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

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.”

Marianne felt her small brother awaken in his blankets, for he wriggled and pushed his feet out, demanding that he be unwrapped from the binding of his blankets. One arm rose from the wrappings and waved in the air, even as he cried aloud, craving attention.

“I think he’s hungry again. Would you have the bottle handy that I left with him?”

“So it was you who put him in the manger. I thought as much, when I saw you in the back of the church. I caught a glimpse of you when you walked away from here earlier, and I figured you’d show up sometime tonight. I knew you’d be wanting to check on the baby.”

David pulled a chair from under the kitchen table and offered it to Marianne, watching as she sank into its depths, the infant in her arms squirming now, anticipating his next meal. She unwrapped him, delving beneath the blankets to check on the condition of his diaper, and her face flushed as she looked up at the man before her.

“I need to have a bit of privacy to change him, I fear. There are several clean diapers in my bag, if you’ll let me use a flat surface somewhere to clean him up a little.”

David smiled, his thoughts not altogether above reproach, for this young woman was appealing to him on a level he had not considered for some time. Her scent was fresh, clean and her face was akin to what he thought the young mother in Bethlehem might have looked like. Dark hair hung long, waving and thick, in a veil that almost covered her back. She was dressed in rough clothing, but everything about her was clean. Even the child she carried in her arms had not carried the scent of an unwashed body, but had been as fresh and clean as a babe could be.

Somewhere she had found resources to keep the child well fed and clean, and he admired the courage of a young woman so able to do her duty as she saw it. “How old is your little boy?” he asked, attempting to lure her into conversation, lest she be frightened and flee his house.

“He is three weeks old, sir. But he is not my child, but my baby brother. My mother and father died of the fever and he was born as my mother breathed her last.” Her head bent over the baby and a tear fell on the blanket, one he knew she’d tried not to shed, for she had been careful up until now not to show her emotional state.