The King And The Maiden
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Stories
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Contents
What's Up for Christmas
A Story to Live By: "The King and the Maiden"
Shining Moments: "A Mother's Thoughts" by Constance Berg
Christmas Stories: "Once There Was a Child" by Frank R. Fisher
"Christmas in Canaan" by John Sumwalt
"This Doesn't Make Sense" by Paul Lintern
"The Candlelight in the Window" by Stan Purdum
What's Up for Christmas
This week we celebrate God's wonderful holiday gift to all of us in the Incarnation of Jesus Christ. As our holiday gift to you, this extended issue of StoryShare presents several stories celebrating the Light of the World made flesh among us -- including imaginative and inspiring pieces from Frank Fisher and Stan Purdum, two members of the new StoryShare writing team. There's also a captivating story from StoryShare founding co-editor John Sumwalt.
Merry Christmas from CSS!
A Story to Live By
The King and the Maiden
And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for see -- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger."
Luke 2:7-12
In Philosophical Fragments, Soren Kierkegaard, the renowned Danish philosopher and theologian of the early 1800s, tried to address how absurd the idea of the incarnation appears to non-believers. We believe that God took on human form, came and lived among us, suffered the same trials that we suffered, experienced the same feelings that we experienced. Even more so today, it boggles the modern intellect.
Kierkegaard told a parable of a king who was very powerful. All of his subjects were in awe of his power. Statesmen trembled before him. No one dared to oppose him.
One day while in a poorer section of the local village, the king glanced out the window of his carriage. His eyes fell upon a beautiful peasant maiden. The mighty king was melted by love for a humble maiden. He often found himself passing by the spot he first saw her, hoping to see her again.
But he had a problem. How could he declare his love and seek her hand?
It was within his power to order her to marry him. He could bring her to his palace and crown her with jewels and clothe her with royal robes. She would not resist. No one resisted the king. But would she love him? She would say she loved him, but would she really love him? Even a prince wants his bride to marry him freely and voluntarily and not by force. He truly wanted her to be happy.
He could ride to the front door of her cottage in the royal carriage, robed in splendor and flanked by an armed escort waving bright banners. That too would overwhelm her. He did not want a wife in awe of his royalty. He wanted a lover -- an equal. He wanted her to forget that he was a king and that she was a humble maiden. He wanted mutual love to bridge the chasm between them, for it is only in love that an unequal can be made equal.
The king knew none of that would work to show his love. He knew he must take on the true form of a servant, and make the maiden love that incarnation of him. He gave up his kingly robe. He moved into the village, entering not with a crown, but in the garb of a peasant. He lived among the people, shared their interests and concerns, and talked their language. In time, the maiden grew to love him for who he was. She loved him because he had first loved her.
Kierkegaard argues that God must take the form of a servant -- Jesus -- so that our love would be genuine. God was humbled to become not just a man, but a tiny vulnerable baby. God renounces the throne and puts on beggars clothes to be equal to us in love -- to talk our language, eat our food, share our suffering, and die on our cross. The incarnation and subsequent crucifixion tells us of God's great love for us. Instead of wooing us with power or riches, God woos us with love.
(From Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit [Series IV, Cycle B] by Gregory Tolle)
Shining Moments
A Mother's Thoughts
by Constance Berg
And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger...
Luke 2:7
She held the baby to her chest, looking into his eyes. His eyes were dark, his hair was dark, and his skin was pink. He was wrinkled. He was beautiful. She carefully unfolded a bit of the blanket and peeked inside. His fingers -- they were so small! His hand seemed so small against her hand. His fingernails were tiny.
And that little neck -- so wrinkled, so inviting. She kissed it softly and watched her baby squirm. She studied his face. Little lines were formed around his mouth as it made little sucking motions. He wrinkled his nose and sneezed. He opened his eyes for just an instant before closing them tightly in sleep.
Those dark eyes -- she had seen a glimpse of them a moment ago. They seemed so big against his little face. She couldn't wait until he would have them open for longer periods.
He was sleeping in her arms as she thought about her baby -- her tiny little baby. What would he grow up to do? What would he be like? Would he be outgoing or quiet and reserved? Would he be full of energy or cautious? Would he play boisterously or quietly? She wondered.
The only thing she knew for sure was that he was precious. Perfect. Beautiful.
He was meant for something special, she knew. Everyone was special, although she didn't feel so special nine months ago when she found out she was pregnant. She was confused, but she knew she couldn't change what had happened. She had to live with it. She would have to be strong and carry on.
