CONTENTS
DEAR READER
Sometimes it seems to me that one of the best parts of Christmas is reminiscing about the many holidays that have passed. As if each Christmas season is part of some larger work in progress, like pearls on a string. One precious bead added each year. Every decoration, taken from its hiding place, speaks to me, telling its particular story. Each ornament, music box, wooden bear, or snow globe summons vivid memories.
When I was very young, my father worked for a company that imported Christmas ornaments from Europe. These handmade decorations were very fine, made of hand-blown glass, painstakingly painted and decorated—skiers and ice-skaters, ballerinas and angels. An entire set of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. A blue candle with a miniature nativity scene inside, a fragile glass shadow box. As Christmas drew closer, my father would come home each night with mysterious packages, and we would sit in awe as the newest treasures were unveiled. I still remember those slim brown boxes tied with string coming through the door, and feeling so eager to see what was inside.
When my parents sold the family home, they passed these family heirlooms on to me and my sister. No matter how carefully preserved, only a few have survived. When I hang them on our tree, I am instantly transported back in time to golden hours. But now these antique ornaments hang alongside newer treasures, definitely made of sturdier stuff, but with no less claim on a place in my heart’s scrapbook.
In this book Reverend Ben is also transported back into the past, to his very first Christmas in Cape Light. He recalls the many challenges and joys the season brought to him, while in the present, his daughter, Rachel, wonders if she can open her heart and trust the gifts that this Christmas brings.
So it is with all of our Christmas traditions and memories. As the beloved carol “Silent Night” reminds us, “All is calm. All is bright.” The beauty of Christmas past and Christmas present, shining together, with one steady light.
And while I fully intend to relish my memories this Christmas, as I do every year, I will also be mindful and grateful for the present moment—the memories in the making. And so many blessings received at Christmas and all year through. I truly hope you will, too.
With all best wishes,
Katherine Spencer
CHAPTER ONE
Present day, December 3
Reverend Ben had forgotten all about the meeting. It was already late afternoon when he emerged from his office, coat and briefcase in hand. He had planned to leave the church early and look in on Dr. Elliot, who had been home with bronchitis over Thanksgiving weekend.
“Are you leaving for the day, Reverend?” Mrs. Honeyfield abruptly looked up from her keyboard. “What about the meeting?” Before he could ask the obvious question, his secretary added, “About the church history?”
“Oh right . . . was that today?” He noticed the rising sound of voices in the conference room. The group must have started without him.
“Wednesday at four. I left a sticky note on your calendar.” Mrs. Honeyfield politely looked back at her computer.
“Guess I missed it.” That was true. Though he wasn’t sure how. His secretary’s sticky notes were growing progressively brighter as he grew older. The little squares had started off a bland, pale yellow and now fairly screamed at him in neon pink and roadwork orange.
“I’d better get in there.” Ben set his coat on a chair. “Would you call Mrs. Warwick . . . I mean, Mrs. Elliot,” he quickly corrected himself. “Please tell her I’ve been delayed. I can stop by after five. Or tomorrow. Whatever she prefers.”
It went without saying that Lillian Elliot would not hesitate to state her preference. He would always think of her as Lillian Warwick, though her surname had changed a few years back when she and her longtime friend, Ezra Elliot, were married. The well-earned triumph of a patient heart—Dr. Elliot’s, that is . . . not Lillian’s, to be sure.
But it was now clear to all that Lillian’s devotion equally matched that of her husband. With Ezra fighting off the flu, Ben thought he should visit. Lillian liked to give the impression that she didn’t care one way or another about such attentions from her minister. He could almost see her shrugging a thin shoulder. But Ben knew—after nearly forty years as Lillian’s pastor—that the great lady did care. And felt it was her due.
“Of course, Reverend. I’ll call her right away.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Honeyfield. Where would I be without you?”
She answered with a small smile. “I can’t say, Reverend. But probably not at your meetings.”
Ben laughed and headed to the conference room. Meetings—and more meetings—the chugging engine that kept his little church moving down the track. Often slow and ponderous, prone to sudden stops and unsettling puffs of steam. But sooner or later, all the passengers were carried where they needed to go, their progress slow but steady.
This afternoon’s meeting was about producing a church history, a book that would be sold to raise funds for the church’s many service projects in the community: the community garden in the spring, free books and school supplies given out to schoolchildren in the fall, the gifts and toys for struggling families at Christmas, the food pantry, open all year long, and so many other worthy efforts made by his congregation.
Even without that benefit, the book would be a wonderful way to preserve the church’s long, colorful story and the contributions of so many generations, dating back to the seventeenth century.
The history had been Sophie Potter’s idea, and a good one, though it would take long hours of complicated work to see it through. But despite the challenges, the group was eager to try their hand at it.
“What is now proved was once only imagined,” the poet William Blake had written. It was one of the amazing things about this world, Ben often reflected. How God inspires us to create, bestowing an idea and a vision and the energy and means to follow through if we only have the faith to try what appears at first to be difficult . . . or even impossible.
