These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

  “Lord’s Chapel has a Norman tower, and the church isn’t in England. Not only that, but your gardens are full of French and German roses and this—must I remind you?—is Mitford!”

  No two ways about it, his wife was a quick thinker.

  “Go for it!” he said, with feeling.

  Placing the phone on the hook, he sank into a chair at the kitchen table as Cynthia walked in from next door.

  “Timothy! What is it?”

  “You won’t believe this.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Dooley isn’t coming home for Christmas.”

  “But why? What’s wrong? Is he—”

  “He’s going to Europe.”

  “Europe?”

  “To sing. In the school chorus. They’re leaving next week. They’ll be gone fourteen days.”

  She sat down, too.

  “A boy has pneumonia, and Dr. Fleming said the choirmaster pulled Dooley off the bench, as it were. All expenses paid. It’s part of a grant.”

  “Why, I’m ... it’s ... I’m speechless. It’s too wonderful for words!”

  “I was just going to bring the electric train down from the attic,” he said, looking dazed and forlorn.

  She reached over and took his hand. “Don’t worry, dearest. We’ll get it down, anyway. I love electric trains.”

  A hastily scrawled note from Dooley:Here’s ten dollars to get a present for Tommy. Merry Christmas.

  P.S. If I could I would buy you a world globe with a light in it.

  A world globe with a light in it! Merely the present he’d wanted all his life. Amazing that the boy recalled something he’d mentioned only once, a very long time ago.

  He had found a few precious moments to make notes in his sermon notebook, while a fire blazed on the hearth, the Christmas tree lights glimmered, and Cynthia made dinner.

  It was a type of grace, this small hour he’d been given during the haste and hurry of Advent. He gazed away from the notebook, giving thanks for small things.

  “We look for visions of heaven,” Oswald Chambers had written, “and we never dream that all the time God is in the commonplace things and people around us.”

  He went to his bookshelf and took down a volume. He was thankful merely for the time to go to his bookshelf and look with leisure for a reference.

  He thumbed the pages. Dietrich Bonhoeffer had talked of the small things, too, saying in Life Together: We prevent God from giving us the great spiritual gifts He has in store for us, because we do not give thanks for daily gifts.

  We think we dare not be satisfied with the small measure of spiritual knowledge, experience, and love that has been given to us, and that we must constantly be looking forward eagerly for the highest good. Then we deplore the fact that we lack the deep certainty, the strong faith, and the rich experience that God has given to others, and we consider this lament to be pious....

  Only he who gives thanks for little things receives the big things.

  Cynthia came in quietly and set a cup of tea before him. He kissed her hand, inexpressibly grateful, and she went back to the kitchen.

  When we view the little things with thanksgiving, he thought, even they become big things.

  Where his hair was concerned, it was fish or cut bait. Some of the youth group mentioned it, asking when he was getting an earring.

  He’d been to Fancy Skinner only twice. On both occasions, his longtime barber, Joe Ivey, was either down with the flu or in Tennessee with relatives. Whatever Fancy had done, he’d liked it, noting both times that he looked suddenly thinner—a look he could currently use, if the tightness of his collar was any indication.

  Joe Ivey, however, was in town and healthy as a horse, and he couldn’t figure out how to give his business to Joe’s competition without being found out.

  “When are you gettin‘ your neck cleaned up?” asked Emma. She considered it her business to remind him about haircuts, shoe shines, and a variety of other personal services.

  “Ah...”

  “Christmas is on top of us and you look like a wise man who’s been travelin‘ from afar.” She peered at him over her glasses. “They traveled two years, you know.”

  Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “I’m surprised Cynthia hasn’t made you get a haircut.”

  In his secretary’s view, his wife was doing nothing for the church, much less ministering to the needs of her husband.

  “Anyway,” she said, “if I were you, I’d try Fancy Skinner. Joe Ivey makes you look like a chipmunk.”

  Permission! Is that what he’d been waiting for like a schoolboy? He was out the door in a flash.

  “Lord!” said Fancy, who had worked him in between her eleven-thirty trim and twelve o‘clock perm. “Look at this mess, it’s cut in three different lengths. I hate to say it, but I hear Joe Ivey gets in th’ brandy, and if your hair’s any proof, his liver’s not long for this world.

  “How’s your wife? I’m glad you married her, she’s cute as anything and really young. How much younger is she than you, anyway? Lord, I know I shouldn’t ask that, but ten years is my guess.

  “So, what are you givin‘ Cynthia for Christmas? Mule’s givin’ me a fur coat, I have always wanted a fur coat, I said, ‘Honey, if you buy me a fur coat at a yard sale, do not come home, you can sleep at your office ’til kingdom come.‘ I know it’s not right to wear fur, think of the animals and how they feel about it, but it gets so dern cold up here in th’ winter. Of course, it’s not been cold this winter, they say th‘ fleas will be killer this summer.

  “D‘you want some gum, have some gum, it’s sugarless.

  “Speakin‘ of sugar, I hear you’re diabetic, how does that affect you? I hear it makes some people’s legs swell or is it their feet? Lord, your scalp is tight as a drum, as usual—you ought to be more relaxed now that you’re married, but of course, some people get more uptight when they tie th’ knot. I bet married people come bawlin‘ to you all th’ time, I don’t know how you have a minute to yourself, bein‘ clergy.

  “My great uncle is clergy, they handle snakes at his church. Mule says for God’s sake, Fancy, don’t tell that your uncle handles snakes, so don’t say I mentioned it. Have you ever seen anybody handle snakes, it’s in th‘ Bible about handlin’ snakes, but if you have to do that to prove you love th‘ Lord, I’m goin’ to hell in a hand basket.

  “Oops, I like to poked a hole in you with that fingernail, it’s acrylic.

  “How’s Dooley, I hope he don’t get th‘ big head in that fancy school. I’ve never been to Virginia, I hear seven presidents were born in that state, I think we had one president from our state, maybe two, but I can’t remember who it was, maybe Hoover, do you think he had anything to do with th’ vacuum cleaner, I’ve always wondered that. Speakin‘ of school, they asked me to come to Mitford School and talk about bein’ a hairdresser for Occupation Day, I think I’ll do a make-over, wouldn’t that be somethin‘? I’d like to make over th’ principal, that is the meanest school principal in the world! I’d dye her hair blue in a heartbeat, then swing her around in this chair and say, ‘Look at that, Miss Hayes, honey, don’t you just love it, it’s you!’

  “See there? Aren’t you some kind of handsome with all that glop cut from over your ears? You looked like you were wearing earmuffs. Oooh, yes! Cute! I’ll just swivel you around so you can look at the back, your wife’ll eat you with a spoon....”

  He paid Fancy and reeled out of her shop, his ears ringing. By dodging the Skinners’ driveway and taking the footpath, he was able to avoid the next customer, who merely glimpsed his back as he fled the premises.

  Not only was he at a loss about what to give Cynthia, he couldn’t figure out what to buy Tommy with Dooley’s ten bucks.

  It came to him while he was walking home from Fancy’s. Just go by the bank and exchange it for ten silver dollars. A great idea! His new haircut clearly helped him think better. He felt as if he’d just hatched out of an egg for the lightness of
spirit that overcame him.

  And what the heck would he get Dooley? He’d better knuckle down and come up with something pronto. Maybe a parka. But he already had one, and besides, Dooley Barlowe did not consider clothing items to be gifts.

  Tommy’s mother welcomed him with a hug.

  “We’re so glad to see you, Father. Tommy is doing better each day. He’ll be back in school after Christmas, Dr. Harper said.”

  “Wonderful news!”

  “Come down the hall and see him. He’s reading a new book. It’s been awful hard to keep up with his schooling. I can’t help him a bit with his math, and his daddy says he never even heard of diagramming a sentence.”

  “What a grand tree!” he said, stopping to look at the bedecked Fraser fir that stood in the corner. A veritable sea of gifts lay under its branches.