Her cousin had become pregnant recently and had given her lots of advice and support. People were talking about her and at times she just wanted to hide. But she wasn't one to seek pity. She just went on with her life.
And now she had given birth to a new life. The process was painful, but as soon as her baby was placed on her chest, it was as if the pain had been erased from her mind. He was so beautiful! So sweet, crying with all his might to announce his presence.
She didn't really know how to hold him. She was so young, barely a teenager, but as soon as she held him, kissed him, and nursed him it was as if she had always known what to do. She wasn't frightened. She just took care of her baby.
And her baby would take care of her in her old age. He could make sure her future was secure. He would see to it that her destiny was favorable.
She grew tired. She needed to sleep. But not before she gave her little son a kiss on the forehead. Such a sweet baby. She called for Joseph to take the baby. Jesus, her baby. Her sweet little boy. Her life.
Constance Berg is a former missionary to Chiapas, Mexico. She is currently based in Bakersfield, California, where she serves as the director of 18 nursing homes for handicapped individuals. Berg holds degrees from California State University and Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary, and she has done graduate work at Fuller Theological Seminary. She is the author of three volumes of the CSS series Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit.
Christmas Stories
Once There Was a Child
by Frank R. Fisher
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
John 1:1-5
Once there was a Child... a Child who was a special Child indeed, a special Child who loved to do many special things. But out of all the special things this special Child loved to do, there was nothing more special than the time the Child spent working in the workshop. That's not too surprising, because this was no ordinary workshop. Only wondrous things were ever made in it.
Every day the Child's Parent, the Master Worker, would walk to the workbench and wave to the Child to come help. Trembling with anticipation, the Child would place those little hands on the tools and let the Worker's big hands guide the tools across the wood on the bench. Shavings and sawdust would fill the air as shapes began to form under their joined fingers.
Then as the shapes became more defined the Child would gasp with wonder, for the tools produced things like planets and stars that the Worker flung joyfully into the heavens -- and things like flowing oceans and towering mountains that the Worker placed precisely on the planets.
But the most marvelous part of all came when the Worker guided the Child's hands to make the shapes of creatures. The Child thought the creatures were beautiful. And they became even more beautiful when the worker blew gently into their mouths, giving to them the precious gift of life.
The Child loved those creatures most of all -- especially the creatures the Worker named human beings, for the Child and the Worker made human beings in the Worker's image. And to them the Worker gave a special breath, a life-giving breath, which meant they would one day come back to the workshop and live there forever.
The Worker's face always crinkled with a smile at the depth of the Child's love for humans. But one day there came a moment when the smile faded. The Worker knew it was time for one of those serious talks with the Child.
"My Child," the Worker said, "I have a task you must do alone -- a task you must do to carry on our creation of human beings. I want you to go away from the workshop for a while. I want you to go and live among these people whom you love so much. Go to them. Show and tell them how very, very, very much we love them."
The Child smiled and immediately nodded yes. But the Worker cautioned, "This will be painful and fear-filled work, my Child." Then, turning to the bench, the Worker said, "I have one gift for you before you go. A gift to show you just how fearful this task will be."
Again the wood chips and sawdust filled the air. This time when the dust cleared, the worker turned and handed the Child a cup. "Look into the cup," the Worker said, "and you will see all the things you must drink to show humans the depths of our love."
Peering into the cup, the Child burst out laughing with delight. For in it was a bubbling, leaping, and dancing drink that looked like the finest wine. The Child could tell it was made up of joy and faith, and it was saturated with the Worker's love.
"Why should I fear this drink?" the Child said to the Worker. The Worker looked gently at the Child and replied, "Look again, my Child."
Somewhat puzzled, the Child looked again into the cup and saw another mixture. Again it seemed a marvelous drink. This time it looked as smooth as the purest cream. In it the Child saw healing, peace, and salvation, mixed liberally with an endless measure of the Worker's grace. The Child looked up at the Worker again and said more strongly, "Why should I fear this drink either?"
With eyes filled with tears the Worker said, "Look into the cup one more time." The Child looked into the depths of the cup and gasped. It almost slipped from that little hand as the Child screamed, "No! Please take this away. I can't drink this." For this time the mixture in the cup seethed and stank.
As the Child watched in horror the liquid in the cup appeared to come alive. It seemed to reach outward toward the Child with evil fingers. And as the fingers reached out the Child saw the cup was filled with a horror that could never be imagined -- for the liquid in it was made up of every possible evil, every possible sin, and every possible pain. And it was mixed together with countless streams of eternal death.
