by Max Lucado
“Quite.” The minister nodded.
“Tomorrow’s a working day for you, Reverend. Are you ready with a sermon?”
“Indeed it is, and that I am.”
With a wry smile Mr. Chumley looked at the young minister. “And all this talk about the candle. Are you converted yet, or do you still stand with me on the cynic’s side of the fence?”
“Mr. Chumley,” Sarah interrupted her husband, “the hour is too late to wade into another discussion. Let’s get your hat and cane.”
“I suppose we’ll know more soon. Good night.”
“I suppose we shall,” Reverend Richmond agreed. “Good night to you both.”
The young couple watched the Chumleys leave.
After some time Richmond spoke. “I suppose I should leave as well.”
“Perhaps we could visit again?” Emily risked.
He started to speak, stopped, then continued. “I’m not who you think I am, Emily. I’m not as hard as the village thinks, nor am I as good as you think. I’ve made mistakes and . . .”
“And mistakes are to be put in the past.”
“Emily?” Mr. Barstow called from the door. “Can you join us? Our guests are leaving.”
“Certainly, Grandfather,” she answered but turned to the minister first and with a slight smile repeated, “in the past.”
CHAPTER 6
Late Saturday Night
DECEMBER 17, 1864
A dancing fire warmed Edward’s shop, and two hanging lanterns illuminated it. Bea kept him company, rocking and knitting in the corner.
He enjoyed talking as he worked, and Bea didn’t mind listening.
“Did I tell you about the merchant from Ironbridge I met at the pub?” He measured twine as he talked, cutting it into ten-inch strips.
“I don’t think you did.”
“He told me about Thomas Trevor, a chandler who works near the coal mines. He employs four workers twelve hours a day. With the five of them, they produce nearly five thousand candles a week.”
“I can’t imagine the sort.”
“Why, the most I can ever sell in Gladstone is a hundred a week. Although here I am preparing thirty for tomorrow alone.”
“Tomorrow’s different.”
Edward completed his cutting and began wrapping the twine on one of the three rods of his dipping rack.
“This Trevor fellow has a tool he calls the ‘nodding donkey.’ It rotates like an indoor windmill, holding six racks, with each holding thirty or so candles by the wicks as they dry. He even has a machine for cutting the wicks. He sets a dozen spools in a tray, stretches the strings across a table, and lowers the blade on them. He calls it a guillotine.”
“I can see why.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it. Trevor makes some of the candles green.”
Bea lowered her needles and looked up. “Who wants green candles?”
“Mine owners do. It seems that some of their workers find the tallow tasty and have taken to chewing it. Others think the wax protects their throats from the dust. For whatever reason, miners chew the candles, eating up the mine owner’s property and profits.”
“But green candles?”
“The color sticks to the mouth. When a foreman spots a worker with green lips and tongue, he boots him out.”
Bea shook her head and placed her knitting in a basket. “It’s not worth a candle.”
“Indeed not.”
“I’m going to the house, but I’ll be back.”
“Bundle up.”
Edward tied the last of the strips of twine to the rack, took it by either side, and walked across the shop. He lowered the thirty strings into the tub of hot tallow long enough for the waxy substance to cling and then lifted them out. As he repeated the process again and again, the candles began to thicken, and his thoughts began to wander.
Blame it on the late hour or significant night or both, but Edward grew nostalgic, reflective. “How many times have I done this? How many hours in this shop?” he asked aloud to no one but himself. “My, it’s been good. Good wife, friends . . . faith.”
Cold air rushed into the room. He turned and saw Bea standing in the doorway. The fireplace glow silhouetted her frame. Her face was left in shadows, and for a moment he saw her as she had looked at age twenty-five. Slim figure. Her hair burnt orange, as bright as a summer sunset, reminding him of the night fifty years earlier when they had first seen the angel.
Edward’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of his wife’s voice. “Edward? Did you hear me? Would you like some tea?”
“Yes. That would be nice.” Edward, content with the width of the candles, suspended the rack on eye-level ceiling hooks in the center of the shop.
Bea handed him a cup, and the two stood looking at the rack.
“Remember fifty years ago?” he asked. “The first candle we gave?”
“To Reverend Pillington. How could I forget?”
“He and I were the same age.”
“He was a year younger perhaps. But he was so desperate to believe.”
Edward nodded. “I remember feeling odd giving a candle of faith to a man of faith.”
“Purveyors of hope need it the most.”
“God blessed him. And blessed Gladstone through him.” Edward lowered his tea. “May he rest in peace.”
The candle maker cleaned the tallow tub and stoked the fire. Only then did he notice that Bea had left the shop again. She returned with a bottle and held it up as she closed the door. “Apple wine?”
“A gift from Elizabeth?”
“Nice to be bribed.”
She filled two cups and handed one to him. He lifted his as a toast. “To the last candle.”
“To the last candle.”
They again took their seats by the fire, and for a time neither spoke.
“The house is quiet this year,” said Bea.
“Painfully so.”
Bea turned toward her husband. “Can we talk about the candle again? Do we have to give it away? Would it be so bad if we kept it for ourselves?”
“Now, Bea. I don’t know if it is intended for us.”
“Maybe, since it’s the last one, this candle is a gift to the Haddington family. Maybe?”
“Perhaps. The Lord knows we could use a miracle.” He lit his pipe, and the two rocked in silence.
“Staying awake?” she finally asked.
“Why certainly,” he pledged.
Good intentions, however, gave way to weary bodies. Little by little their eyelids drooped and heads lowered. Before the fire had embered, their heads rested, chins on chests, and the candle maker and his wife were sound asleep.
The light woke them. Brilliant, explosive, and shocking light. December midnight became July noonday. Edward needed a moment to come to his senses. He couldn’t remember why he was sleeping in a chair and not in his bed. As Edward rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, Bea nudged him.
Her whisper had force. “Edward! The angel!”
He looked straight into the light, squinting as if looking into the sun. He distinguished a silhouette.
The angel lifted an illuminated hand and paused as if to make certain the couple was watching. He took a step in the direction of the rack. Edward and Bea leaned forward. The angel touched a candle toward the end of the third row—and then disappeared. The candle glowed for a few seconds against the now-darkened room.
As the light diminished, Bea urged, “Edward! The candle!”
If only he had kept his eyes on it. If only he hadn’t looked away to see where the angel went. If only his foot hadn’t gone to sleep. Then the calamity might have been averted, but it wasn’t.
Edward took a step on his tingling foot and lost his balance. As he fell face forward, he thrust one hand high in the air, hoping to grab the just-touched candle. Instead, he hit the rack and knocked it off the hooks, sending thirty candles—thirty identical candles—flying around the room.
Edward looked up at
Bea. Bea looked down at Edward. Horrified. They sprang to their feet and raced around the shop, examining candles in the hope that one of them might contain a glimmer of light. None did.
After a few moments both plopped into their chairs, hands full of candles. Neither had the slightest notion which candle had been touched by the angel.
Bea burst into tears. “Now what? We have thirty candles. One of them is special, and we don’t know which!” She buried her face in her hands. Edward stared at the floor.
As the shock wore off, Bea spoke up. “You’ll have to make a new batch for tomorrow’s Advent service. We can’t risk giving away the angel candle.”
“I will. We’ll save this batch until we know what to do.”
Bea set the thirty candles in a basket, and Edward got busy in the shop.
CHAPTER 7
Sunday
DECEMBER 18, 1864
After church the next morning, Edward and Bea were the center of attention.
“Visitors last night?”
“Any candles to distribute this week?” Wink.
“Come see me tomorrow, Bea. I’ll make biscuits.” Wink. Wink.
Later that afternoon Edward decided to go for a walk. “I need to get outside for a while, dear. Would you like to come?”
Bea declined. “You go ahead.”
But as he left the house, she stopped him. “Take these.” Bea handed him the basket of candles from the night before.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. God may tell you what to do with them.”
Edward stopped by the livery stable to greet his old friend Adam Patterson. Adam was tall and lean and ever happy and could make Edward feel as if the day revolved around his arrival. This day, however, there was no cheerful shout from within the stables, no slap on the back or offer of tea and biscuits. Edward found Adam in a horse stall, seated on a stool, leaning against a wall.
“Adam?” Edward hurried to his side.
“What is wrong?”
His friend didn’t look up. “It’s my head, Edward. It pounds and pounds.”
“When did this start?”
“Last week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’ve been busy with the candle.”
“Have you talked to Mr. Chumley?”
“I have. He has no solution.” Adam looked up for the first time. “My father, Edward. Remember?”
Edward remembered. Years before, Adam’s father had complained of the same symptoms and had died within a week.
Still looking at Edward, Adam said, “My friend, I know I ask much. But God must have guided you to me for a reason. Tell me. Do you still have the candle?”
The candle maker pulled a stool next to Adam and sat. “I do,” he answered. He had the candle; he just didn’t know where. Yet how could he admit this to Adam? The pain had paled his friend’s face and left his hands trembling. Edward sighed and made his decision. He reached into his basket and handed Adam a candle. “Take this, my friend. God will hear your prayers.”
Adam’s eyes misted with gratitude. Edward’s heart clouded with confusion. What had he done? How dare he give hope? But how dare he not? Adam was his friend, and, who knows, he might have given his friend the Christmas Candle.
Edward requested, “Let’s keep this our secret.”
“Whatever you say.”
After some time the candle maker left the livery stable and continued his walk. James Clemly spotted him on the street. When the pub owner requested a moment to chat, Edward guessed the topic. “The lord of the manor needs his rent, and I need some help.”
Edward motioned for James to follow, and the men stepped between two buildings. Having already given a candle at the livery stable, it seemed easier to do so again. James embraced him. Again Edward suggested secrecy. “Perhaps it’s best that you not tell anyone.”
“Sure,” agreed the bright-eyed James. “The element of surprise, right?”
How will I explain this to Bea? Edward wondered.
He returned to the house and said little. He wanted to tell her what he had done but couldn’t find the words.
“I’ll be in the shop.” He placed the candle basket on the table and walked out the door.
When Sarah dropped in for afternoon tea, Bea told her sister about the visitors and hint droppers. Sarah grew quiet. “Bea,” she said, stirring her drink, “if I had any other options, I wouldn’t trouble you. But I have none.”
Bea extended her hand across the table and covered her sister’s. “Sarah, what is it?”
“I married a dear man, Bea. He cares as much for me today as the day we married. But even after all these years and all our prayers, he still has no faith. His world consists of what he sees and touches.” She paused to dab a tear. “We’re living our autumn years, dear sister.”
Bea nodded. “We’re both living with unanswered prayers, are we not?”
Sarah squeezed Bea’s hand. “What am I doing, sharing concerns with you? You have enough troubles of your own.”
“Sarah,” Bea spoke firmly, “don’t worry about us. Something is on your mind. What is it?”
“I’m thinking of the candle, dear sister. Is there any way . . .”
Bea sighed. “Let me tell you what happened Saturday night.” She described the light and the touch of the angel. When she told about Edward’s stumble, the two sisters laughed until they cried. And as they filled the house with happiness, Bea made a decision.
She stopped short of telling her sister the whole story. She didn’t mention that they didn’t know which candle the angel had blessed. Bea reached into the basket. “Here, Sarah. For you. For your husband’s faith.”
Sarah clutched the gift to her chest and beamed, her face awash with tears.
“Perhaps it’s best to tell no one for now,” Bea said.
“Of course.”
The two stood and embraced. As she watched her sister leave, Bea asked herself, How will I explain this to Edward?
She was asking herself the same question an hour later as Emily Barstow walked quickly away from the shop, a candle tucked under her shawl. She only wants the young reverend to notice her. How could I not give her hope?
Standing at the doorway to their home that evening, Edward and Bea could see the villagers walking toward the church.
“Should we go join them?” Bea asked.
“Let’s stay home. I need to tell you what I did today.” He told it all. Adam’s headaches, James’s request. “I gave candles to them both. Have I done a horrible thing?”
Bea said nothing. Edward thought she was angry. “What have I done?” he asked.
“Exactly what I did,” she confessed and then shared the details of Sarah and Emily. “People will be so angry, so hurt. All our friends will think we deceived them.”
“But we didn’t mean to mislead anyone, dear.”
“I know, but we did. What will they think when their prayers go unanswered? We should have kept all the candles.”
“And leave the special candle in the basket?”
“We can’t do that, either.”
“Bea, we did the only thing we could. We gave candles, hoping to give the right one.”
“So what do we do now? Give them all?”
Edward sighed. “Do we have a choice? How else can we be sure that someone will receive the Christmas Candle?”
“True.” She nodded, then smiled. “Edward, now we can light a candle too.”
“I suppose we can,” he said.
Abigail knew little about Oxford, but she didn’t need to know much. The walk from the train station to the carriage house was brief and direct. The gray cloud cover and fog muffled the noonday sun. She was tempted to find a room and rest. But she knew better. Wait too long and she might lose her courage.
She made her way through the winding streets and boarded the covered cart. Left to her own means, she could never afford the passage in a carriage.
But the courier who had
delivered the letter had delivered money as well.
Other passengers dozed as the wagon bounced. She couldn’t. Her mind kept returning to the words of the letter . . . By now she knew them almost by heart.
CHAPTER 8
Monday
DECEMBER 19, 1864
Early the next morning Reverend Richmond knocked on the Haddingtons’ door. Bea answered it. “Merry Christmas, Reverend. Won’t you come in?”
“Edward, I need to speak with you about this candle business,” he began. His tone was less than cordial. “People expect me to mention it in the Christmas Eve service.”
“Yes, they do.”
“To ask the recipient of the candle to stand.”
“That’s the tradition.”
“How can I? This is superstition. Have you seen the parishioners? They are counting on the candle to help them . . . to save them . . . to rescue them . . .”
“It’s not the candle that can save them, Reverend. It’s the Giver of it.”
“This is disastrous.”
Edward and Bea had never seen him so worked up.
“You should preach like this,” Edward offered.
“Edward,” Bea buffered.
“What do you mean?” The reverend frowned.
“With passion. Your preaching could use some. A little pulpit fire never burned a church, you know. Why, Reverend Pillington . . .”
“I weary of hearing about Reverend Pillington.”
The trio sat in embarrassed silence for a few moments. Edward finally spoke up. “What are you afraid of, Reverend? Afraid the prayers won’t be answered or afraid they will?”
The young rector started to speak, then stopped.
Edward continued in soft yet firm tones. “The mystery of God unsettles us all, Reverend. But isn’t mystery where God works? If he does only what we understand, is he God?”
He paused, inviting the rector to reply. He didn’t. Nor did he look away. Edward opted for bluntness. “Do you fear that God will dash the faith of the people, my son? Or do you fear that he will stretch yours?”
Reverend Richmond’s face softened for a moment. Then it hardened. “All this talk of angels and hope. Where will it lead us?”