  “See those three big packages by the sofa? They’re from Mr. Leeper! He’s been wonderful, Father. Thank you for asking him to look in on Tommy.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t have a thing to do with it. It was all Mr. Leeper’s idea.”

  “I’ve heard he’s not a very nice person, but I disagree, don’t you?”

  He looked at the gifts, given by a man who was also heating—not from a terrible accident, but from other, far deeper, wounds. He would go and see Buck Leeper over Christmas and sit with him in the room where the drunken Hope House supervisor had hurled and smashed a bottle and a chair around his head, venting a black rage that lasted for hours. He would never forget that night, and his inability to get up and walk out on the pain that was forged by a brutal father, years of alcoholism, and Buck’s part in the death of his younger brother.

  He smiled at Tommy’s soft-spoken mother. Seeing the three large presents under the tree was somehow a gift to him, as well.

  A collect call from France? He couldn’t imagine who ...

  Yes, of course, he would accept the charges, if only out of curiosity.

  “Bonejure, messure!” said a strange voice through a crackling phone line.

  “Ah ... bonjour. Who’s calling, please?”

  Dooley Barlowe laughed like a hyena.

  “Dooley?”

  “Oui, measure! Come on talley voo. ”

  “Unbelievable! I’m thrilled you called.”

  “They made us do it. Everybody had to call home.”

  Home! If Dooley Barlowe had used that word before, Father Tim hadn’t heard it. “Merry Christmas, pal! Where are you?”

  “Paris, France. We been lookin‘ at statues and paintin’s and I don’t know what all, and we’re singin’ tonight in a big church, a cathedral. Man, it’s huge.”

  “You know all those songs?”

  “I’m learnin‘ quick as I can. Ol’ Mr. Pruitt, he’ll knock you in the head if you don’t get it right.”

  Good old Mr. Pruitt. “I’ve never talked to anybody in Paris, France, before. How’s the tour going?”

  “Great. We’re singin‘ in Austria or somewhere tomorrow night. I’m about wore out.”

  “We miss you, buddy.”

  Expensive silence.

  “We put the train under the tree.”

  “I bet ol‘ Cynthia likes that train.”

  “How did you know?”

  “She likes everything.”

  “I’ll get a present off to you when you’re back at school.”

  “That’s OK. You give me a lot of money an‘ all.”

  He felt a mild lump in his throat. “Will you send Miss Sadie and Louella a card, like I asked? You wouldn’t be in Paris, France, if it weren’t for Miss Sadie.”

  “I already done—did it. It had th‘ Eiffel Tower on it. Did you take Tommy his present?”

  “Ten silver dollars!”

  “Cool.”

  Thank goodness he’d done that right. He wished Cynthia was here to say hello. It would do her good to hear Dooley’s unconcealed excitement.

  “Tell ol‘ Cynthia I said hey. And ol’ Barnabas. Well, I got to go. ‘Bye.”

  “Dooley? Dooley!”

  But Dooley was gone.

  With the jam-packed schedule of the holy days, he’d never been able to settle on a good plan for opening gifts.

  To do it on Christmas Eve meant doing it in broad daylight before the five o‘clock and midnight masses. That didn’t seem quite the ticket.

  To do it after arriving home at one-thirty in the morning never had much appeal.

  To do it on Christmas morning meant stumbling around in the dark at five a.m., mindlessly racing through the gift opening, then sprinting to church for two services.

  To do it on Christmas day, after the high moments of His birth, seemed paltry, somehow.

  Consequently, he had done it differently every year, by the seat of his pants, with a mild semblance of tradition kicking in only when Dooley Barlowe came under his roof.

  Now he had a wife who would tell him how to do it.

  When his flock thronged into the midnight service, there was wonder on every face at the newly hung greens and the softly flickering candles on each windowsill. To the simple beauty of the historic church was added fresh, green hope, the lush scent of flowers in winter, and candle flame that cast its flickering shadows over the congregation like a shawl.

  Holy, holy, holy ...

  Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee ...

  The choir packed their creaking stall, and leaving the exertion of the eternal crush behind, their voices carried from behind closed doors onto the soft December air.

  Lord’s Chapel could not, on that night, contain the joy.

  “Listen!” murmured the elderly widow who lived next door to the church. “It sounds like angels!” In the hushed and sleep-drugged village, voices stole upon the midnight air, blessing the Lord of Hosts and praising His holy name.

  To every weary and overworked soul came some new energy that flowed through the nave like a current.

  Unto us a child is born, unto us a Savior is given ...

  Alleluia! Alleluia!

  Come let us adore Him ...

  New life to replace the old, the old one that so often disappoints us and lures us into forgetting the Birth, sending us into despair.

  It was no surprise that with the joy came tears for those whose hearts felt a crust falling away....

  Cynthia had gone through it with him like a trouper. Up and out to nearly every service, making his breakfast, preparing the early dinners he had no appetite for, praying for his stamina, rubbing his shoulders....

  “I can’t let you do this,” he said, loving the feel of her hands on his tense muscles.

  “But why not?”

  He had no answer. Why not, indeed? “I’ll do something for you.”

  “You’re always doing something for me.”

  “I am?” Why did she think that? His wife had a certain innocence.

  “Timothy, dearest, you have an innocence that amazes me.”

  He allowed the resistance to go out of his body.

  “That’s better. Sometimes you make it hard to do anything for you, because you’ve been so ... self-sufficient.”

  “Ummm,” he said, his face smashed into the pillow.

  She had suggested they open their gifts on Christmas evening in front of the fire, dressed in their favorite robes. Thank heaven her gift had arrived—and already wrapped, into the bargain. He’d had it delivered to Dora Pugh at the hardware, in case he couldn’t be found at his office to sign for it.

  It was all too easy, he thought. Just call toll-free and talk to someone solicitous and give them a credit card number. It seemed a man should suffer a bit over what to give his beloved. Next year, he would do better.

  “Are you crying?” he asked, as she stared into the small box.

  “Definitely!” she said, the tears coursing down her cheeks.

  “It’s to go with your wedding band. I hope ... I do hope ... you don’t think it ...” Gaudy, he wanted to say, or tacky. The emeralds glimmered in the firelight.

  She threw he
r arms around his neck, weeping. Nothing discreet about Cynthia Kavanagh’s tears—they were honest and forthright. He patted her fondly on the back. He wished she wouldn’t do this ... yet, there was something touching about so much carrying on.

  “I love emeralds!” she pronounced, pulling away from him to wipe her tears on the hem of her robe. “I’m so glad you didn’t give me sapphires to go with my eyes....”

  Like her former husband, who had been cruelly unfaithful, he thought.

  “It’s beautiful, and I’m so proud of it. Thank you, my darling. Is all this a lovely dream?”

  He kissed her.

  “Well, is it?”

  “I think we’ll get used to it, somehow.”

  “You mean we’ll become old shoes, and all that?”

  “Very likely. They say it happens.”

  “I can’t imagine it happening. I think you’re the most delicious, attractive, fascinating man in the world.”

  “Cynthia, Cynthia ...” he said, touching her face. “I’m only a country parson, foolishly in love with his wife. Nothing more.”

  “Shall I go fetch what I have for you?”

  “Wait,” he said, holding her close to him. “Wait.”

  She had turned the Christmas music on and gone off to the garage. He heard it creaking across the kitchen linoleum, then over the hardwood floor and onto the rug of the study.

  “Don’t open your eyes yet,” she insisted.

  Whatever it was, she had rolled it next to the crackling fire, then he heard something that sounded like a cord being plugged into the socket at his desk.

  “Now,” she said, almost shyly.

  He saw it, but could hardly believe what he was seeing. It was a magnificent world globe, lit from within and bathed in the glow of the firelight.

  He got up slowly and went to it and gazed at it, and was speechless.

  “Dooley told me you’ve always wanted one,” she said, slipping her arm around his waist.