the christmas swap

In that very odd manner that train stations have, it was cozy and yet too full at the same time. To Pastor Dillingham, it was a haven. Or at least the prelude to a haven. He was on his way home for the Christmas holidays. And everything within sight fairly sparkled with homecoming cheer.

 It had been a tiring year in his parish. The war, you know, complicated everything. And while he delighted in the everyday mechanics of ministry as well as the time spent in the pulpit, the burden of grief he carried along with the families in his charge felt at times too monstrous to bear. 

 If hadn’t been for the unselfish assistance of the “twin saints” as he called them, he doubted he could ever have managed. Emma and Susan had been members of the Faith Chapel congregation for as long as anybody could remember. Sisters who had seen more of life than he was old, they were industrious souls, collecting clothing for the needy, distributing baked goods far and wide and ministering to the children of the city; he felt sure there could be wings hiding under their sensible coats. But, whether maiden humans or heaven’s angels, he thanked God daily for them. Yet even they could not entirely lighten his load. He needed a rest, a Christmas break.

And so home to the farm he was going. Pastor Dillingham felt like a schoolboy at the thought - for there was nothing like the village of Greyston in December. 

 Leaning back against the bench in the station, he closed his eyes and conjured up in his mind the look of the little town nestled in a glen against a backdrop of wooded hills. He recalled the scent of cinnamon escaping from the bakery and the twinkle of colored Christmas bulbs in the front window of the hardware store. Of course, being a minister, he naturally thought of the little chapel on the main street and wondered if the village children would be staging their annual production of the nativity story, complete with farm animals and turban-shrouded shepherd boys. The parents and grandparents would agonize through each line uttered, a beatific smile on their proud faces as their quaking offspring participated in the thespian triumph. The cocoa and cookies following would not be the best, but it would be devoured amidst cooing over the young stars among the commoners. 

 The real delight though would be to lie in his bed past 9:00 and then putter around in his dressing gown if he felt like it. The fireplace in his childhood home would crackle with welcome all day long; mother would bake his favorite treats and stuff him with fattening goodness and father would draw him into a discussion of war tactics or the new model Chrysler was making – both of which he was miserably inadequate to discuss - the first because he was a preacher, not a soldier and the second because, as a preacher, he couldn’t afford the new model of car. But never mind that; he and father would go at the discussion as if both of them had the brains and the means to merit both subjects.

It was while he was wrapped in the comfort of these anticipations that he took notice of a young man hunched on a bench a few feet away. The uniform was a trifle rumpled though his shoes retained a glint of spit polish in spite of the snowy weather. 

 He was obviously on leave from the service, a weary warrior needing rest. Pastor Dillingham sympathized with him. Whatever the battle a man was in, Christmas was a welcome break. But the look on the young man’s face didn’t reveal any hint of hope for relaxation and comfort. Rather, he looked as if he were headed back to the front if the drawn expression and slumped shoulders were a clue. 

Pastor Dillingham walked over to the bench where the young man was seated and nodded in friendliness. “Where are you going to spend the holidays, young man?” 

The boy seemed startled to hear a human voice directed at him. “What?” His eyes looked bewildered. ‘Are you talking to me?”

“Indeed, son. Where are you going for the Christmas holiday?”

Pastor Dillingham took the vacant seat opposite the young man, not bothering to ask if he could. “Oh, to a canteen, I suppose. They have free beds and food.”

Pastor Dillingham leaned forward. “No family of your own?”

“Nah. My grandmother died a year back and I never had anyone but her anyway. No reason to go back to that place. They had to sell the house to pay for her doctor bills.”

“I’m so sorry.” And Pastor Dillingham was. In his way of thinking, there were few creatures on God’s earth more miserable than the man without a home. It reminded him of the Scripture where the Psalmist referred to himself as an owl in the wilderness. This boy had the look of wilderness all over him. He sank back in his seat, closing his eyes and letting his hands fall open at his sides. 

