A Christmas Visitor

by Thomas Kinkade

  What was happening? Had Carl’s story started a real rumor here?

  Grace Hegman was the first in line to greet him. “Excellent sermon, Reverend. Dad enjoyed it, too. What he could gather,” she added in a quieter voice.

  Grace turned to her father, Digger. The old seaman nodded and stroked his long beard with a thick, gnarled hand. Digger was famous as the best clammer on the cape in the last fifty years. Sadly, his memory and mind were slowly failing these days, and he often seemed to drift into some other world.

  Digger stuck out his hand and Ben shook it. “Good to see you, Digger. How are you today?”

  “Faring well. Listing to the side a mite.” He leaned to one side and made a gesture with his hand, imitating a sailboat that was off balance.

  “Dad’s knee is acting up. His arthritis,” Grace interpreted. She drew closer. “That statue over there”—she glanced over her shoulder and pointed at the angel—“we heard Carl Tulley touched it and it healed an infection on his hand. Is that true?”

  Ben didn’t know what to say, though he had fully expected he would be asked that question this morning.

  “I believe the statue is totally ordinary, Grace. Lovely, but just carved and painted wood. I would say that Carl’s healing was most likely a coincidence.”

  Grace looked down, as if now embarrassed to have asked at all. She touched a button on her sweater. “Well, you hear these things around town, especially running a store. You don’t know what to think. Right, Dad?”

  Digger nodded sagely. “Oh, yes. Don’t know what to think. We’ll have to wait until the tide goes out, right, Reverend? It all washes out with the tide.”

  Ben smiled gently and touched Digger’s arm. “Yes, Digger. That should make it clear.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. Our best to your wife. I hope she’s well?” That was Grace’s way of asking why Carolyn wasn’t at church this morning.

  “She has a cold. I think she needed some extra sleep to kick it.”

  “Tell her I said hello. Come on, Father.”

  Grace took Digger’s arm and led him away. Not out to the narthex, Ben noticed, but back into the church. Toward the statue. Obviously, he had not convinced Grace of the statue’s ordinariness. Or perhaps she just wanted a closer look. It was, indeed, beautiful.

  Ben watched as Grace and Digger joined a group gathered near the angel. Some were members of the congregation, but many were visitors.

  Among them, Ben recognized a woman he had seen at the statue before. He was almost positive she didn’t live in town. She was slim with thick white hair in a stylish cut. She always wore a dark red coat with a large, patterned silk scarf around her shoulders; that’s how he recognized her. He wondered where she came from, how far away. There was something elegant about her. If he had to guess, he would say she lived in Boston. If that was the case, then why had she come so far? Why was she, too, drawn to the angel?

  BEN HAD BEEN RIGHT, CAROLYN DECIDED. THE EXTRA sleep had done her good. So had the slow Sunday morning, in the snug, warm rectory. She’d had a late, leisurely breakfast, read the newspapers, then dressed, and straightened up the house.

  Her music room seemed in a perpetual state of disorder. She could never seem to keep it neat. She had read somewhere that a neat desk was the sign of a unproductive person. Perhaps the same applied to her profession. After all, there were students coming in and out all week, and her own last-minute searches for misplaced sheet music.

  Carolyn sorted out some music books that were piled on the top of the piano. Then she dusted off the keys, creating a brash, discordant sound. She sat down and stretched out her fingers. She lifted both hands to play, the right moving nimbly through the first notes of a simple version of “Fleur de Lis,” the left, resting heavily on the edge of the keyboard, striking a bass key or two if she really focused.

  The physical therapist said to keep at it, but Carolyn felt she had hit a wall. It had been almost three years since the stroke. She had spent hours in physical therapy and doing exercises at home, and she had recovered some degree of use of the left hand. But it had been months since she’d made any progress at all. Deep inside, she knew it would never get any better than this. It seemed foolish to keep pushing herself. Why pretend? She knew it was wisest now to just accept it. To count her blessings.

