The Magic of Christmas: A Christmas Child / The Christmas Dove / A Baby Blue Christmas
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She rinsed the bowl in the sink, washed her face and hands and brushed her hair back, dampening the sides to hold it in place.
From behind her, the gentleman spoke. “My Janet said to tell you to come on over to the house and tend the baby if you want to. She’s got hot water and soap and such you can use.”
“Thank you ever so much,” Marianne said. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way.”
In minutes she was rapping on the back door of a twostory house behind the general store. Janet opened the door for her. “Come on in, girl. I’ll warrant that baby needs a good washing up and some clean clothes to wear, don’t he?”
“I’d surely appreciate a washcloth and a bar of soap for him,” Marianne said quietly. “He hasn’t had a bath in two days. And my mama always said a baby should be washed up every morning.”
“Your mama was right, and your little one there looks pretty healthy. You musta been taking good care of him.”
“I’ve tried my best,” Marianne said stoutly. “He’s doing pretty well, putting on a little weight and sleeping pretty well.”
“You’re a good mama to him, girl. Just go on over there and use that basin and towel and clean him up a little.”
Marianne washed Joshua and put a clean diaper on his bottom. Janet came up with a used but clean small kimono she said she had no use for.
“My Robbie is three years old, and he hasn’t worn this for a year or better. You might as well have it for your young’un,” she said kindly.
“I’ll wash out Joshua’s other two gowns and hang them up to dry if I can,” Marianne said softly. “His diapers need to be washed, too.”
“Use the bath water if you want to,” Janet told her. “You can hang them behind the stove. They’ll dry there real quick.”
By noon, the small stash of laundry was dry, including Marianne’s underclothes and her dress, and she folded the few diapers and gowns and placed them in her bag. Donning her own clothing, she determined that she would offer Janet cash for the food and care she’d received at her hand. The offer was turned down without hesitation, and Marianne was pleased to find such kindness in the woman.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” she said, her words sincere, even though her smile wobbled a bit. “I’m going to set off and look for a place to stay, a job of some sort that will allow me to keep the baby with me.”
“Had you thought about letting some couple take him to raise?” Janet asked. “He might be better off with a father to care for him.”
“Well, his is dead and gone,” Marianne said, “and I’ve thought of giving him up to a family, but it seems that most everyone has enough of their own to take care of.”
“The Thornley family, out east of town, might take him,” Janet said. “They’re good folks, with no little ones of their own. Maybe you could ride out and see them.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marianne said slowly, not willing yet to give up her brother, remembering her mother’s hopes for his future and unable to turn her back on her own flesh and blood while she could still tend to him herself.
“Ma’am, if I could help you some in the store or in your house today, I’d be pleased to earn out my bed for last night and maybe tonight. I don’t like to take your food and impose on you any without paying back in some way.”
Janet hesitated, then nodded. “I appreciate your honesty,” she said, scrubbing at a skillet in the sink. “If you’d like to lend a hand, I’ve got to get our Christmas dinner ready for the morning. My man’s folks will be coming in from out of town later on today to spend Christmas with our young’uns. They always come early so’s we can go to church on Christmas Eve together.”
“I’ll do whatever you’d like for me to,” Marianne answered with a smile. “Maybe by morning I’ll come up with something else to do. Might be if I go to church for the service tonight, I’ll see somebody who might need a hired hand or help around the house.”
“Being a hired hand is no work for a woman,” Janet said bluntly. “The places hereabouts are pretty well run already. Can’t think offhand of anybody who’d need help. But it won’t hurt to ask around if you go to the service tonight. It’s Christmas Eve and folks are in a softer mood than usual this week. I’ll ask around, too—maybe between us we can find something for you to do.”
Marianne spent the day scrubbing and cleaning Janet’s house, using a brush on the kitchen floor and a dust cloth on the furniture in the parlor. Late in the day Janet’s husband, Tom, dragged in a tall spruce tree, freshly cut from the woods north of town. He quickly formed a stand for it with four small pieces of wood, and it stood in the corner of the parlor, almost touching the ceiling.
