The Magic of Christmas: A Christmas Child / The Christmas Dove / A Baby Blue Christmas

By the light of a candle and the glow from the stove, Marianne watched the woman leave from the back door, heard the click of the lock as she was safely left inside and settled down to feed Joshua and drink her tea. The bread was good—fresh and still soft. The cheese was nourishing and the milk seemed to agree with Joshua, for he drank his fill and then burped, loud and long, before he snuggled against Marianne’s bosom and closed his eyes.

She lay down on the narrow cot, thankful for the warmth surrounding her. Her heart rose as she considered the generous spirit of the woman she’d just met, thankful she’d been given a bed to sleep in and food to eat. With no questions asked.

Joshua slept the whole night through and when the back door opened in the dim light of morning, Marianne sat up and rubbed her eyes, peering at the man who entered the back room of the store.

“You still here?” he asked roughly. “I told the missus you’d probably be off with everything you could carry before we opened up this morning, but she was sure you were a good girl. Guess she won this bet.” He moved on through the room, leaving Marianne stunned as she sat up on the cot, watching his progress through the doorway into the store.

She rose and brushed her hair back, wrapping Joshua more securely in his blanket before she placed him on the cot and followed the man into his store.

“Sir, I want to thank you for a place to sleep last night. I appreciated the warm bed and the milk for Joshua.”

“My wife’s a soft touch,” he said, turning to watch Marianne with narrowed eyes, his gaze covering her slim form quickly. “She said to tell you she’ll let you stay here another night if you want to, but we can’t do much more than that. She sent over some oatmeal she cooked for breakfast and a cup of milk for you and the baby. There’s still tea in the tin for you to use if you want it.”

The man’s welcome was not warm, but Marianne was pleased at his offering of food, especially that of milk for Joshua’s bottle. She rinsed out the dregs from the night before and filled it again, placing it beside the bed for when he would wake and be hungry. The bowl of oatmeal she held in her lap, sitting again on the cot and eating it quickly. Warm and nourishing, it filled her stomach and she was thankful.

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.