  The stroke could have robbed her of much more—the use of both hands, the ability to walk, to speak, to function independently. To even be alive today after what her body had been through was a miracle in and of itself.

  She tried to remind herself every day, especially when she sat down to give a lesson, that she was lucky just to be here. She really tried to be grateful.

  After all, almost all of her students had come back, which was a great compliment. She realized that she had never appreciated those children enough. She had never appreciated what a gift it was to be able to pass on her knowledge and to see them come into their own talent. Once she had played effortlessly in grand concert halls. Now her touch was almost as faltering as those of her students. But somehow, she enjoyed it more.

  One needed to be flexible in life, to revise one’s expectations. “Blessed are the flexible,” her husband had once said. “They don’t get bent out of shape.”

  She had laughed at the time, but it was true.

  She sighed and shuffled through the sheets of music, finding another piece to play. A simplified, bare-bones arrangement by Bach. She did the best she could, without any illusions that her playing would ever sound better.

  BY THE TIME BEN GOT HOME FROM CHURCH, IT WAS after two. He let himself in the front door and hung his coat and hat on the coat tree in the foyer. Beautiful notes drifted through the house from the music room, though even his unschooled ear could discern that there was something lacking.

  He wished he could stop thinking that way, comparing what she was now to what she had been. He knew better. After her stroke, it was a wonder Carolyn could play at all. She rarely complained about it. Still, he knew it must pain her deeply to remember how she used to play so flawlessly, how her fingers once glided and danced over the keys, calling up the most divine sounds from the instrument.

  He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Then he leafed through a section of the Sunday paper he found on the table. Carolyn appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Ben, I didn’t hear you come in. Have you been home long?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  She walked over and kissed his cheek. “How was church this morning? Sorry I had to miss it.”

  “The Hegmans asked for you. I told them you had a cold.”

  The minister’s wife was expected every Sunday, a permanent fixture front and center, smiling and friendly and pious. Ben knew it could be stressful to have to live up to those expectations. He hadn’t married Carolyn because he thought she would make the perfect partner for a man of his calling. He married her because he loved her, because he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Because the ways they were different made him whole. He still felt the same, too, after all these years.

  “How are you doing?” he asked. “Feel any better?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll be fine in a day or so. I’ve been taking a lot of vitamin C and those zinc lozenge things. Rachel says they really work. Rachel’s so sweet. She’s going to drop off something for dinner so we don’t have to cook.”

  “You mean, so that you don’t have to cook,” Ben said wryly. He was a disaster in the kitchen and could barely call for takeout. He and Carolyn were lucky that their daughter, Rachel, and her family had chosen to live nearby. Ben’s grandchildren—Will, who was four, and Nora, who would soon be one—were among the great joys of his life.

  “Rachel does so much,” he said, “even with two little ones to look after.”

  “Jack helps her. She’s very organized.”

  “She didn’t get that from me,” he said with a laugh.

  Carolyn smiled but didn’t disagree. “I’ll be making Christmas Eve di
nner this year,” she told him, “and they’re going to Jack’s family’s for Christmas Day. We’re invited, too. Rachel just mentioned it.”

  “That will be something new for us.” Ben didn’t know Jack’s parents very well and didn’t like the idea of spending the holidays away from his own home. But now there were the grandchildren to consider. One had to be gracious and share them, he supposed.

  “Have you heard from Mark?” Carolyn asked. Their son Mark was away at school in Portland, Oregon. “Will he be home for Christmas?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ben said gently. “His last e-mail—I just opened it this morning—said he might stay for intercession and take some extra credits. He has that girlfriend now from California. I think her family has invited him there for the holidays.”

  “Well, I suppose I can’t be too upset about that,” Carolyn said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for Mark to settle down with a nice young woman. And I thought Erin was lovely when we met her last summer. Do you think they’ll get engaged for Christmas?”

  “How would I know? He never talks to me about those things. I didn’t even think of it,” Ben answered honestly.