Janet’s four youngsters gathered around as their father carried boxes of decorations from the attic and placed them on the floor. “Have at it, young’uns,” he said jovially. And with glad cries and laughter, the four children hung glittering stars and angels on the tree, the ornaments showing signs of the years past, but shiny and bright nevertheless. Marianne watched with sad eyes, remembering the Christmases she’d spent with her family, her mother and father always making a fuss over the tree and the decorations they made from pinecones and bits of ribbon.
They’d had big plans for this holiday season, with a new baby due to arrive, her mother finally able to carry a babe full term after years of losing babies, one after another. And now there was little to celebrate, it seemed to Marianne, for her family was gone and she had no future that she could see. Only a darkness that threatened to overwhelm her.
Silently she wrapped her small brother in his warm blanket and set off from the house, unable to bear the joyous laughter of the children and the happiness in the house she left behind. It was growing dark, for winter brought long nights, and even though it was but suppertime, the sun was setting and the houses she passed on her slow trek were well lit from within.
The bright candlelight from a Christmas tree caught her eye as she passed a large white house, and from inside she could hear the voices that carried on the night air. Happiness seemed to surround her, but left her on the outside, looking in, and her heart ached with the pain of loss.
The small village church was dark, but it would soon be time for the late service to begin, probably within an hour or so, she thought, remembering that she’d told Janet she would attend with her family. She slowed as she passed the white building, a bell tower high overhead with a cross atop it catching her eye.
On the grass before the church was a Nativity scene, set up by loving hands apparently, for the figures were freshly painted, the robes of the Virgin mother and the kindly Joseph glistening in the final rays of the setting sun. A final beam of light cast its glow across the setting, and drew Marianne’s eyes to the empty manger. Sheltered just within the framework of a makeshift shed, it was rough, unpainted and held straw, or perhaps hay, providing a bed for the child who would be born this night.
She’d heard the story for years, read from her father’s Bible—a tradition in the family, that they hear the chapter in Luke that told the tale of shepherds and wise men who came to worship the babe in the manger.
From the house next door to the church, a door opened with a clatter and a man stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind him, then stepping from the porch to walk toward the center of town, nodding at Marianne as he walked past her. Probably the minister, she thought, noting his young age. For her own pastor in days gone by had been an elderly man, with grown children. From the looks of the man she turned to watch as he strode toward the general store, he was but thirty or so, younger than most ministers in her experience.
Drawn by an urge she could not explain, she walked across the width of the churchyard, approaching the manger scene, and peered within the small, rough bed itself. And with no warning she heard a voice within her speaking.
If you leave Joshua in the manger, someone will want to keep him and give him a good home.
She looked behind her, seeking the owner of the voice she’d heard, for it had been distinct and the words seemed to vibrate in her mind. Without hesitation she bent, placing her brother in the wooden container, one meant for a holy babe on this, the most holy of nights. And if a baby was all the scene needed to make it complete, surely there was a reason for her being here in this place, a reason for her to do as she had. The thought of abandoning her brother was enough to break her heart, but perhaps this was the answer to her dilemma. And Joshua would be the better for it, if a man and woman without a child of their own should see him and claim him tonight.
She shivered, the warmth of her brother gone from her arms, and as she bent to him, she whispered words of farewell, unable to foresee the outcome of her actions, only desperate enough to hope that it would work out for Joshua’s good.
Running quickly to the side of the church, she waited in the shadows, knowing that it would soon be time for the baby to eat, and he would arouse from his slumber soon, hungry and anxious for his bottle.
Chapter Two
David McDermott faced his first Christmas in his first church. A graduate of the seminary in St. Louis, he had been sent to Walnut Grove, Missouri, to serve as their pastor in the small community church there. With his wife, Laura, he’d made his home in Walnut Grove, making friends and working to spruce up the building he’d been given as a parsonage during his tenure there.