Turning toward the Worker the Child gasped out, "Why? How could you ask me to do this? Why must I drink this cup?"
With a look of sadness the Worker looked steadily into the Child's eyes and replied, "You may choose not to drink this cup. But if that's your choice the human beings you love will drink it. They will drown in its pain, and they will suffocate in its sin and evil. If you do not drink it, they will die -- and it will be a forever death. They will never come back here. They will never share this workshop with us again."
The Child sighed, turned toward the Worker, and with eyes shining with love said, "I can't do that. I care too much for them. I could never let my people drink this cup." And reaching out toward the Master Worker the Child cried out, "Hold my hand, please. I will drink it for them."
Then the Child lifted the evil cup toward those Childish lips and instantly was in another place. Instead of being in the workshop, the Child was in a cradle which was surrounded by animals. And looking down at the Child's face were two of those people the Child and the Worker loved so much. There was a woman named Mary and a man named Joseph.
And in the Child's ears sounded a wondrous song, for in the sky above angels danced and twirled as they sang songs of joy at the incredible news of the Child's special love -- the love that would one day, on a very black Friday, forever snatch from our lips the cup of sin and eternal death... the love that appeared when the Word became flesh and dwelt among us in the quiet place named Bethlehem.
Frank R. Fisher is a second-career interim/transitional pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). He currently serves as the interim pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Fairbury, Illinois. During the final years of his first career as a paramedic and administrator for the Chicago Fire Department, Fisher graduated from McCormick Theological Seminary and was ordained. He is an Oblate of the ecumenical Abbey of John the Baptist and Saint Benedict in Bartonville, Illinois, where he has joined the rapidly growing number of those who are called to follow Saint Benedict's rule.
Christmas in Canaan
by John Sumwalt
When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us."
Luke 2:15
Once upon a time on Christmas Eve just before the turn of the century, somewhere on the trail between St. Louis and the Oklahoma Territory, a child was born in a dugout barn with the aid of a blind midwife and an angel of the Lord.
Silas and Millie Kittleson were on their way from Indiana to Oklahoma where they intended to homestead and raise their family. Millie was expecting. It would be their first child. She had celebrated her 17th birthday on the day they passed through St. Louis. Silas was a seasoned young man of 23, an experienced horseman and veteran trailblazer. He had made the trip several times before and was confident that they would arrive safely in Nickerson, Kansas, before the baby was due. There they would winter with relatives before going on to Oklahoma in the spring.
It was risky to cross the plains with mules and wagon any time in winter. But it had been a mild December with little snow and wind. The towns were frequent and the dirt roads well worn and marked, so they had just kept pushing on day after day. Nickerson was only about twenty miles away. They would make it in time for Christmas. Silas' aunt and uncle would be delighted.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon that December 24th that Millie felt the first contractions. Silas had just guided the mules across a small stream. When they pulled up on the bank they saw what appeared to be farm buildings low against the horizon about a mile-and-a-half in the distance. Perhaps they could get some help and find shelter for the night. But as they drew near they could see that what had once been a prairie homestead was now abandoned and very much in disrepair. There was a small house with a sod roof which had collapsed on one end. About thirty yards from the house was a dugout barn which was still pretty much intact. It was a combination log and sod construction and considerably larger than the house. There was hay in the loft and the faint odor of horses and cattle could be detected in the stalls below.
Silas unharnessed the mules, moved them into the stalls, and fed them some of the old musty hay. The mules' body heat would help to warm them through the night. Millie made a bed for herself with blankets and hay in the empty stall across from the mules. The contractions were more frequent now. She called out to Silas, "Come here and hold me. I'm frightened." Silas held her close, trying not to let on how frightened he was feeling himself. Together they prayed to God for the safe delivery of their child.
About an hour later there was a loud banging on the barn door and then a voice. "I heard you folks might be in need of some help." When they opened the door there was an old woman, hunched over and leaning on a cane. She appeared to be in her 80s. "I'm a midwife," she said. "I deliver the babies around here. I've delivered most all the babies born in Rush County, Kansas for over 60 years. They call me Old Catherine. Don't think I hear 'em. You can call me Kate. That's what my mother called me. I don't see too well anymore. You will have to lead me around a bit. But I know about birthing babies. I've delivered over a hundred in my time and never lost a mother or a baby."
The child was born within the hour. It came breech. Old Catherine said it was a good thing she got there when she did.
