The Magic of Christmas. Carolyn Davidson

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