Bearing her first child was to have been a joyous event that first year of their marriage, but the birthing took its toll on Laura, and she succumbed to the loss of blood and horror of a childbirth gone wrong. The babe she bore lived but hours and breathed his last as his father named him and held him close, aching for the future he’d lost, in the death of those he loved best.
Buried in the church cemetery, Laura held her child in her arms within the wooden casket created by the town’s carpenter. They lay beneath the ground with but a simple wooden cross with two names engraved upon it. “Laura McDermott, wife of David.” And beneath those words was the name of his son, “Darren McDermott.” Simple words that seemed barely enough to describe the youthful beauty and dignity of the woman he’d married, and the son she’d borne.
David had worked hard all summer long, painting the small church, cutting the weeds that threatened to overcome the grass before the parsonage, and in general keeping busy, day by day, his heart aching with the loss of his wife and child.
For nearly a year he’d lived alone and served his parish, loved by the people he served, and after a while he became a target for the young women, who saw him as a prime catch. He was tall and admittedly good-looking, for he saw his face in the mirror every morning and knew that his features were pleasing—dark hair that waved just above his collar, and blue eyes that held a remote sadness.
It had been a hard year, and by summer’s end he’d felt a renewed interest in his work, found that the townsfolk had taken to him with a warmth he hadn’t expected. Perhaps because of his loss, maybe because he’d made it his business to visit the sick, pray with those who needed his comfort, and in all things had done his best to serve the people of Walnut Grove.
He’d received several invitations for Christmas dinner from various members of his congregation and had accepted none of them, unable to find in his heart any joy in this season of the year. If only…His thoughts returned to the family he’d buried and he shook himself abruptly, knowing that self-pity was the last thing he needed to indulge in tonight. For the Christmas Eve service was scheduled to begin in two hours and he still hadn’t purchased his groceries this week.
Donning his hat and a warm jacket, he made his way out the front door, determined to put the sorrow of the past behind him and concentrate instead on the joyous message he would bring to his congregation in just a short while.
The walk to the general store was short, and in less than ten minutes he’d gathered up the basic necessities needed for his kitchen. Not much of a cook at the best of times, he managed to make do with fried eggs for breakfast, bread and cheese and sometimes sausage or bacon for his dinner hour and often was the recipient of casserole dishes from the ladies nearby, who tended to drop off dishes for his supper.
Perhaps they knew that cooking was not a skill he’d mastered in his life or maybe they felt he needed the nourishment of hot meals on occasion. Whatever the reason for the generosity shown him, he appreciated the chicken casseroles and hot vegetable dishes left at his front door several times a week.
Tomorrow was a day that loomed long before him, a day of happiness for the children in town, a day of feasting in most of the homes of his congregation, several of which would welcome him with open arms.
He lingered in the store for but a few minutes, speaking to Janet and her husband, knowing they were anxious to close the door and return to their family in the small house next to the store, where their four children were no doubt enjoying the lights of a Christmas tree in the parlor.
Waving goodbye and reminding them of the service that would begin in an hour or so, he walked the short distance back to his home, his arms full of bundles—the coffee, bacon and sack of eggs he’d purchased. A tin of lard hung from his index finger and he shifted the wrapped parcels to free his hand to open the front door.
The Nativity scene caught his eye and he admired the fresh paint he’d applied to the figures just last week. The shepherds were tall and stalwart, the sheep and donkey suitably humble and the young parents knelt beside the manger. All was ready, awaiting the addition of the small statue of a babe he would add to the scene after midnight, when the service at church was finished and his parishioners were once more in their homes.
He’d heaped the manger with hay, deeming straw to be harsh for a babe’s fragile skin, even though the small statue was but an imitation reminder of the Christ Child and neither hay nor straw would damage its hard surface. The sun had set and the moon was making an appearance in the sky, sending down beams upon the scene he’d created for his church and its people.