  “Of course you didn’t, you’re a man.” Carolyn grinned. “I’ll bet Erin expects a ring by now.”

  “They both have to finish school first. I think Mark should wait before he makes that kind of commitment.”

  “He only has a year left. And he is twenty-five, Ben. We were married by then, you know.”

  “People married earlier when we were young. It was expected and we were more mature than kids these days…or something.”

  Ben wanted Mark to find real love and settle down in a solid relationship, too. He sometimes thought that’s what the boy needed more than anything. But these things couldn’t be rushed. He wouldn’t ever dare even suggest it.

  “If he does come home, I don’t think we should talk about any of this with him,” Ben warned. “He can’t feel pressured…or as if we’re too nosy about his personal life. You know how he hates that. He’ll do just the opposite of anything we say.”

  Carolyn nodded. “I won’t say a word. Promise.”

  Ben knew her promise was sincerely given but wondered if she could keep it. Maybe it was just as well if their son spent Christmas in California.

  Eager to change the subject, he said, “Listen, something happened at church today. I’m not quite sure how to handle it.” His wife lifted her chin, listening with interest. He didn’t know where to begin. “Carl’s story about that statue has really made the rounds. It’s started something, Carolyn—there were a lot of new people in church today, people I didn’t recognize.”

  “How do you know they came because of the statue? It is almost Christmas, and you are an excellent preacher. Maybe word is finally getting around?”

  He knew she was teasing him. “I’ve been at that church for nearly forty years. I say, it’s high time,” he joked back. “But as much as I would like to agree with you, I know it’s not me. It’s not even Christmas. After the service quite a large group gathered around the statue. They gazed up at it and prayed and stuck little bits of paper with prayers…calls for help, really…at its base. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not in our church anyway.”

  Carolyn’s expression was serious again. “That’s really something.”

  “I’m always trying to bring new members into the congregation, heaven knows. Maybe I should just sit back and encourage the rumor. It seems to be the best advertising campaign we’ve hit on so far.”

  “Ben…” Carolyn cast him a look. “I know you’re not serious.”

  “Of course not.” He rubbed his forehead, realizing he had been tense all morning. “You know how serious and matter-of-fact Grace Hegman is. She believes it, too. She cornered me right after the service to ask about Carl’s story. Even when I told her straight out that there was nothing to it, I could tell she wasn’t convinced. She went right back into the sanctuary and sent up a prayer or two.”

  “Maybe just in case?” Carolyn offered.

  Ben shook his head. “When people want to believe something, it’s hard to change their minds. What do you think? Should I make some statement next Sunday? Should I write something for the bulletin?”

  “What would you say?” Carolyn asked. “I mean, what do you think is going on?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Ben admitted. “It’s a slippery slope, especially for a minister. You should have seen the look on Carl’s face when he showed me his hand. He believes it was a miracle. He truly believes, and who am I to argue with him?”

  “But you don’t believe it,” Carolyn said.

  “I believe he’s sincere,” Ben answered carefully. “But no…I don’t think there’s been divine intervention here. There are just too many logical explanations.”

  Carolyn looked thoughtful. “Well, if that’s so, why make any comment at all? Wouldn’t it be giving the statue too much importance? I’m sure once people realize that nothing really happens if you touch the statue or even leave a little note there, Carl’s story will die out. Don’t you think?”

  Ben mulled it over. “Yes, I think you’re right. Why give it too much attention? Sooner or later, everyone will decide that Carl was just imagining things. Or that it was all a coincidence.”

  “Just give it a few days,” Carolyn advised. “I expect they’ll forget all about it.”

  The phone rang and Carolyn rose to answer it. Ben heard her talking to Rachel, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the statue. What Carolyn said made sense. Still, the situation troubled him. It stirred up so many ideas and questions about spirituality. Ben had often heard stories of divine or spiritual intervention. Prayers were answered. Miracles sometimes occurred. After all, he reminded himself, there were numerous mentions of angels in the Bible. And Ben had always believed that God does answer prayers, and that spiritual power—perhaps even in the form of angels—does intervene in earthly lives.