Pastor Dillingham knew what he had to do. But he resisted for just a minute, just long enough to relish in his mind the sounds and smells and comfort he wasn’t going to enjoy. Emma and Susan had assured him that his seat at their table was open on any occasion. They wouldn’t be a bit surprised when he showed up on Christmas Day. If he knew them, they’d already been stirring and baking for days as if the entire Royal Army was going to be fed in their parlor. And he almost smiled in spite of the lump forming in his throat. 

Pastor Dillingham straightened his back and signaled the porter. Then he scratched out a quick note on a scrap of paper from his pocket. "Father and Mother, please receive this young man in my name. Give him my room, my favorite foods and all the love that I know you have in your hearts. Believe me, you are doing this as unto me. I know your love unites us though we may be apart. Happy Christmas. May He who came from heaven for us all grace your hearts as you open them to this representative of me. Lovingly, Your Son.

“Sir, please see that this is telegraphed ahead to Ephraim Dillingham in Greyston. And I find that I must return to the city. This young man and I are trading places for a while. I know I can trust you to deliver him safely to those who will be waiting.”

The porter nodded agreeably and ambled off. And Pastor Dillingham took the ticket held limply in the young man’s fingers as he dozed and reaching into his overcoat, he tucked his own glorious passport to home and love into the uniformed shirt pocket and stepped back with a smile on his face. He hoped the “twin saints” had roasted a big turkey. Pastors had big appetites, especially at Christmas.      

the christmas village

Marian held her breath and opened the box. She peered inside. Just as she had thought. The clinking sound was the pieces of her porcelain church – the centerpiece of her tiny Christmas village. Broken. She could hardly believe it. This village had survived four moves, three children and decades of holiday unpacking and repacking. Now her favorite piece was shattered.

In spite of herself, a couple tears welled in her eyes. She backhanded them. It was a little sentimental to cry over a toy building. Yet, she knew the reason. The Christmas village had become a special symbol to their family through their growing-up years. She remembered the clamor of little voices and the flurry of little hands as her children helped set up the tiny cottages, the trees, the carolers, the general store, the school house and especially the church with real windows and a beautiful belfry. Oh, how they admired it every year when the set was plugged in and each miniature building was warmed with an inner glow. If the Christmas village was out, the world was right. It was a tradition that the children cherished. And so did she.

Now, Marion wondered what would be the response of her three adult children? Would they remember the significance of the village? Would they care if a piece was broken? Would they think her ridiculously sentimental to mention it?

And then she remembered with a pang that Alexa was not coming home for Christmas. It was just another symptom of her drift, both from the family and from her spiritual moorings. Although she had never been openly rebellious, she had seemed to struggle more than Clay and Caitlin in the teen years. Now that she was grown, it was as if she preferred to walk politely away from her faith. And the little broken church Marion now held seemed to illustrate the fractured state of their family. Closing her eyes, Marion breathed a prayer for her daughter.

Gently, she arranged the intact pieces in their customary places and hurried to put away the boxes. She was going to her eldest daughter’s house for the traditional lunch with the grandchildren on the first Monday of Christmas break from school.

On the drive to Caitlin’s house, Marion continued her talk with the Lord, asking Him to work on Alexa’s heart, surrendering her once again to His care and love. She knew how headstrong Alexa could be. Even her mother’s heart began to doubt in the face of such obstacles to faith. She and Frank would just have to keep praying and waiting for Him to work.

At lunch, Brett and Bethany kept up a lively conversation about their school Christmas parties and the toys they wanted for Christmas. They were precious youngsters, high-spirited, but well-mannered, thanks to Caitlin. Giving them goodbye hugs two hours later, Marion promised to take them shopping the next day, along with Clay’s little girl. They would buy ornaments for the tree.

Driving home, Marion was thinking about replacing the broken church. She really needed to get that done as soon as possible. Maybe Caitlin and Clay wouldn’t notice the change when they came for Christmas dinner. 

Marion entered the kitchen and laid her purse on the counter. She slipped off her coat and walked to the hall closet to hang it up. Then she remembered her cell phone was in the coat pocket and fished it out. The light was blinking. She had a voice message. Strange that she hadn’t heard the ringtone. 

Marion opened her voicemail and listened. She knew the voice right away.“Hi, Mom. This is Alexa. The most incredible thing just happened. I had to call and tell you. I was walking past a gift shop today before lunch and in the window display was a Christmas village like we used to have.  But the church was broken; I guess somebody dropped it. But what’s really weird is that God talked to me, Mom. Really. He said that’s what I was doing to our family and to my relationship with Him – breaking it. I’m . . . sorry, Mom, so sorry. Can I still come home for Christmas? I need to talk with you and Dad. Oh, and Mom, I bought a new church for our village. I know you already have one, but this one is kinda special. I hope you understand. And Mom . . . I love you. Bye.”

what's in the manger?

Deena slipped off her shoes and leaned against the side of her cahier’s cubby hole. Only fifteen minutes left on her shift. The endless cacophony of beeps from the store’s computerized sales’ machines was winding down. The shoppers who remained now were the usual procrastinators, frantically running from aisle to aisle, trying to get that perfect gift before closing time.

A short while later, after the last weary customer was assisted, she clocked out hurriedly, half afraid the manager might decide he needed her to stay longer. Rushing into her coat, she paused at the door, noting the rain falling in cheerless drizzle. She dashed out anyway, almost slipped before she reached her minivan, unlocked it and slid in, shivering.Driving to the daycare center, she listened to the new Christmas CD. The kids’ choir singing “Away in a Manger” only added to her guilt. 

Megan and Burke were waiting by the door, their backpacks on and Christmas crafts in their hands. Helping them climb in with rain slogging down was a messy job, but they were finally in their belts and she pulled away from the lot. The kids were exuberant. 

Burke was first. “Mrs. Cole says we can stay home for three whole days!”

“We’re on holiday vacation.” Megan added her “older sister” explanation.

Deena smiled. “Didn’t Mrs. Cole call it Christmas vacation?”

“No.” Megan was always quite decided in her statements.“She said Christmas was a ‘fensive term.”

“Offensive?” Deena was incredulous. 

This was a large church daycare center. Had political correctness already breached their halls too? Maybe it was time for her to quit working and stay home with the kids. Mark had been talking about it for months. It would mean personal sacrifice; she hadn’t been willing to make it. Now, though she let the thoughts roll as the kids wrestled happily in their car seats. 

At dinner that night, Megan and Burke proudly told their daddy about the gifts they had received and the crafts they had made. They didn’t mention the story of baby Jesus though. And that was when Deena made her decision.

“All right, everyone.” She smiled. “Mommy has a story to tell around the Christmas tree.”

The kids whooped. Stories in the living room by the twinkling light of the tree always delighted them.

Once they were settled with quilts and hot cocoa, she related again the sacred story of the angel and the peasant girl Mary, the quiet carpenter Joseph and the Baby born to save a world that didn’t even know Him. 

Megan and Burke were unusually subdued. Mark held her fingers wrapped in his; both of them sensed the need to imprint this moment on those bright little minds.

Deena finished the story, and let the silence hang sweet and still for a moment. Then she added her own ending. “I know you have heard this story before, but I needed to tell it again because Mommy has been letting something besides baby Jesus be in the manger.” She took the ceramic figurine of the infant Christ out of their nativity set to illustrate. “I thought we needed more money, so I’ve been working at the mall. But really what I’ve been doing is worshiping nice things instead of the baby Jesus. And I think it's time to get things back where they belong.”

Burke sat up, his face intent, his eyes sparkling. “That’s okay, Mommy. You can put Jesus back in the manger. I’ll help you.” His pudgy fingers reached for the figurine.

Together, they placed the baby in His place. Mark squeezed her hand, and Deena reached her arms around her two special gifts, her heart feeling as full as the manger.

christmas cottage

It was going to be a glorious Christmas vacation. Mara could feel it deep inside. Everything from the planning stage on had gone perfectly. And when she had stepped out of the SUV and glimpsed the clapboard cottage framed by fir trees draped with glistening snow, she knew this had been a great idea. She and her two girlfriends were leaving the stress of college behind them for a few days; they were going to revel in the crackling of logs in the stone fireplace and in drinking lattes while wrapped in cozy quilts and in watching the twinkling of the lights they had brought to hang on the Christmas tree they were going to cut today.

This was the first Christmas that she had been excited about in several years. Holidays had never been the same since the plane crash that took both of her missionary parents on one awful day. She had been teetering on the edge of depression for months. How could one adjust to such a loss? And in such a way that Christmas brought joy instead of the deep pain of memories which could never be repeated in real life? So when this chance had come to spend the Christmas break in the woods of Minnesota at a cottage owned by the aunt and uncle of her best friend, she had been more than eager. And now here they were! She could hardly wait to delve into the chili simmering on the stove and then enjoy a little threesome Bible study and some Christmas carols with Jean’s guitar accompaniment by the fire.

She stirred the pot of chili, turned it way down and called back toward the bedrooms. “Come on, girls! Let’s go get that Christmas tree!”

Kelley and Jean came rushing into the front room, stuffing their arms into their heavy winter coats. Mara grabbed her own coat and then sat down on the bench beside the door to pull on her outdoor boots. But she could only find one. She felt around with her hand under the bench but came up empty.

Getting off the bench, she knelt down and peered into the small space. Nothing. She sat back and pulled her knees up to her chest. Where could it be? Shoes just didn’t walk away up here, did they? What in the world?

The other girls were winding their scarves around their necks and pulling on gloves. “Hey, what’s up, Mara? Why are you sitting on the floor? Let’s get out of here!”

Mara held up her thickly-socked foot and gestured to it. “I find myself bootless. Have either of you seen it?”

They shook their heads, then Jean held up a hand. “Oh, wait a minute! Remember last night, after we stopped at the little store to get groceries? Your boots were in the back on the floor. Maybe when we were getting everything inside, one of them fell out.”

 “That’s possible, I guess. But now what? Guess I can go in one of my flats!”

 “Girl, you will get frostbite! You haven’t tromped through these woods in deep snow like I have. Believe me, you need boots!” Kelley insisted.

“Guess I’m not going then.”Mara started to pull off the other boot when a knock sounded on the door. She reached over and opened the door, a swirl of frosty air gusting inside as she looked up to see a figure in a parka, corduroy pants and a muffler. He was holding something out in front of him by a string—her boot.

 He smiled. “Hi. My name is Jensen Miles. I found this last night in the parking lot of my uncle’s store. He remembered you and that you had said you were staying up here in the Swenson’s place. We figured you might need it.” He quirked an eyebrow at her bootless foot. “And since I’m the assistant pastor of the local church, I wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”

 She smiled back at him. Maybe Cinderella was going to the ball after all. “Well, thank you! You saved me from sitting home alone.”

 As the other girls crowded in and leaned over her shoulder, Mara couldn’t help asking. “By the way, how are you at cutting down Christmas trees?”

when Messiah comes

It was cold when Madeleine Rosenberg stepped out of the door of the Tallman Center for the Performing Arts. The wind grabbed the door and banged it shut behind her. She clutched her instrument case and half stepped, half skated forward on the icy sidewalk.