The manger seemed to glow with the light of the moon upon it, the simple brown cradle awaiting the final touch that would—David halted suddenly, his breathing loud upon the silence of the evening. For there, waving in the moonlight, was a small hand, a tiny arm. And the sound that reached his ears was that of a babe, a whimpering cry, escalating into a wail of distress.
Placing his packages on the frozen ground, he reached the manger in half a dozen long strides, reaching into its depths even as he caught sight of the tiny babe, wrapped in a bit of white flannel. The blanket had been disturbed by the infant’s flailing arms and he saw that dark hair crowned the tiny head, as with openmouthed cries the child demanded attention.
He picked up the small bundle, his eyes searching the surrounding area, hoping for a glimpse of whoever had left this child here in the cold. Holding the swaddled babe to his chest, he rose, standing before the makeshift shed amidst the shepherds, a sheep on one side, the donkey on the other, and looked down into the face of innocence.
Apparently soothed by the hands that held it, the baby snuffled, poking one small fist into its mouth, sucking earnestly on his hand and opening his dark eyes to look up at the man who held him. David caught his breath, recalling with sorrow the last time he’d held a child thusly, the day of his son’s birth. The poignant memory scalded his eyes, and tears poured forth, dropping upon the white blanketwrapped bundle in his arms.
He turned hastily toward the parsonage and as he did so, he caught a glimpse of a figure darting from the side of the church, into the bushes by the road. It had been a woman, a slender form that seemed almost ghostly, yet he knew what he’d seen, and in vain he called out to the woman.
It was cold, the wind picking up, and he quickly carried the baby to his house, opened the door and stepped into the parlor, where he stood immobile for a moment, unsure of his direction. His groceries lay in the churchyard and he placed the baby on his sofa and turned to retrieve the results of his shopping, hastening across the small distance to pick up the bundles of food.
A slight figure walked quickly down the road, heading for the middle of town, and he called out to her, for it was obviously a woman, her skirts swaying as she hurried on her way. Dark hair hung past her shoulders, and a dark cloak was wrapped around her. Yet in the moonlight she cast a glance behind her and he saw the face of a girl, not a woman after all. But a girl with tearstained cheeks, gleaming in the light of the rising moon.
His groceries at hand, he bent and picked them up, then returned with haste to the parsonage, there to hear the wail of the child who lay on his sofa. He dropped the foodstuffs he’d bought onto the kitchen table and returned to the babe, bending to unwrap the blanket, the better to see the infant he’d rescued.
Wrapped in the folds of the blanket was a diaper and a bottle, filled with milk, a nipple attached to it in readiness should the child require feeding. And from the sounds of things, David decided that food was essential, for the cries were louder, the small face redder, and the arms and legs had kicked off the blanket, exposing small limbs and bare feet that did not measure nearly as long as his index finger.
Gathering the baby to himself, he held it cradled in his left arm and offered the bottle to the tiny mouth, a mouth that opened wide to accept the rubber nipple, apparently accustomed to being fed in such a way.
His heart was gripped with an emotion unlike any he’d ever experienced, a pouring out of his need, the memory of an infant, buried in his mother’s arms, and hot tears fell as the child’s face blurred before his sight. His arms tightened as his thoughts soared. If only…And yet there were no such miracles, no such travels back in time in which he might have a taste of the joys of holding his child, a joy that had been denied him.
For these few moments he could dream, and dream he did, his mind moving on to the service he would hold in but an hour. A service of happiness, of joy, of worship. The sight of their pastor carrying in a child to the service might be beyond their ability to understand, and so deciding to spare his small flock the sight, he arose from his chair, discovered that the infant he held needed a dry bottom and tended to that small chore.
Not familiar with such doings, he took much longer than the babe deemed necessary for the task. But in another ten minutes he’d wrapped the tiny form in the flannel blanket, added a shawl he’d hidden deep in a dresser drawer, to provide additional warmth against the winter night, and set off for his church.