And then the neighbors began to come; farmers and ranchers with their wives and children. They brought gifts. The children offered toys, wooden rattles, tops, cornhusk dolls, whistles carved from willow twigs. The women brought more practical things: pillows, blankets, cotton rags, baby clothes, and enough food to feed a thrashing crew. One of the men had fashioned a cradle out of a feed trough. It wasn't until everyone started to leave that Silas thought to ask how it was that they had heard about them.
"Didn't you send her?" It was Old Catherine who spoke first. "She said you needed me and then she rode with me across the prairie. I could never have made it by myself. She was a young woman about 20 years old." Everyone else said they had seen the same woman. "She said come quickly, that a baby was being born out at Canaan."
And then they all knew who it was. There was a moment of utter astonishment and wonder as people exchanged bewildered glances and nods. Old Catherine turned to Silas and Millie and said out loud what everyone was thinking. "There was only one person who ever called this place Canaan. Liza Campbell. Liza and Jed Campbell came here to homestead about 20 years ago. They built the house and barn, and when they were finished Liza said, 'We will call it Canaan. It is our very own promised land.' They put up a sign right out there by the well. 'Welcome to Canaan' it said."
"What became of them?" Millie asked.
Again it was Old Catherine who spoke. "Liza died in childbirth about a year after they settled here. They sent for me, but she died before I could get here. Jed was heartbroken, went back east. We never heard from him again."
There was a long silence as everyone pondered this strange and marvelous occurrence. Could it have been Liza? Who else could it have been? But why, and how? Suddenly their ponderings were interrupted by the crying of the newborn child.
They called him Elmer. Elmer Milton, after Millie's father. And for as long as they lived they never ceased giving thanks to God for the mysterious messenger who had announced his birth.
(From Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle B)
This Doesn't Make Sense
by Paul Lintern
John heard it. Tim did, too. So did Grace and Sarah. But none of them could tell whether the others had heard it.
They were sitting in the subway, riding home later than they had intended. The stores and businesses had closed down hours before and they were not used to being in such an empty car. They had worked late together on a product development project and now were heading back to their cars in the same commuter lot at the end of the line.
Each had heard it. Singing, or perhaps an instrument or a synthesizer. The tone was pure, the tune was undefined yet real; the words were there, soft and vague, but clear enough to understand.
"Glory to God. Peace to you. Come and see. The Word is true."
John glanced at Tim. "Did you notice anything?"
Tim feigned a blank look. "Like what?"
"You heard it, too, didn't you?" John said.
"Heard what?" Tim asked.
Grace responded, "I heard it. Singing, music. Was it the radio?"
"They don't have a radio in here," John said.
"Anyone have a Walkman turned on?" Tim asked.
Grace responded, "No, it was beyond that."
Sarah gave a nervous laugh. "It's late and we're tired. The caffeine is singing to us."
Suddenly Grace jumped up, pointed out the window, and shouted, "Look."
The train had since emerged from underground and was slowing to enter a station. As they looked out, they saw a crowd of people, but were they people? They were shining brightly, glowing there on the bank of the railway, motioning for the four to come and singing their song again.
"Glory to God. Peace to you. Come and see. The Word is true."
"Who are they?" Tim asked.
"I don't know," John replied. "But they don't seem to be standing still, or standing at all."
"What do you think it means?" Sarah asked.
"I think it means we need to go check it out," Grace replied.
"That's ridiculous," Sarah shot back. "We're two miles from our stop, this is probably the last train, and this is not a place to be out walking late at night."
John sided with Grace. "I don't know what this is either, but something tells me to go and see. I don't want to have to wonder about it later."
"You're crazy," Tim said. "Stay here, where it's safe. It's got to be a trick. Why would anybody, or anything, want us?"
"He's right," said Sarah. "Nobody would believe us anyway. We'd be laughed out of the office."
The train stopped. The doors opened. The music filtered in.
"Glory to God. Peace to you. Come and see. The Word is true."
Grace looked back and asked, "Who is coming with me?"
Paul Lintern is the pastor of Oakland Lutheran Church in Mansfield, Ohio.
The Candlelight in the Window
by Stan Purdum
In all their years together, Emily had always been the one who directed the decorating of their house for Christmas -- with one exception, but we'll come to that in a moment. When Emily had moved into Tom's house after their wedding, among the things she brought with her were two large boxes filled with garland, tree ornaments, and assorted other Christmas bric-a-brac that she had retrieved from her grandmother's house after the old woman died. Beyond a tree in the living room, Tom's family had never done much decorating for Christmas, so he hadn't considered that it might be different with Emily. But in early December of their first year, Emily asked him to bring the two boxes down from attic where Tom had put them when they had gone to housekeeping together.
