by Max Lucado
“Charles, I’ll leave him in your care,” Edward said.
“Fine.”
Mr. Barstow’s wife joined him at the door and escorted them to a table in the inglenook next to the fireplace. She stood much shorter than the two men, her head level with her husband’s shoulders. She was overdressed, better attired for the theatre than for tea. She attempted a sophisticated air, as if wanting to be in, or at least from, some other town. “Tell me,” she nasaled, pausing after each word. “How is life in Oxford?”
Her husband sighed and motioned for the minister to sit. “I understand you grew up in London.”
“I did.”
“My family is from Putney—some time back, however. And yours?”
“Kensington. I’m the first to leave the city, actually. That is, if I do. I shall be the first in our family not to serve the royal household in generations.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Barstow perked up. “What is your connection?”
“My father is a barrister.”
“My, my,” Mrs. Barstow admired.
The Barstows’ granddaughter, Emily, joined them at the table.
Reverend Richmond was grateful to see someone closer to his age, even more thankful to see someone so pretty. Emily’s curled brown locks fell to her shoulders. Her warm hazel eyes ducked from his glance. He looked away, equally embarrassed.
“I hear you have no wife,” her grandmother said.
Emily blushed. The reverend caught the hint but didn’t reply.
Mr. Barstow redirected the conversation with questions about Oxford, but his wife was not easily deterred. At the next pause, she jumped in. “Our dear friend’s niece will marry next week. As for us, we have no plans.”
Emily, who still hadn’t spoken, shot a glance at her grandmother.
“That’s good to know,” Reverend Richmond offered, then corrected himself. “I mean, it’s nice that your friend is marrying, and, well, I hope you will . . . or your granddaughter will marry soon as well. If she wants to, that is.”
“Tell me, Reverend.” Charles spoke, to the minister’s relief. “What do you think of the candle?”
“The candle?”
“The Gladstone Candle.”
“I, uh, can’t say I’ve heard of it.”
The three Barstows shared wide-eyed glances.
“You’ve never heard of the candle?” Mrs. Barstow asked.
“Or the candle maker?” Mr. Barstow added.
“Or the Christmas miracles?” Emily completed.
“No,” the reverend admitted, feeling that he’d missed a long conversation.
The three looked at him with eyes reserved for a sumptuous meal, each wanting to eat first. “Well, let me tell you—” Mrs. Barstow volunteered.
“Maybe I should do that,” her husband interrupted. But a knock at the door stopped him. He stood and answered it.
“I knew if I didn’t come, you’d forget to bring him to our house,” said a friendly, round-faced woman.
Mr. Barstow turned toward the minister.
“This is Sarah Chumley. She’ll take you to your next visit.”
Reverend Richmond gave her a puzzled look. Sarah chuckled. “You’ve apparently met my twin, Bea Haddington. Don’t even try to tell us apart. People who have known us for years still grow confused.”
Richmond stood, thanking his guests. Mrs. Barstow spoke again. “I’ll be glad to finish what we started, Reverend.”
Did she mean the candle or the courting? He didn’t know and didn’t dare ask. He turned and smiled a half smile, grateful to be leaving.
Sarah Chumley was as cheerful as the morning sun, was wide-waisted, and blessed with plump cheeks that flushed with rose and rendered eyes into half moons at the slightest smile. She escorted the minister down the street, two houses past St. Mark’s Church. She paused at the parsonage that separated her home from the church building. “This is the—”
“I know, the parsonage. I’ve already dropped off my bags.”
“Reverend Pillington lived here for half a century. A dear man. Scratchy after souls, he was.” She paused as if enjoying a memory, then invited, “Come. Mr. Chumley looks forward to meeting you.”
She led Reverend Richmond through a chest-high gate and a golden garden of goldilocks and buttercups. Wisteria stretched over the honey-colored cottage walls, and bright red paint accented the front door. Her husband opened it, not to let them in, but to let a patient out.
“Keep it wrapped, now, Mr. Kendall. Apply the liniment like I showed you, and”—placing a hand on the old man’s shoulders, Mr. Chumley winked—“don’t you think it’s time you let the younger people birth the lambs?”
“I’m as spry as I ever was,” the man countered.
“Hello, madam,” he added.
“Afternoon,” Sarah greeted. She and the reverend stepped aside so the injured shepherd could pass. “My husband’s the village alchemist, closest thing Gladstone has to a doctor. Try to find a villager he hasn’t treated— you won’t find one.”
Mr. Chumley was a slight man, bespectacled and short. But for a crown of gray, he would have been bald. “Come in, come in!” He clasped his hands together. “Been looking forward to meeting you.” He led them through the pharmacy in the front of the house to the parlor, where the reverend entered into his second conversation of the afternoon. He soon discovered that Mr. Chumley and the former rector had been fast friends. The two men had shared tea, problems, and long winters; but, curiously, they hadn’t shared matters of faith. “I leave things of God with God,” Mr. Chumley stated pointedly.
“I can respect that,” Reverend Richmond said.
“You can?”
“Of course I can. Theology has changed since your former rector studied.”
The reverend noted Sarah’s furrowed brow but continued. “God keeps his distance, you know. He steps in with Red Sea and resurrection moments, but most of the time he leaves living life up to us.”
“I’ve never heard such thoughts,” Sarah said, joining the two men at the table.
“Nor have I, but I’ve had them,” Mr. Chumley agreed. “I treat the body and leave the treatment of the soul to those who believe one exists.” He reached across the table and placed a hand on Sarah’s. “Like my wife.”
“I still pray for him, however.”
“And I still attend services . . . though my mind does wander.”
The Chumley visit proved to be Reverend Richmond’s most enjoyable of the day. He had dabbled in chemistry, and Mr. Chumley enjoyed debating theology. They took turns on each subject until the peal of St. Mark’s tower clock prompted Sarah to interrupt. “I promised Bea to have you at their house within the hour.”
“I’ll take him,” Mr. Chumley volunteered. He donned a hat and grabbed his cane as the minister expressed thanks to his hostess, and the two stepped outside onto Bristol Lane, where horse hooves clicked on egg-shaped cobblestones, small thatched-roof houses lined the street, and villagers gave generous greetings.
“Good day, Mr. Chumley, Reverend,” offered a seamstress carrying yards of cloth.
“Hello there, Mr. Chumley,” saluted a farmer with mud-laden boots. “Those Epsom salts are helping the missus right well. Reverend, good to see you.”
As they passed the town commons and the center cross, Mr. Chumley spoke about his in-laws, Bea and Edward Haddington. “The village treasures them. Not just because of the candle, mind you. They are dear, dear folk.”
“What is this candle?” Reverend Richmond asked. “Mr. Barstow mentioned it to me as well.”
The question stopped Mr. Chumley in his tracks. “You don’t know about the candle?”
“No.”
He removed his hat and scratched his head. “It’s best that I let Edward tell you about it.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s the candle maker.”
CHAPTER 2
Evening
MAY 4, 1864
Clad in his finest homespun Sun
day coat, Edward Haddington was standing beneath the sign that read CHANDLER.
“He’s all yours,” Mr. Chumley said.
Edward smiled and reached up to wrap an arm around Reverend Richmond’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, my friend. We aren’t eating in my shop. I was just checking a few matters.”
Edward said good-bye to his brother-in-law and led the minister next door, explaining as he walked, “My father and his father lived in the shop. I grew up there. But when I married, I promised Bea a house. She never could adjust to the smell of the candle shop. The tallow, you know. When her friends stopped coming over for tea . . . a change was needed.” The two paused in front of the slate-roofed home.
“Our dwelling belonged to a tailor. When he died, his widow moved to Chaddington and sold it to us. What do you think?”
“Seems small.” The reverend had to bend his neck to enter, lest he hit his head. The entire cottage consisted of one room. A table and four chairs sat to the right and a wrought-iron bed just beyond them. Two rockers rested in front of the fireplace, where a heating kettle filled the house with the smell of oxtail soup.
“Welcome to our home, Reverend. Won’t you join us at the table?”
Reverend Richmond turned to see Bea, her silvered hair swept under a bonnet and glasses resting on her nose.
For the third time in one afternoon, the young man took a seat and began to eat. They drank beer and ate soup and just-baked bread.
Edward was never one for small talk. He went directly to his question. “How is it that you’ve come to Gladstone?”
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Barstow says you excelled in your studies.”
The reverend arched an eyebrow. “Well, yes, I did quite well.”
“You seem awfully bright for our village. Seems you would be assigned to a, well, how would you say it, Bea . . . a more sophisticated parish? We’re simple folk.”
“Forgive us, Reverend,” Bea interjected. “We don’t mean to pry. We’ve never needed a new rector.”
“Wouldn’t you be better suited for a large church?” Edward persisted. “Perhaps in London? Don’t you have family there?”
“No openings,” was the reverend’s terse reply.
Edward looked at Bea. She tilted her head as if to say, “Enough on this topic.”
Edward looked away.
Bea proposed another question. “What do you find interesting about our village?”
Reverend Richmond stroked his beardless chin and remained silent. Edward got the impression that he was having a hard time coming up with anything. “The candle,” he finally answered. “I’m curious about the candle.”
Edward leaned forward. “Are you now? And what do you know about it?”
“Only that everyone keeps bringing it up.”
“Are you sure you want to hear its history?” Bea asked.
“Why, of course.”
“Perhaps we best fill our glasses, then.”
As Bea poured, her husband lit his pipe and began to relate the details of Gladstone’s favorite topic. “We need to go back a long way. I’m the seventh Haddington to make candles for Gladstone. The sign over the shop door? My grandfather made and hung it.”
“Could use some paint,” Bea added.
“My great-grandfather built the kiln. His great-grandfather, Papa Edward, migrated from Scandinavia in the 1650s. He built the shop and was the first Haddington to live in Gladstone. He was also the first to see the Christmas Candle.”
“What do you mean, he saw the candle?” Reverend Richmond asked.
Bea spoke up. “We know less than we’d like about its origin. We’d know more had Edward’s father not drowned in Evenlode River. It was a hard day, a hard time. Edward was sixteen, still an apprentice. He was not fully trained yet. A bit too young to run the shop, but what choice did he have?”
Edward shrugged. “Mother and I did the best we could. And, in time, we did fine. I married Bea and buried Mother, and Gladstone settled down to another generation of candle buying.”
He leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe as though he’d finished the story. Indeed, he thought he had. Bea had to jog him. “Edward, tell him about the Christmas Candle.”
“Oh, of course. Yes, well, as Bea said, some of the details died in the river along with my father. But what I and all of Gladstone know is this.
“Papa Edward had passed a bitterly cold Saturday evening dipping candles for the Sunday service. Being the night before the final Sunday in Christmas Advent, he’d made more than usual. To this day I still do. We stand them in the windowsills and give them to the choir to hold as they sing. We’ve always enjoyed yuletide services and large church crowds during December. Is it the same where you’re from, Reverend? Why, I remember one year when Reverend Pillington arranged for a chorus from St. John’s at Chadwick to join us. Bands of folks from three and four miles away came to sing the old, old songs.”
He leaned forward and, with twinkling eyes and a bouncing head, sang a verse:
“Peace and goodwill ’twixt rich and poor!
Goodwill and peace ’twixt class and class!
Let old with new, let Prince with boor
Send round the bowl, and drain the glass!”
“Edward.” Bea placed a hand on his. “The candle.”
“Oh yes. The candle. Where were we?”
“The night before the final Sunday in Advent,” Reverend Richmond aided.
“Right . . . Papa Edward and his wife were sound asleep when brightness exploded in the room. You would have thought a curtain had been yanked opened at noonday. A bonfire couldn’t have been brighter. They sat up and saw a glowing angel. They watched him touch one of the candles and then disappear. Papa Edward grabbed it, looked at his wife, and the two spent the rest of the night wondering what had just happened.”
“They had no idea what to think, Reverend,” Bea continued. “They went to Sunday services saying nothing about the angel’s visit. They feared people would think they were crazy. Before they left, however, Mrs. Haddington gave the candle away. Touched by the plight of a young widow, she gave her the candle and urged her to light it and pray.”
Edward picked up the story. “Each Christmas Eve church members are invited to stand and share a blessing. Well, imagine who stood first that year?”
“The young woman?” asked the reverend.
“She was a changed person. A generous uncle had provided for her needs, and Grandmother and Grandfather Haddington wondered about a connection between the candle and the gift, but they drew no conclusion.”
Edward took a drink from his glass. When he did, Bea spoke up. “Half by hope and half by obligation, they continued to hang extra candles each eve of the final Advent Sunday. Then, after a quarter of a century, the December night glowed, and an angel touched another candle. Papa Edward gave it to a shepherd who was searching for his son. The father found the son, shared the news at the Christmas Eve service, and Grandmother and Grandfather knew something special was happening.”
The reverend shifted uneasily in his chair. “And you credit God for this?”
“Who else?” asked Edward.
“You realize, of course, that these could all be coincidences.”
“Indeed they could,” Edward conceded. “But two hundred years have passed. Every quarter of a century an angel has touched one candle. Every prayer that was offered over the candle was answered.”
“The Christmas Candle has become legendary,” Bea interjected, “and so have the Haddington candle makers. Even when the region had other chandler shops, the angel only and always came to Papa Edward’s descendants. The citizens of Gladstone have anticipated each candle maker’s child the way the rest of England awaits a royal heir, which brings us to the hard part of this story.” She looked at Edward. “God gave us only one child, a son. He was born to us late in life and died from cholera when he was twenty.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Was he married?”
> “That he was. His wife died several months later in childbirth.”
“My goodness. One tragedy followed the other.”
“It did. Indeed, it did.”
Edward noted this first ray of warmth from the reverend. His guard, for just a few moments, was lowered.
“And your grandchild?” Richmond asked.
Edward chose to veil his reply. “As you can see, Bea and I are alone. We’re both in our seventies; we won’t be having any more children.”
“Does that mean the angel visits stop with you?”
“We assume so.”
Richmond began reviewing the facts, counting them with his fingers. “The angel comes once every twenty-five years?”
Edward nodded.
“He touches one candle?”
“So far.”
“And that candle has power?”
“No, God has the power. The candle is just the . . . Bea, what did you call it?”
“The vessel.”
“Yes, the vessel.”
The young minister crossed his arms and looked out the window.
“You find the story hard to believe?” Bea asked.
Reverend Richmond cleared his throat and looked back. “It’s not the type of event you hear about often.”
“No,” Edward agreed, “far from it.”
“How long since the last visit?”
Edward looked to Bea and let her answer the reverend. “Twenty-four years.”
“Twenty-four? That means this is the . . .”
“Yes, this is the year,” she agreed.
“Goodness. No wonder everyone’s talking about the candle.”
The conversation ended soon after that. Nothing else seemed worthy of mentioning.
Reverend Richmond spent the night in the care of the soft-spoken churchwarden who had welcomed him at the parsonage. His Gladstone tour continued the next day. He met a farmer who showed him his flock. (“Purebred Cotswold sheep. My rams are famous.”) And a retired tailor, inquisitive and cautious. (“Some of us were hoping for an older minister, you know.”)
All in all, the villagers could not have been more friendly . . . or more untitled, rural, and backward. (One farmer asked Reverend Richmond if he’d ever delivered a lamb.) No match for an academician like himself.