It had been a good rehearsal. Since she had had been concertmaster, she had never worked with more dedicated or competent musicians than those in the symphony this season. The conductor had a command of musical score which was rare. Dr. Prescott directed with passion, a characteristic she found uncommon in many American conductors. Of course, he was very emotional about this particular piece of music, and everyone in the group knew why. He made no apology for his Christian beliefs. But, then again, neither did he harass anyone with them. He was simply a man of deep conviction who lived his faith and spoke of it with no shame. To say she admired him was not difficult. But to accept his faith was.

Madeleine was a proud Jew, a daughter of Israel displaced from her homeland decades before her birth through the courtesy of the Third Reich. Her great-grandparents perished in Auschwitz, their bodies fueling the crematory ovens. Her grandfather, Jacob, survived and started a new life in America, marrying the lovely Hanne, of Russian Jewish descent. Together, they had forged a strong home and raised her father who looked no further than the Orthodox community for his bride. Madeleine and her two brothers had been raised in a household shaped by two great loves – Jewish heritage and music. These two themes continued to shape her life.

And that was why this holiday season was bringing her great consternation. For her love of music had finally collided with her beliefs in a situation she could not escape. The symphony was performing Handel’s Messiah. Never before, she was sure, had the great master’s work been played by one who was tormented by such internal conflict. The score was a delight, every nuance testament to the genius who created it. Yet, in every measure, Madeleine was forced to remember the words of Dr. David Prescott from the many conversations they’d shared. She could see him now, in her mind’s eye, his hand holding a steaming coffee mug instead of a baton, his gray eyes serious, that one wisp of hair falling over his forehead as he leaned toward her. “Madeleine, Jesus Christ is the Messiah. For you, for me, for everyone. He has already come to the world. Let Him come to your heart.”

And in every rehearsal, his words resonated through her being just like the notes from her violin as she drew the bow over them. The refrain kept repeating . . “Let Him come to your heart, let Him come to your heart . . .

So, they had parted ways, she and David. She told him she couldn’t do it. she couldn’t accept his Messiah, couldn’t continue a relationship with him that would lead her to deny everything she had been taught. She couldn’t even continue playing first chair – she was leaving the symphony at the first of the new year. There were other opportunities on the horizon, for her music and her future.

The ride home was cold and lonely. The streets were dismal today. Even her apartment window bore silent witness to her firm rejection of Christ. No glowing Christmas tree shined down on passersby. But she had to admit she did enjoy looking at those in the houses she passed on her commute. Was it possible to do as David claimed others had done – enjoy the traditions of both faiths? Become a Messianic Jew? The thought churned in her mind as she tried to sleep that night.

The morning dawned frosty and clear. Performance day. Madeleine poured a cup of gingerbread spice coffee and sat down on the couch, her gaze falling on a small New Testament that David had given her. They had been studying what he called the "Gospel of John.” And though his arguments made sense, Madeleine could not receive them. Her heart was comatose.

In a packed auditorium that night, she arranged her music and smoothed her black gown. Steeling her mind, she took a deep breath as the house lights dimmed and Dr. David Prescott strode out to the conductor’s box.

It was in the middle of For unto Us a Child is Born that something happened to Madeleine Rosenberg. As the glorious music swelled around her, the words of an ancient text filled her heart. “He came unto his own, and his own received him not.” (John 1:11)

And as clearly as she saw the notes on her score, she saw the truth. All the things she had heard from David suddenly clicked into place. God’s Son, Jesus of Nazareth, had been born for her, for the Jews. And in Him was her only Light. While her fingers danced on the strings, Madeleine’s heart lifted to the Messiah. At last, her soul was awakened. And she knew He had come.

The finale was spectacular. The crowd was on their feet for the Hallelujah Chorus, enraptured with the majesty of the music. Applause filled the hall. Dr. David Prescott bowed. As he turned to take her hand to accept the concertmaster’s recognition, she smiled with the lovely knowledge of the conversation they would have in a quiet moment later that evening. God willing, there would be many more concerts together. Because Messiah had come. Not just to Bethlehem, but to her heart.