Large as the boxes were, there really weren't that many individual pieces when they unpacked them. Besides the artificial greens and some bulbs and strings of lights for the tree, there were a few figurines -- a Santa, two angels, a cluster of carolers in 19th-century garb, a snowman, and a complete nativity scene. That day, Emily placed those objects in strategic locations around the house. But as she examined the remaining things, she commented that some would not do. For one thing, the light strings were the old kind, where when one light bulb burned out the whole string went dark.
"We can afford some new lights, can't we?" she asked Tom.
"I imagine so," Tom said. "I don't think they cost much."
Rummaging deeper into the boxes, she pulled out a carton containing delicate glass tree ornaments. A couple had gotten broken, but the rest looked all right.
"We'll need to get a tree, of course," she said. Tom agreed that they could go to the tree lot that very afternoon.
Looking satisfied with what they had done, Emily suggested that Tom put the storage boxes back in the attic. Tom carried the first one up, but when he picked up the second, he noticed a dingy white object protruding from beneath the rumpled newspaper packing material still in the box. Pulling the papers aside, Tom found four plastic candlesticks with electric cords extending from them -- the kind that use nightlight-size light bulbs. "What about these?" Tom asked, holding one up.
Emily frowned. "I don't remember Grandma ever using those. I didn't know she had them. Just leave them in the box, I guess."
"We could put them in the front windows," Tom said.
"If you want to. It's up to you."
Later, when they made the trip for the tree, they stopped in the village hardware store for new light strings, and while they were there Tom purchased light bulbs for the window candles.
Putting the candlesticks in place was easy enough. There was plenty of room on the windowsills of the old house Tom and Emily were buying. For two of the windows there were wall outlets near enough that the electric plugs reached them, but for the other two Tom had to make another run to the hardware store and purchase extension cords to get electricity to them. But he soon he had all four candles burning -- two in the two main-floor front windows and two in the two second-floor front windows.
Darkness fell by 5 p.m. in December, and Tom liked the warm glow the window candles shed in the rooms where they were burning. He put on his coat and walked outside to see how they looked to passersby, and it seemed to him that the candlelight somehow made the house look warmer and more inviting, especially when compared to the dark houses on either side where no one was home at that moment.
It turned out, however, that keeping the candles burning wasn't as easy as Tom had thought it would be. They were not well designed. All plastic, there wasn't enough weight in the base of each one to keep the candlestick part upright if anything disturbed it. One got knocked over when Emily's cat jumped onto the window ledge. The upset jolted the bulb so that it burned super bright for about a minute and then went permanently dark. Another was yanked over when Tom, moving a chair, caught the leg on one of the candle's electric cords. A third fell down repeatedly simply because it was top-heavy, and by the time a week had passed, Tom had had to replace some of the light bulbs twice. Seeing his frustration, Emily suggested that they just forget the window candles, but Tom had other ideas.
That was because, when he could keep them burning, the effect, with the small lights shining in the darkness, was cheering. And though Tom was not very demonstrative, something about those small lights in the night touched a quiet place inside himself.
So Tom decided to tackle the problem. When he couldn't think of an easy way to add weight to the hollow plastic bases themselves, he instead attached them with screws to pieces of wood he had cut to match the width of the window sill. The attached wood gave the candlesticks a wider footprint and increased their stability somewhat, but still the candles sometimes went over thanks to the cat or to tangling with one of the power cords. Not to be defeated, however, Tom used some C-clamps to fasten the new wooden bases securely to the ledges.
That solved the problem. But of course, all this engineering did not add to the decor of the house, but Emily had a quick solution for that. Now that the candlesticks were firmly anchored, she hung some greenery from them that covered the wood and the clamps.
And so it went for several years. Early in December, Tom helped Emily with the general decorating. Each year, Emily purchased a few new ornaments and other seasonal items, and soon Tom was hauling four, then five, then six boxes down from the attic as the decorating began; but installing the window candles always was his project alone.
That first year, Tom removed the candles during the first week of January when the tree came down and the rest of the decorations were returned to storage, but as the early darkness continued through the cold evenings of January and February, Tom found himself wishing he'd left the candles in place. He missed the tiny lights shining bravely in the night. Emily liked them too, but she wasn't drawn to them the way Tom was. So starting with the next Christmas, Tom, with Emily's agreement, left the candles in the windows after the other accoutrements of Christmas had been returned to the attic. They remained in place until late February, when the natural light began to linger longer.