Arriving early, he lowered the lamps, lit them and set them in place, then placed the sleeping babe on the back pew of the choir loft, careful to prop hymnals before the tiny form, lest it roll to the floor.
Within a half hour the small church was filling with his congregation, the children excited, whispering among themselves, the adults properly worshipful for this most holy of services in the life of his church.
They sang with uplifted voices, they sang from memory the old carols that told the Christmas story, of Mary and the babe of Bethlehem. They sang of shepherds, of the kings from afar, and then, after the reading from St. Luke, they bowed in prayer. To the faint echoes of “Silent Night” the flock filed from the church, and David stood before his pulpit, watching as one lone woman knelt in the very last row of seats.
He picked up his charge, thankful that the baby had slept throughout the hour-long service, and with the wrapped bundle against his shoulder, he walked silently down the long aisle to the back door of the church. As he passed the last pew, he looked aside to where the young woman knelt, and paused there.
Marianne looked up, knowing that there were eyes intent on her, feeling the warmth of someone’s scrutiny. Her eyes were blurred with tears, for she had just committed her small brother into God’s hands, not knowing what his future might hold, but trusting that somehow he would find sanctuary this night.
In the dim light of the moon, shining through the church doors, a tall man watched her—the pastor of this church, the man who had lifted Joshua from the manger just hours earlier. Now he held the baby against his shoulder, the white blanket a pale blur against his dark suit.
“Do you need help?” the man asked, his voice deep and tender, as if he knew somehow who she was. “Why don’t you come with me and have some tea over in the parsonage kitchen?”
He waited, unmoving, as she looked into eyes that even in the dim light seemed to glow with an unearthly light. There was no question of trust, for she’d known from her first glimpse of him that this man was kind and wore the cloak of goodness on his shoulders. How such a thing could be, Marianne didn’t understand, but she felt a trust in him that was without reason. Perhaps he’d been sent to help her; maybe he would be the answer to her prayers.
She rose and left the pew, looking up at him as he ushered her to the door, his hand on her elbow, his head bent to look into her face.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. And she nodded slowly, unwilling to admit her need, but aware that she must have nourishment to sustain her for the night to come.
They walked from the church together, most of the congregation already leaving the churchyard, only a few townspeople lingering to call out their messages of holiday cheer to the pastor.
Marianne walked ahead of him, aware of the watching eyes, the whispers that followed her progress along the path through the light snow that formed patterns on the ground. Janet, the storekeeper’s wife, stood near the gate and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Where are you staying, dear?” she asked quietly. “Do you need to sleep at the store tonight?”
Marianne looked over her shoulder at the tall figure who walked just behind her. “I’m going to have tea with the minister and then decide where I’ll go,” she said softly, lest anyone else hear her words. It would not do for the representative of the church to be spoken of badly should he give refuge to a woman so late at night.
“David McDermott will take care of you. He’s a good man,” Janet said readily. “You come and see me the day after tomorrow if you need anything. The store will be locked up tomorrow, but you know where I live.”
Marianne nodded, smiling her thanks as she reached for her small brother and took him from Mr. McDermott’s hands. The small churchyard emptied rapidly, for the parishioners were anxious to return to their warm homes where Christmas celebrations were about to begin.
Together Marianne and Mr. McDermott walked next door to the parsonage and entered the foyer of the small house. Removing his coat and hat, he turned to her, offering his big hands to take the baby, allowing Marianne to take off her cloak and hang it on a hook by the front door before returning her brother to her arms.
She felt awkward, out of place, and knew that her cheeks were red with embarrassment. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting me into your home for tea,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion, for tears hovered near, and she dreaded shedding them before a stranger.
“I could not leave you out in the cold, young lady,” he said kindly. “For I have a dish of chicken and gravy, sent me by one of the ladies of my congregation, and it will go to waste if you don’t help me eat some of it. There are potatoes to go with it, and I can slice some bread. Someone sent me a pound or so of fresh butter yesterday, so my kitchen is well equipped to handle a Christmas Eve meal.”