The Christmas Portrait

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Christmas in heaven: what an image of the best Christmas ever! Only a little child—and Phyllis Clark Nichols—could lead us there.

  —DIANE KOMP, MD PROFESSOR OF PEDIATRICS EMERITUS YALE SCHOOL OF MEDICINE AUTHOR OF THE BEST-SELLING A WINDOW TO HEAVEN AND THE HEALER’S HEART

  This uplifting tale by my dear friend Phyllis Clark Nichols will, I hope, warm hearts and give faith at Christmastime.

  —ABRAHAM VERGHESE, MD VICE CHAIR FOR THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF MEDICINE, STANFORD UNIVERSITY BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF CUTTING FOR STONE THE TENNIS PARTNER, AND MY OWN COUNTRY

  One of life’s greatest tragedies is when a young person is forced to endure the loss of a parent. In The Christmas Portrait Phyllis Clark Nichols gives us a heartwarming glimpse into the mind and life of a young girl who must make this painful transition. The story of how she manages to find her way through the sorrow and emerge with a strengthened faith in God and family is both fulfilling and emotional. This really is a remarkable book, one that challenges the reader to make each moment in life count and to work each day to bring a smile to someone’s face

  Life is complicated, filled with distractions that compete for our time and attention. In The Christmas Portrait Phyllis Clark Nichols gives us a chance to pause and consider what really matters in life: family, friends, faith, and yes, contentment. I can’t say enough about how powerful this story is and how well written. I highly recommend it. Read it. And then read it again.

  —BILL AIRY CHIEF STRATEGY OFFICER LESEA BROADCASTING CORPORATION

  A story of family, love, loss, and faith through the eyes of a child. It’s a good read for any season of the year, not just Christmas. The author has developed her characters well, which helps us “feel” the time, place, and depth of the story.

  —DONALD L. ANDERSON, PHD MINISTER AND PSYCHOLOGIST EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR EMERITUS, ECUMENICAL CENTER FOR RELIGION AND HEALTH

  The Christmas Portrait is a masterful work of storytelling that artfully blends the hues of realism and hope. In this artfully poignant story of emotional healing, Phyllis Clark Nichols opens our spirits to comprehend how mysteriously God speaks through a bird, a portrait, a profound loss, and a desperate act of love. This story has real lift, a buoyant hope that begins in Christmas and ends wherever the reader will let it take them.

  For all those who find unwanted loss and grief under their Christmas tree, here is a story of hope rising through the tenacious love of a heartbroken child and the mysterious relationships she opens herself up to.

  —BRAD RUSSELL, DMIN FOUNDER AND SENIOR EDITOR FAITHVILLAGE.COM

  Written in the register of love and longing The Christmas Portrait invites the reader to enter the story of a grieving family through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl, Kate. The carefully wrought narrative portrays the power of faith, thick family bonds, and a sense of place in the wooded hills of northern Kentucky. With sensitivity to the holy revealed through nature and a mysterious visitor—an angel perhaps?—the author weaves a story of renewal as Kate and her family find ways to celebrate their love of her mother while becoming open to the ever-moving stream that is life. I commend the book for its shimmering beauty, its perceptive wisdom about human brokenness, and its unyielding faith in the promise of the future.

  —DR. MOLLY MARSHALL PRESIDENT, CENTRAL BAPTIST THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY

  The Christmas Portrait is a gift well timed for today’s restless readership. I loved it and celebrated the reasonableness of Christmas joy applied to the everyday of its timeless adventure. The accuracy of its storytelling allows the reader to participate in the reality of a joyous Christmas and to claim comforting kinship with its fellowship of joy.

  —JEANNETTE CLIFT GEORGE ACTRESS KNOWN FOR HER PORTRAYAL OF CORRIE TEN BOOM IN THE HIDING PLACE

  MOST CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  THE CHRISTMAS PORTRAIT by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  All Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible; Holy Bible, New International Version, Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society; New American Standard Bible, copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation, (www.Lockman.org). All versions are used by permission.

  Copyright © 2015 by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design by Lisa Rae McClure

  Design Director: Justin Evans

  Visit the author’s website at www.phyllisclarknichols.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Nichols, Phyllis Clark.

  The Christmas portrait / by Phyllis Clark Nichols. -- First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-62998-216-8 (trade paper) -- ISBN 978-1-62998-217-5 (e-book)

  1. Bereavement in children--Religious aspects--Christianity. 2. Children and death--Religious aspects--Christianity. 3. Harding, Katherine Joy. 4. Harding John Chesler--Family. 5. Mothers--Death. I. Title.