Tom and Emily's daughter Susie was born while they lived in that house, and when Emily became pregnant with their second child, they decided they needed a bigger place. Tom had been promoted to a better-paying position at work, and they calculated that they could afford to make the move.
The new place was nice, but there were more windows, so when their first December there rolled around, Tom shopped for additional candlesticks. He was disappointed to find that the ones available weren't any better made than the old ones they had, but he now had another problem. The windows in the new house had almost no sills at all, certainly nothing wide enough to accommodate the plastic candles, with or without the wooden bases Tom had added. Emily suggested that they discontinue having window candles, but Tom wouldn't hear of it, and he soon engineered a solution. Using scraps of wood, he constructed little shelves that he attached to the narrow sills with screws. The resulting affair was, if not pretty, at least sturdy. As before, Emily covered the improvised platforms with holiday greens.
One of the families in this new neighborhood was really big into outdoor Christmas lights. They put strings of light along the eaves of the roof, around the trim of their windows and doors, and in every tree in the front yard. They had a huge Santa all in lights, and on the roof they put a painted plywood sleigh with lights all over it. When Tom and Emily drove by the house, Emily said, "Wow! Look at that!"
"It's overdone," Tom said. "Too gaudy."
The winters went by, and in each one, from December to February, Tom's candles shone in the darkness.
There was, however, one year that they almost didn't. That November, their daughter Susie died in a traffic accident while riding with some of her high-school friends. Grief hung heavy in the air of their house as December began, and neither Emily nor Tom had much heart for decorating, but they finally forced themselves to do so for the sake of Rachel, their younger daughter. They put the tree up and some of the figurines, but for Tom, the sorrow inside was so deep that displaying light from his windows seemed like a lie. But then Rachel asked, "Dad, aren't you going to put the candles in the windows?" She sounded so forlorn that Tom knew he had to install them, regardless of how he felt. And so he went to work, screwing his improvised platforms into place and anchoring the candlesticks to them.
Then on Christmas Eve, as they sat in the service at the church they had attended for years, their pastor read from the first chapter of John where the gospel writer spoke of Jesus as the Word that brought life and light to our world. "The light shines in the darkness," the pastor read, "and the darkness did not overcome it." When Tom heard that verse, he thought of his window candles, and he was glad Rachel had pushed him to put them up.
A few years later, Tom was in a store in late autumn when he noticed window candles for sale. Unlike the ones he'd used for years, however, these were well-designed affairs that wouldn't fall over. Each gleaming white candlestick had a single metal foot that could be inserted under the window sash. These improved candlesticks cost more than twice as much as the old kind, but Tom was so happy to see the improvement that he immediately purchased enough to replace all of his old ones, plus enough for Rachel's house too. She had just married, and had recently asked her dad how to fix her window candles so they wouldn't fall over. So from then on, Christmas candles burned from Advent to Lent in both households.
There's not a lot more to this story. Tom and Emily had a lot of years together. Rachel brought her children home to visit their grandparents often. The family had its measure of good times and joy and troubles and pain like most of us do. They were ordinary folks like we are.
But the day finally came when Tom's heart gave out. He lay for several days in the hospital, conscious but growing rapidly weaker. Emily was with him almost constantly, while Rachel came for hours every day and her husband brought the children for brief visits. As long as he could, Tom talked and laughed with them all, but eventually he could no longer respond. His eyes were shut and his breathing was labored. It went on that way for hours, until all at once a smile spread across Tom's face. "What is it, Tom?" Emily asked, hoping he could hear her.
"I won't need window candles," he said. And then he was gone.
***
This week we celebrate the one who brought the light that no darkness can overcome. Probably most of us do not get as captured by a single symbol of Christmas as did Tom, but in this world that has its share of gloom and heartache, we need this seasonal reminder that Jesus is the light of the world and that that light cannot be extinguished by any darkness, no matter how powerful. Not ever.
And in the end, the light wins.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
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StoryShare, December 24-25, 2005, issue.
Copyright 2005 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up for Christmas
A Story to Live By: "The King and the Maiden"
Shining Moments: "A Mother's Thoughts" by Constance Berg
Christmas Stories: "Once There Was a Child" by Frank R. Fisher
"Christmas in Canaan" by John Sumwalt
"This Doesn't Make Sense" by Paul Lintern
"The Candlelight in the Window" by Stan Purdum
What's Up for Christmas
This week we celebrate God's wonderful holiday gift to all of us in the Incarnation of Jesus Christ. As our holiday gift to you, this extended issue of StoryShare presents several stories celebrating the Light of the World made flesh among us -- including imaginative and inspiring pieces from Frank Fisher and Stan Purdum, two members of the new StoryShare writing team. There's also a captivating story from StoryShare founding co-editor John Sumwalt.