He entered the conference room, a few doors down from the office, and greeted the members of the committee. “Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late.”
He glanced around the table and took the nearest empty seat, noticing his wife, Carolyn, seated directly across the table. He met her bright blue eyes with a smile.
Sophie Potter, the committee chairperson, sat at the head of the table, an impressive array of papers and folders spread around her.
“We’ve just been discussing what needs to be done and sorting out the jobs, Reverend. Vera and Claire have volunteered to write the text,” she added, referring to longtime church members Vera Plante and Claire North. “Carolyn and I will work on the research, and Grace Hegman is going to put the whole thing together, figuring out where the pictures go and all that. She’s made some beautiful scrapbooks and collections of vintage photographs about town history and the fishermen of her father’s day. Have you ever seen them?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Ben admitted, glancing at Grace, who tilted her head in her modest way. She was a quiet and sensitive soul, but very observant. Ben didn’t doubt her scrapbooks were wonderful. And Sophie sounded so sure of her assignments. But so much was done on computers these days, especially making a book of this kind. Did Grace Hegman, an expert on all things antique and vintage, know enough about the necessary technological shortcuts? Before he could voice his concerns, Vera Plante spoke up.
“Dan Forbes offered to edit the manuscript and put everything on the computer for us so we can have it printed at the lowest cost.”
“Wonderful. He can keep his eye on the historical facts, too,” Ben added. Though he trusted the group to do an excellent job researching the church’s story, he was happy to hear that the former reporter and editor-in-chief of the town newspaper was on board as well. Dan would doubtlessly lend a professional touch. After handing over the Cape Light Messenger to his daughter Lindsay, he had written and published several books about local history. Working at home, he had been doing most of the child care for his younger daughter, Jane, while his wife, Mayor Emily Warwick, ran the town.
“I think Emily persuaded him to take part. She wanted to help, but has her plate full, as usual,” Claire explained.
Sophie made a note on a yellow pad. “He’s also going to check the newspaper archives for articles about the church.”
“That will be a huge help for the researchers,” Carolyn said. “Meanwhile, we have a job for you, Ben.”
“For me?” Ben fumbled to hide his surprise. He was happy to give his opinions and oversee, but didn’t expect to be doing any hands-on work. Maybe they wanted him to write an introduction or a letter to the reader?
“It’s an important job.” Sophie stood up and took a large brown box with a lid from a table near the door. Ben hadn’t even noticed it until that moment.
“Can I help you?” he asked quickly. Sophie was healthy and strong, but she was well over eighty. It was only polite to offer.
“Thank you, but it doesn’t weigh much. About half a bushel of McIntosh, maybe less.” Sophie had run an orchard all her life and tended to judge the world in terms of apples. Reverend Ben couldn’t help but smile.
He sat down again and she set the box at the end of the table. It looked like the kind used to store files, though he could tell by the way she carried it that it was not filled with piles of paper, but something lighter.
She removed the lid and Ben inhaled a musty scent, even at a distance. “We found quite a few boxes of photographs stored around the church. We’re taking turns sorting them out, trying to identify who’s in the pictures and when and where they were taken, and selecting any that could be included in our book.”
“I can help with that. I love looking at old photos,” Ben said sincerely.
“We were hoping you would say that. You’ve been at the church a long time, Reverend.”
“Yes, I have,” he replied with a laugh. He’d been called by the congregation over thirty-five years ago. He’d been just thirty-one years old, relatively young to head his own church. But he arrived with great confidence and faith that he was ready for the job—and was soon disabused of those illusions. Ben smiled to himself, thinking back to that rocky first year in Cape Light when both his maturity and his faith had been tested.
“Most of you have been here even longer,” he pointed out.
“No argument there,” Sophie agreed. “But there are a lot of photos. Why don’t you start with this box, and we’ll put a few more in your office later this week?”
A few more? There must have been about a thousand photos in the single carton on the table. He could see his wife suppress a laugh.
“I’ll take this home and we can look at it tonight, Ben.” Carolyn slid the box toward her end of the table. “It will be fun. Better than watching television,” she promised him.
His wife had such a graceful way of smoothing over an awkward moment. It was a quality he had always loved in her.
He nodded and forced a smile. “Anything for the cause. I wasn’t sure about this project when you suggested it, Sophie. But I think this book is going to be wonderful; a chance to honor the past and everyone who helped build our church. And a very special gift to the members who enjoy it now.”
“That’s our mission, Reverend,” Vera replied. “So many people down through the generations have had a hand in making the church what it is now. There are so many fascinating stories. It won’t be dull reading, to be sure.”
“We aim to be truthful, too,” Claire added. “A real history, including the rough times. There were a few.”
“I agree. Let’s not gloss over the facts. Though that’s not nearly as easy as it sounds,” he warned. “I’ve tried my hand a few times at writing nonfiction accounts, and capturing the truth of a matter can be very elusive.”
Like an optical illusion that can transform before your eyes, he had learned.
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