  Had it really happened in his church? To Carl Tulley? Despite his own faith, Ben couldn’t quite believe that it had. And yet, no matter what he had told Lucy Bates or Grace Hegman, or anyone else who asked him, he knew in his heart that he could never be absolutely certain that it hadn’t.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MOLLY GOT STUCK AT THE SHOP ON TUESDAY NIGHT, supervising dishes that were to be served at a school board holiday luncheon on Wednesday. It was a full three weeks until Christmas, but the parties were in full swing. It was hard to believe that anyone in any office in town got anything done for the rest of the month, she thought. But it was good for her business.

  She didn’t get home until nearly nine and when she walked in, the house seemed eerily quiet. She walked back to the family room and found Matt alone, reading the newspaper while he watched TV.

  “Hi, honey.” She bent to kiss him. “Where is everybody?”

  Usually, she treasured a rare moment of quiet and calm. One look at Matt’s expression and she longed for the cover of her noisy, demanding children.

  “Upstairs, doing homework. I think Jillian went to sleep. Hard volleyball practice.” He kept his eyes on the paper, then finally looked up at her. “What happened? You told me you would be home by seven.”

  Molly shrugged and flopped down on the couch. She was beat, but resisted showing him how very tired she truly felt. “Oh, the usual. Rita and Dawn stayed but Sonya made some excuse at the last minute and they needed me. Sonya’s a great cook but temperamental.”

  He glanced at her but didn’t say anything. Molly knew that look. She didn’t like it. He was mad. Steaming to be precise. Matt rarely lost his temper but when he did it was more of a slow-rising simmer…until finally the pot boiled over.

  “I’m going in late tomorrow,” she offered. “They’re going to run the whole thing, and we don’t have to open until eleven.”

  “Why don’t you just take the day off? In fact, why don’t you take a week off? I’m pretty sure you could sleep straight through, given the opport
unity.”

  “Matt, you know I can’t do that. Don’t be silly.” He wasn’t pleased with that answer, she realized too late. She had just managed to turn the heat up even higher. “I can take some time off after the holidays,” she added in a more soothing tone. “Maybe I’ll even close the shop a few days.” The idea had suddenly come to her, though she wasn’t at all sure she would ever go that far.

  “Guess who came to see me today? A client of yours, Mrs. Norris.”

  Molly heard a distant alarm sounding. “I didn’t know she was one of your patients.”

  “She isn’t. But her regular physician is on vacation and she twisted her ankle. She didn’t want to drive all the way to Southport and sit in the ER if it was just a sprain. Which it was.”

  “Oh…Well, I hope she’s doing better. Good thing she didn’t hurt herself before the party.”

  “Yes, good thing.” He nodded and put the paper aside. He looked straight at her. “I asked about the event. She said that after a bumpy start, it all went very smoothly.”

  “Good. I’m glad she was pleased.” Molly shrugged and avoided his gaze.

  She hadn’t told Matt about her stop at Betty’s and how her friend had helped out. She didn’t like keeping secrets from him and usually never did. But she was afraid that if she confessed her collapse on Betty’s guest room bed, Matt wouldn’t let her out of the house until the baby was born.

  “Mrs. Norris said that if it wasn’t for Betty Bowman, the whole affair would have been a complete disaster.” He paused and stared at her. “Good old Betty. Sounds like she saved the day. Where were you all morning, may I ask? At Betty’s house, getting sick?”

  “I wasn’t that sick. I was resting, in her guest room…” Her words trailed off on a weak note. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what happened. That was wrong. I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I just didn’t want you to make a big thing about it.”

  Matt rose and paced around the room. “Well, excuse me. I’m just the father of your child and a doctor, to boot. Of course I’m going to make a big thing about it. You need to slow down, Molly. What is it going to take to convince you?”