Merry Christmas from CSS!
A Story to Live By
The King and the Maiden
And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for see -- I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger."
Luke 2:7-12
In Philosophical Fragments, Soren Kierkegaard, the renowned Danish philosopher and theologian of the early 1800s, tried to address how absurd the idea of the incarnation appears to non-believers. We believe that God took on human form, came and lived among us, suffered the same trials that we suffered, experienced the same feelings that we experienced. Even more so today, it boggles the modern intellect.
Kierkegaard told a parable of a king who was very powerful. All of his subjects were in awe of his power. Statesmen trembled before him. No one dared to oppose him.
One day while in a poorer section of the local village, the king glanced out the window of his carriage. His eyes fell upon a beautiful peasant maiden. The mighty king was melted by love for a humble maiden. He often found himself passing by the spot he first saw her, hoping to see her again.
But he had a problem. How could he declare his love and seek her hand?
It was within his power to order her to marry him. He could bring her to his palace and crown her with jewels and clothe her with royal robes. She would not resist. No one resisted the king. But would she love him? She would say she loved him, but would she really love him? Even a prince wants his bride to marry him freely and voluntarily and not by force. He truly wanted her to be happy.
He could ride to the front door of her cottage in the royal carriage, robed in splendor and flanked by an armed escort waving bright banners. That too would overwhelm her. He did not want a wife in awe of his royalty. He wanted a lover -- an equal. He wanted her to forget that he was a king and that she was a humble maiden. He wanted mutual love to bridge the chasm between them, for it is only in love that an unequal can be made equal.
The king knew none of that would work to show his love. He knew he must take on the true form of a servant, and make the maiden love that incarnation of him. He gave up his kingly robe. He moved into the village, entering not with a crown, but in the garb of a peasant. He lived among the people, shared their interests and concerns, and talked their language. In time, the maiden grew to love him for who he was. She loved him because he had first loved her.
Kierkegaard argues that God must take the form of a servant -- Jesus -- so that our love would be genuine. God was humbled to become not just a man, but a tiny vulnerable baby. God renounces the throne and puts on beggars clothes to be equal to us in love -- to talk our language, eat our food, share our suffering, and die on our cross. The incarnation and subsequent crucifixion tells us of God's great love for us. Instead of wooing us with power or riches, God woos us with love.
(From Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit [Series IV, Cycle B] by Gregory Tolle)
Shining Moments
A Mother's Thoughts
by Constance Berg
And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger...
Luke 2:7
She held the baby to her chest, looking into his eyes. His eyes were dark, his hair was dark, and his skin was pink. He was wrinkled. He was beautiful. She carefully unfolded a bit of the blanket and peeked inside. His fingers -- they were so small! His hand seemed so small against her hand. His fingernails were tiny.
And that little neck -- so wrinkled, so inviting. She kissed it softly and watched her baby squirm. She studied his face. Little lines were formed around his mouth as it made little sucking motions. He wrinkled his nose and sneezed. He opened his eyes for just an instant before closing them tightly in sleep.
Those dark eyes -- she had seen a glimpse of them a moment ago. They seemed so big against his little face. She couldn't wait until he would have them open for longer periods.
He was sleeping in her arms as she thought about her baby -- her tiny little baby. What would he grow up to do? What would he be like? Would he be outgoing or quiet and reserved? Would he be full of energy or cautious? Would he play boisterously or quietly? She wondered.
The only thing she knew for sure was that he was precious. Perfect. Beautiful.
He was meant for something special, she knew. Everyone was special, although she didn't feel so special nine months ago when she found out she was pregnant. She was confused, but she knew she couldn't change what had happened. She had to live with it. She would have to be strong and carry on.
Her cousin had become pregnant recently and had given her lots of advice and support. People were talking about her and at times she just wanted to hide. But she wasn't one to seek pity. She just went on with her life.
And now she had given birth to a new life. The process was painful, but as soon as her baby was placed on her chest, it was as if the pain had been erased from her mind. He was so beautiful! So sweet, crying with all his might to announce his presence.
She didn't really know how to hold him. She was so young, barely a teenager, but as soon as she held him, kissed him, and nursed him it was as if she had always known what to do. She wasn't frightened. She just took care of her baby.
And her baby would take care of her in her old age. He could make sure her future was secure. He would see to it that her destiny was favorable.
