderful cold supper of steamed lobster before she left for her own New Year’s Eve celebration. The table was set with real linen napkins and candles. Everything was taken care of, even the lemon slices for their water glasses, cut very thin.

  Lillian had dressed for the evening in a blue crepe dress with her pearl and diamond earrings. She walked into the living room to find Ezra dressed up as well, in a dark gray suit, with a yellow vest and his red bow tie.

  “Well, look at us,” he said, handing her a glass of sherry. “Don’t we look fine tonight, Lily.”

  “Not bad. You look very fit, Ezra. You have much better color than you did even a few days ago.”

  “Due to your excellent nursing care, no doubt.”

  “I’ve done nothing,” she said, sitting on the couch. “Just hung around and beat you at Scrabble.”

  He laughed. “Can I help it if you know more words that contain Zs and Qs than the fellow who wrote the dictionary?”

  “That’s how you get the high score. You must learn to use your high-point letters.” She took a sip of her sherry. “You’re recovered now. You don’t need me around anymore. I should be spending more time back at my own house.”

  “You sound unhappy about that, about the prospect of returning to Providence Street,” he said with genuine surprise. “I thought you loved that old hulk of a house, and you prized your sovereign solitude. How does the poem by Dickinson go? ‘The soul selects her own society, then shuts the door. On her divine majority, obtrude no more . . .’ ”

  “Lovely recitation, Ezra. You must have won all the prizes at school. But let’s not go dragging Emily Dickinson into it.”

  “Oh . . . why not?” he asked curiously. “I’d expect you would enjoy the comparison.”

  Ordinarily, she would have. In the past. The recent past even, Lillian realized. But since Ezra’s heart attack, she’d had a change of heart. She didn’t know what else to call it.

  Lillian sighed and shifted in her seat. “I do love my drafty old house. But I must admit, I was feeling a bit lonely after my granddaughter left, and it seems a very dismal prospect to me now to go back, after being here with you all week.”

  Lillian was not one who confessed her deepest feelings easily. She was a very private person. But it was different with Ezra. She trusted him completely, more than anyone she had ever known. Even her late husband.

  “My, my. Where is all this coming from?” Ezra asked, sitting down next to her on the couch.

  Lillian shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not looking forward to being alone. I wish . . . I wish I could find someone like Mrs. Fallon.”

  “Oh.” He sat back and put his hands on his knees. “Mrs. Fallon, I see. Is that what this is all about?”

  Lillian nodded. “My life would be so much easier with the proper person around. I can see that now, what my daughters keep harping on. I wouldn’t have to bother them all the time. I wouldn’t have to move out of my house to an old-age home . . . if I could find someone like Mrs. Fallon.”

  “Mrs. Fallon is one in a million,” Ezra replied evenly. “It’s highly unlikely you’ll ever find another like her.”

  “Yes, I know,” Lillian said sadly.

  “But take heart, Lily. I do see a way to solve your problem.”

  “You do? How, Ezra?”

  “It’s very simple. You can come live with me—and Mrs. Fallon
.”

  Lillian sat back. “That’s quite a proposition. What will people say? They’ll be scandalized. Even at our age.”

  “Not if we marry,” he pointed out.

  Now she was shocked. Had she really understood him correctly? “Marry? You and me?”

  “Yes, you and I. Don’t you think it’s time? I’ve waited for you for over fifty years. That must be some sort of record.”

  Lily pressed her hand to her chest. “Yes . . . it must be.”

  “You must know how I feel about you. How I’ve always felt. Why, I loved you from the first moment we met—”

  “Ezra, please.” She put her hand on his, hoping he would immediately cease this silly . . . nonsensical talk.

  “Don’t shush me, Lily. I’ve had a wake-up call. I’ve had a brush with mortality. I’ve bided enough time, don’t you think? I must tell you how I feel, it’s now or never.”

  She looked down at her lap. “Go on, if you must.”

  “I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you hopelessly. Helplessly. I know the best of you and the worst. I have no illusions. I love and accept it all. It would be the greatest honor and joy of my life if you would, at this late date, become my wife.”

  Lillian felt stunned speechless. She knew Ezra could be eloquent at times. But this heartfelt proposal was pure poetry. She was quite moved, unexpectedly moved.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she began.

  She had never considered it before . . . this wild idea. But these last few days, she had to acknowledge, something had changed between them. Something ineffable. Indefinable perhaps. After his heart attack and the long hours she had sat by his bed, keeping him company, watching over his recovery, they had crossed some sort of line, one she had not even been aware existed. But a line nonetheless, a line of . . . intimacy. For the first time she recognized feelings that had, until that point, been unacknowledged. Even unconscious.

  Ezra’s proposal had come as a complete surprise, but now that the words were spoken out loud . . . Well, it was not that much of surprise really, Lillian knew.

  Deep down in her heart she also knew she did indeed love Ezra. Had always loved him, too. Not the same way she had loved her husband, Oliver. But it was a type of love that at this stage of their long lives seemed even deeper, even more precious, and even more rare.

  As for her sovereign solitude, Ezra was the one person who might share that sovereign space without intruding on her peace of mind. She had come to see that clearly these past few days. At this point, diminished by age as they both were, two made a whole, didn’t it?

  “Well . . . say something,” he urged her. “What are you thinking? For a woman who is rarely without comment, you are most frustratingly silent.”

  “I did realize, or at least suspected, that you had feelings for me, Ezra,” she began slowly. “But at this late date, I never expected to hear you reveal yourself . . . unless one of us was breathing our last.”

  “Good God, is that what you’re waiting for? I certainly hope not.”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she clarified. “I’m taken by surprise, that’s all.” She took a breath then a sip of sherry. “If you must have an answer now—”

  “Yes?” he cut in. “Go on.”

  “Then I would have to say . . . yes.” She turned to him, her chin up, her lips slanted in a small smile.

  Ezra clapped his hand together. “Saints be praised,” he said. Then he cupped her thin face in his hands and kissed her squarely on the mouth.

  Lillian sat back, gasping with astonishment. “Ezra . . . your heart condition. Let’s not get carried away, shall we?”

  “We shall, my dear. We certainly, shall.” He grinned from ear to ear. “We can live in your house if you like. I don’t care. Whatever you please.”

  “What about Mrs. Fallon?” she asked carefully.

  “Oh, she’ll come with us. She’s part of the package,” he promised. He lifted his glass and toasted to her. “To us,” he said, touching his glass to hers. “Happy New Year, Lily.”

  “Happy New Year to you, Ezra.” She touched her glass to his with a contented smile. “You never know in life what’s going to happen, do you?”

  “No, we don’t. But they say, good things happen to those who wait. I’ve certainly spent my fair share waiting for you.”

  “Well, it appears that you’ve finally got me,” Lillian replied tartly. “I hope it turns out to be worth your wait.”

  “I’m sure it will be, all that and more, Lily. All that and more.” He squeezed her hand and laughed. “What is the rest of that poem? Wait, I think I’ve got it. . . .”

  He sat up straight and began to recite again, “‘Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing at her low gate; Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling upon her mat. I’ve known her from an ample nation choose one . . . Then close the valves of her attention like stone.’”

  “Well done. I’m impressed.” Lillian applauded him.

  “Thank you, madam.”

  “And I have chosen you, Ezra. You are the one.”

  Ezra did not reply. He lifted her hand to his lips then kissed her palm.

  REVEREND BEN HAD NEVER BEEN A VERY ENTHUSIASTIC NEW YEAR’S Eve reveler. He had spent the holiday with his wife and some close friends. The husband of the couple was another minister, at a church in Essex. They had enjoyed some good food and drink, watching the festivities broadcast from around the world, then toasted in the new year in a very thoughtful, thankful manner.

  Which was why he was able to get up early on New Year’s Day and take a quick ride out to Angel Island. He had plans to see a member of his congregation who had been housebound this winter with a bad bout of bronchitis, Elizabeth Dunne, who ran the Angel Island bed-and-breakfast. A loyal church member, she had missed all the Christmas services this year, and Ben knew she felt bad. He had spoken to her on the phone but promised to visit her soon, and this seemed as good a day as any.

  His other purpose for coming out to the island so early was not nearly so altruistic or pastorly. He was dying to try out the new rod and reel set his son, Mark, had given him for Christmas. Surf casting was still one of his passions, though he rarely caught anything worth bringing home. But he did love the rhythm of it, the challenge of bringing his mind and body in sync with the ocean waves. It was a kind of meditative exercise for him. Maybe that was why the fish didn’t matter so much.

  Once out on the island, Ben headed for his favorite fly-casting spot, on a stretch of beach not far from Elizabeth Dunne’s inn. Low clouds hung over the island and shoreline, a bit of foggy mist in the air.

  He parked his car, took out his fishing equipment, and pulled on a pair of long rubber boots made for wading into the surf that he kept in his trunk. Then he headed out toward the beach, taking his time as he walked through the sand down to the shoreline.

  New Year’s Day, in Ben’s estimation, was the perfect day for complete rest and reflection, setting goals, seeing where you might have strayed off course, and making some corrections.

  Ben felt optimistic about the year ahead. He had many plans for the church. Though his church was centered in its own wonderful traditions, it was important to keep a steady stream of new ideas and approaches to worship, to keep encouraging spiritual growth in his congregation. Most of all, it was important for him to keep in touch with them all, to understand what they were thinking and experiencing.

  Sometimes he thought of this earthly adventure as an amazing lens. If you slanted it right and had some idea of what you were looking for, you could be graced with just a tiny glimpse of the other side, the divine.

  You could see signs of it all around if you looked closely enough. In our joys and suffering. Hidden in the veins of the material world, in a tree leaf, or in a tiny white shell. He bent over and plucked up one that he spotted at his feet then studied it awhile.

  Then he looked up at the long empty stretch of the shoreline and rolling blue ocean, the gray-blue sky abo
ve. Surely, this very spot could be a postcard from heaven, he thought.

  But he wasn’t alone on the beach, Ben noticed suddenly. There was someone else, sitting near the shoreline not too far away now. It looked like a young man, his arms loosely circling his knees that were drawn to his chest. Ben squinted into the sunlight, shielding his eyes with his hand. Yes, he recognized this boy. Even at a distance, he was unmistakable in that army-issue camouflage jacket.

  Ben waved at David Sawyer and received a wave back. Then David rose, picked up his cane, and started making his way down the shoreline.

  “Happy New Year, David,” Ben said, stretching out his hand. David shook it and returned the greeting.

  “Did you come all this way to go fishing, Reverend?” David looked amused, glancing at the rod and reel.

  “Actually, I came out to visit a member of the congregation. She’s been ill and I wanted to look in on her. She runs a bed-and-breakfast on this side of the island.”

  “Yes, I know, the Angel Inn. I’ve been staying there the last few days.” David gave Ben a rueful smile. “I thought I was leaving town. I didn’t get very far, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t. But maybe that’s a good thing. What made you change your mind about leaving?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I just needed to go someplace where I could think and get my head clear. It’s hard to do in the house where you grew up. Too many ghosts or something. Sometimes I felt like I was a time traveler going backward, acting like I did when I was in high school. I almost couldn’t help it.”

  “I understand.” Ben nodded.

  “I did figure out something important, I think.”

  “Really? What was that?”

  “Oh, just about where I’ve been and where I’m going. And what happened to me in between.”

  Ben wasn’t sure if he should reply. He sensed that David wanted to say more, and Ben didn’t want to fill in the silence with a lot of meaningless chatter.