  BV4596.P3N53 2015

  248.8’66083--dc23

  2015025279

  For Mama, Aunt Marguerite, and Katy Piper

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A WRITER NEEDS A reader. So thank you for reading my book. Just as printed music on a conductor’s score becomes real music when played by the orchestra or intoned by the choir, this story comes to life as it is read. Thousands of words are only ink on pages until someone opens the cover and starts to read. It is then that characters speak and scenes take on color and dimension. Thank you for taking a few hours of your life to read this story. These are hours you cannot recapture. My prayer is that you will find an idea, a phrase, or a nugget of truth that you will remember when you need it.

  A writer needs a story. I am deeply indebted to three women whom I have loved dearly and who have had tremendous influence on my life: my own mother, Betty Clark; my Aunt Marguerite Lewis; and my dear friend Katy Piper. These women all lost their mothers when they were very young, and yet they have mothered me in immeasurable ways and taught me important life lessons. Their lives gave me the story and the desire to write it. Then there were all the beautiful Christmases of my growing up years that made this story easy to write. Thank you, Mama and Daddy.

  A writer needs good ideas. A few years ago while at a retreat at Laity Lodge out in the Texas Hill Country, I was
challenged by Dr. Dave Peterson, a Presbyterian minister, to choose something tangible that would remind me of God’s presence and activity in my life. I quickly identified that crimson flicker of life we call a cardinal as my “God-alert.” Since then I have grown plants and provided their favorite treats to entice them to my garden. I am indebted to Dr. Peterson for this concept, which has encouraged me to practice God’s presence and for the idea it gave me for this story.

  A writer needs encouragement. I offer deep gratitude to my dear friend, Dr. Abraham Verghese, a most gifted writer and physician, who said to me, “If there’s a book in you, then write it.” He marked and stacked books from his own library to illustrate what he was teaching me and sent me to the bookstore with instructions not to leave until I had pulled forty books from the shelves and read the first paragraphs of each of them.

  I am grateful to friends who endorsed this work and to others who have encouraged my creativity: Deb Cleveland held me accountable with her calls and conversations about the writing process; Letha Crouch and Camille Simmons inspired me with their own creativity; Blanche Armendariz, Jimmy and Shirley Elrod, Lottie Mitchell, Dr. David Shacklett, Susan Chastain, and Janie Jones read my words and told me to keep writing.

  A writer needs a champion. I will never be able to thank my agent, Mary Beth Chappell Lyle, enough for believing in my work, for guiding me, and for pushing me to be better. She was my first editor. Her porcelain skin covers a tender heart, and she speaks with the gentility of a Southern woman, but she is tough-minded, tenacious, and committed to excellence. Without her, I’d still be wandering around wondering if I can write.

  I would also like to thank my new friends at Charisma House. Thank you, Adrienne Gaines, for your belief in this book and for always being there with answers when I called. This book is immeasurably better because of the meticulous reads and the thoughtful suggestions of Lori Vandenbosh, my editor. Thank you for pushing me to see how committed I was, Lori.

  A writer needs a hand to hold and solitude. My husband, Bill, holds my hand always—sometimes because we just like to hold hands; sometimes to pull me along; sometimes to lead me away from the safe, comfortable places to the edge of new ideas; and sometimes to take me on long walks through these hills where we enjoy each other and the beauty of God’s creation. What a gift to have a husband who is a philosopher, theologian, and artist! My hours and days are rich with him. He also provided the solitude, protecting my time, manning the doorbell and the phone, and graciously declining invitations when needed. I wouldn’t say he mastered laundry or meal preparation, but he knows what every button on the microwave does, and he was always willing. Without Bill’s handholding and encouragement, this book would not be a reality.

  And I am most thankful to my Father, the author of life, for instilling in me the desire to write stories. His parables not only teach us the truth of living life His way, they show us what He thinks about the power of the narrative. And I thank Him for the redbirds who sat in the feeder at my window as I wrote. I am grateful to Him for what I know about faith, family, and forever.

  PROLOGUE

  Chicago

  December 2006

  DR. KATE, DO they have Christmas in heaven?” Marla sat across the table from me. She held tightly to as many crayons as she could hold in her petite left hand and colored with her right.

  “Now that’s a very interesting question. Do you have a reason for asking?” I continued sketching, not giving any hint of my surprise at her inquiry.

  “Well, my sister wanted this pretty necklace for Christmas. She showed it to me in the store window, and she wanted it real bad. But that man in the blue truck ran over her, and now she’s in heaven.” Her crayon never left the page while she spoke. A Christmas tree, donned with a yellow butterfly tree topper, was taking shape on her page.

  I laid my drawing pencil down, propped my elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “That’s a good question, Marla. What do you think?”

  “I think there’s Christmas in heaven.” She never looked at me.

  “I think so too. In fact, I think heaven may be like having Christmas every day.”

  She continued to color. “That’s good. That means Abby likes it. Maybe I could go there too.”

  “I’m sure Abby likes it there, but for now, don’t you want to stay here with your family?”

  “Uh-huh, but I want to see Abby too.”