She grew tired. She needed to sleep. But not before she gave her little son a kiss on the forehead. Such a sweet baby. She called for Joseph to take the baby. Jesus, her baby. Her sweet little boy. Her life.
Constance Berg is a former missionary to Chiapas, Mexico. She is currently based in Bakersfield, California, where she serves as the director of 18 nursing homes for handicapped individuals. Berg holds degrees from California State University and Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary, and she has done graduate work at Fuller Theological Seminary. She is the author of three volumes of the CSS series Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit.
Christmas Stories
Once There Was a Child
by Frank R. Fisher
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
John 1:1-5
Once there was a Child... a Child who was a special Child indeed, a special Child who loved to do many special things. But out of all the special things this special Child loved to do, there was nothing more special than the time the Child spent working in the workshop. That's not too surprising, because this was no ordinary workshop. Only wondrous things were ever made in it.
Every day the Child's Parent, the Master Worker, would walk to the workbench and wave to the Child to come help. Trembling with anticipation, the Child would place those little hands on the tools and let the Worker's big hands guide the tools across the wood on the bench. Shavings and sawdust would fill the air as shapes began to form under their joined fingers.
Then as the shapes became more defined the Child would gasp with wonder, for the tools produced things like planets and stars that the Worker flung joyfully into the heavens -- and things like flowing oceans and towering mountains that the Worker placed precisely on the planets.
But the most marvelous part of all came when the Worker guided the Child's hands to make the shapes of creatures. The Child thought the creatures were beautiful. And they became even more beautiful when the worker blew gently into their mouths, giving to them the precious gift of life.
The Child loved those creatures most of all -- especially the creatures the Worker named human beings, for the Child and the Worker made human beings in the Worker's image. And to them the Worker gave a special breath, a life-giving breath, which meant they would one day come back to the workshop and live there forever.
The Worker's face always crinkled with a smile at the depth of the Child's love for humans. But one day there came a moment when the smile faded. The Worker knew it was time for one of those serious talks with the Child.
"My Child," the Worker said, "I have a task you must do alone -- a task you must do to carry on our creation of human beings. I want you to go away from the workshop for a while. I want you to go and live among these people whom you love so much. Go to them. Show and tell them how very, very, very much we love them."
The Child smiled and immediately nodded yes. But the Worker cautioned, "This will be painful and fear-filled work, my Child." Then, turning to the bench, the Worker said, "I have one gift for you before you go. A gift to show you just how fearful this task will be."
Again the wood chips and sawdust filled the air. This time when the dust cleared, the worker turned and handed the Child a cup. "Look into the cup," the Worker said, "and you will see all the things you must drink to show humans the depths of our love."
Peering into the cup, the Child burst out laughing with delight. For in it was a bubbling, leaping, and dancing drink that looked like the finest wine. The Child could tell it was made up of joy and faith, and it was saturated with the Worker's love.
"Why should I fear this drink?" the Child said to the Worker. The Worker looked gently at the Child and replied, "Look again, my Child."
Somewhat puzzled, the Child looked again into the cup and saw another mixture. Again it seemed a marvelous drink. This time it looked as smooth as the purest cream. In it the Child saw healing, peace, and salvation, mixed liberally with an endless measure of the Worker's grace. The Child looked up at the Worker again and said more strongly, "Why should I fear this drink either?"
With eyes filled with tears the Worker said, "Look into the cup one more time." The Child looked into the depths of the cup and gasped. It almost slipped from that little hand as the Child screamed, "No! Please take this away. I can't drink this." For this time the mixture in the cup seethed and stank.
As the Child watched in horror the liquid in the cup appeared to come alive. It seemed to reach outward toward the Child with evil fingers. And as the fingers reached out the Child saw the cup was filled with a horror that could never be imagined -- for the liquid in it was made up of every possible evil, every possible sin, and every possible pain. And it was mixed together with countless streams of eternal death.
Turning toward the Worker the Child gasped out, "Why? How could you ask me to do this? Why must I drink this cup?"
With a look of sadness the Worker looked steadily into the Child's eyes and replied, "You may choose not to drink this cup. But if that's your choice the human beings you love will drink it. They will drown in its pain, and they will suffocate in its sin and evil. If you do not drink it, they will die -- and it will be a forever death. They will never come back here. They will never share this workshop with us again."
The Child sighed, turned toward the Worker, and with eyes shining with love said, "I can't do that. I care too much for them. I could never let my people drink this cup." And reaching out toward the Master Worker the Child cried out, "Hold my hand, please. I will drink it for them."
Then the Child lifted the evil cup toward those Childish lips and instantly was in another place. