Shepherds Abiding (22 page)

“Tall as a mountain!” he shouted into the stinging cold.

“High as th’ sky!” whooped Peggy.

They had dragged the huge tree home on the sled, its greenness dark and intense in its passage through the winter woods. When Rufe made a stand for it and stood it in the parlor, he and Peggy were dismayed to see that it wasn’t as high as the sky, after all; it reached only halfway up the parlor wall.

Days later, he still smelled the sharply resonant odor of the resin that smeared his hands and clothes; the scent was there even after his bath in the washtub on the night they trimmed the tree.

“Look at that boy eat fried chicken!” said Reverend Simon at their small Christmas Eve dinner. “You’re making a proper Baptist out of him, Madelaine!”

His mother smiled. But his father did not.

When he came downstairs on Christmas morning, the tree was there, shining with colored bulbs and festooned with ornaments and tinsel. His father was wearing a smoking jacket, though he never smoked,
and there were the presents waiting to be opened, and something hidden behind the davenport. . . .

When he placed the Babe in the manger, he saw what he’d desperately hoped for—the light returning to his mother’s eyes, the light that shone like the star on top of the great and benevolent cedar.

“Merry Christmas!” he and his parents chorused in unison.

He raced at once to the sideboard and brought the shepherds to the manger, displacing a cow and a donkey to give them a better view, while his father fetched from the bookcase the men who had journeyed so long to the star.

After the long month of waiting, the scene was complete.

Certainly he hadn’t known it then, but the blue bicycle that he discovered behind the davenport had something of the wonder of the Child in it—it was yet another miraculous gift, mimicking the far greater Gift. He’d been beside himself with joy.

There was no way he could tell Tommy, of course—for what if Tommy hadn’t gotten a bike, or anything at all?

“What is it, Timothy?” His mother sat in the blue-painted kitchen chair by the window, shucking oysters with Peggy.

“Tommy maybe didn’t get nothing,” he said, forlorn in spite of himself.

“Anything.” His mother’s voice was tender; she reached for him and drew him close.

“Look here!” Peggy suddenly stood and peered through the window. “Look who’s comin’ up th’ road!”

In the bright afternoon light of Christmas Day, Tommy Noles wobbled up their drive on two wheels of his own.

Tommy had a bike, and the light had returned to his mother’s eyes.

Until he married Cynthia, it had been the single happiest Christmas of his life.

Between his nap and the trek to the church, more than an inch of snow had fallen, which would undoubtedly inspire the merry greening party in their labors.

But, alas, he found no greening party, merry or otherwise. He found instead that he must unlock the
double front doors and let himself in. As the key turned, the bells began to toll.

Bong . . .

The moment he stepped into the narthex, he smelled the perfume of fresh pine and cedar, and the beeswax newly rubbed into the venerable oak pews.

Bong . . .

And there was the nave, lovely in the shadowed winter twilight, every nuance familiar to him, a kind of home; he bowed before the cross above the altar, his heart full. . . .

Bong . . .

The greening of the church was among his favorite traditions in Christendom; someone had worked hard and long this day!

Bong . . .

Every windowsill contained fresh greenery, and a candle to be lighted before the service . . . the nave would be packed with congregants, eager to hear once more the old love story. . . .

Bong . . .

Families would come together from near and far, to savor this holy hour. And afterward, they would
exclaim the glad greeting that, in earlier times, was never spoken until Advent ended and Christmas morning had at last arrived.

Call him a stick-in-the-mud, a dinosaur, a fusty throwback, but indeed, jumping into the fray the day after Halloween was akin to hitting, and holding, high C for a couple of months, while a bit of patience saved Christmas for Christmas morning and kept the holy days fresh and new.

He knelt and closed his eyes, inexpressibly thankful for quietude, and found his heart moved toward Dooley and Poo, Jessie and Sammy . . . indeed, toward all families who would be drawn together during this time.

“Almighty God, our heavenly Father . . .” He prayed aloud the words he had learned as a young curate, and never forgotten. “ . . . who settest the solitary in families: We commend to thy continual care the homes in which thy people dwell. Put far from them, we beseech thee, every root of bitterness, the desire of vainglory, and the pride of life. Fill them with faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness. Knit together in constant affection those who, in holy wedlock, have been made one flesh. Turn the hearts of the
parents to the children, and the hearts of the children to the parents; and so enkindle fervent charity among us all, that we may evermore be kindly affectioned one to another; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

In the deep and expectant silence, he heard only the sound of his own breathing.

“Amen,” he whispered.

The snow had stopped entirely; the snowplow operators could stay snug in their beds tonight, after all.

He unlocked the door of the Oxford and felt for the fourth switch on the plate. Deep within the large building, used originally as an in-town horse stable, the light came on in the back room and spilled through the open door.

His heart beat up—this was the day, the moment he’d worked and waited for. He moved quickly along the darkened aisle between the tables and chairs, the chests and sideboards.

Fred, Lord bless him, had offered to put the figures in boxes, enabling him to carry more pieces at once. That good fellow was his Christmas angel, if ever there was one.

He caught his breath sharply, and stood motionless at the door.

There were the boxes . . .

And there, on the table in the center of the room, was the stable, sheltering the Holy Family.

“Hark! The herald angels sing,

‘Glory to the newborn King;

Peace on earth and mercy mild,

God and sinners reconciled!’ ”

“They’re gearing up!” said Mamy Phillips to her cat, Popeye.

Mamy, who lived in a small house next to Lord’s Chapel, couldn’t imagine why people would want to go to church in the middle of the night. She did confess however, that as she became increasingly wakeful in her old age, the midnight service was something to look forward to, as, however faint it might be, she could hear the singing.

“O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

 

For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wondering love.

O morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth,

And praises sing to God the King,

And peace to men on earth.”

Mamy pulled the top window sash down an inch or two. Then, by cupping her hand around her right ear and holding her breath for long periods, she was able to catch every word that floated out upon the frozen air.

“While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

All seated on the ground,

The angel of the Lord came down,

And glory shone around. . . .”

When the congregants poured out into the night through the red doors, a fresh snow was swirling down in large, feathery flakes, anointing collars and hats, scarves and mittens. Two people put their heads back
and stuck out their tongues and felt the soft, quick dissolve of the flakes.

“Merry Christmas, Father!”

“Merry Christmas, Esther, Gene! God bless you! And there’s Hessie, merry Christmas to you, Hessie!”

“Why, Tom Bradshaw! Merry Christmas! What brings you back to the sticks?”

Laughter. Vaporizing breath. The incense of snuffed candles wafting on the air . . .

“Merry Christmas, Cynthia!”

“Merry Christmas, Hope, how lovely you look! And Scott, dear—merry Christmas!”