  “I know you want to see your big sister.” I looked at her work, picked up my pencil, and started to sketch again. A likeness was appearing. “You’re using all the bright Christmas colors today. That makes me so happy. Do they make you happy too?”

  “I don’t know. I just like red and green and blue and yellow.”

  “So do I.”

  “But you’re not coloring. You’re just drawing. Why don’t you use colors like me?” She handed me the red crayon. “Here, you need this one.”

  “Thank you, Marla.” I took the crayon and twirled it through the fingers of my left hand. “I’m just doodling while we talk.”

  “Do you just sit here and doodle all day, Dr. Kate?”

  How purely delightful that sounded. “You’re just full of good questions today. I do get to draw sometimes, but mostly what I do is sit and listen and talk to people. I help them draw and color and make things so they’ll feel better.”

  “That sounds like a fun job. Is that why I have to call you doctor, because you make people feel better?”

  “Well, I guess it is. Would it be okay if I ask you a question, Marla?”

  “Uh-huh. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s on your Christmas list this year?”

  “I just mostly want my sister back, and I want my mommy not to cry at nighttime.” Marla stopped coloring and searched through the box of crayons. She chose the black one and started to scribble a jagged black border around her Christmas tree.

  “You know, that sounds a lot like what your mommy wants for Christmas too. She wants you not to be so sad. That’s why she brings you here to talk to me. Is there anything else on your list, like a doll, or maybe you’d like a necklace too?”

  “Nope, I just want my sister back and my mommy not to be so sad. There’s nobody to sleep in my sister’s bed.”

  I put my hand on hers and removed her crayon. “Marla, look at me, sweetie. I know this is your first Christmas without your sister, and it will be different. Do you know how I know that?”

  She looked at me as though I were about to tell her the biggest secret she’d ever heard. “Because you’re a doctor and you know things?”

  “No. I know because I was just like you. When I was ten, my mother died, and I missed her so much, especially at Christmas. It was very hard, but everything turned out all right.”

  I couldn’t tell her that when Mama died that late September night she left a vacuum that sucked the life and color right out of my world. Overnight, the trees dressed in red and gold were only naked limbs, and the mountains on the horizon looked like chiseled gray stone pasted against a gray sky. The days became chilly and ushered in the coldest, snowiest winter on record in northern Kentucky. Even the earth mourned the loss of Mama.

  “Do you still miss your mommy?”

  “I do miss her. But now, I’m not so sad anymore. I’m just grateful she was my mother, and I’ll never forget her. She’s the one who taught me to draw, and she’s the one who taught me my job in life is to try to make people happy. She’ll always be with me because of my memories.”

  I could tell her the days grew warm again even if it seemed forever. And the trees budded and the mountains turned green, but walking those mountain paths wasn’t the same. No more holding Mama’s hand or singing her silly songs. When the colors finally returned, I saw them differently. I could explain this to Marla. I just wish I could believe it for her. Only the passing of days would make her believe.

  I asked Marla, “Don’t you remember how we’ve talked about your memories of Abby?”

  She n
odded in agreement. “At home I tried to draw a picture about the time we went camping, and she caught the biggest fish.”

  “That’s good. That’s really good, Marla. You keep drawing those pictures. Would you do something else for me?”

  She looked up at me. “Sure.”

  “I want you to put something on your Christmas list that Santa can put under your tree. I think that’ll make you smile big on Christmas morning. Would you do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I already know what it is.”

  “That’s good, and you be sure to tell your mom what it is. In fact, our time’s almost up, and she’s probably out front waiting on us.”

  Marla slid her drawing into the yellow plastic pouch and started putting her crayons in the wooden box, lining them up neatly. I stood to help her.

  “May I see what you’re drawing, Dr. Kate?”

  “Certainly, it’s not finished though.” I slid my sketch pad across the table.

  She looked at the drawing and then at me. “See, I knew you needed the red crayon. You like redbirds, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I thought so. They’re everywhere around here.” Her eyes surveyed the room from her three-foot vantage spot.

  I took her hand, and we walked toward the lobby. “You know how you chose the yellow butterfly to help you remember your sister? And we talked about how Abby was like a beautiful butterfly coming out of a cocoon and how she’s free now.”

  “Uh-huh, I remember. I draw yellow butterflies in all my pictures. I drew one today. It was on top of the Christmas tree.” She was swinging her arm and mine as we walked hand in hand through the studio. It was the first carefree, childlike body language I had seen since I met her a few weeks ago.

  “That’s good. Just keep drawing those yellow butterflies, and I’ll draw redbirds because it helps me remember my mother. She had red hair, and she could sing like a songbird.” We entered the front office.

  “There’s a redbird!” Marla pointed to the embroidered bird in the center of the memory quilt hanging on the wall next to the door. “And there’s another one!” She pointed to the grouping of pictures above the sofa. “Did you take that picture?”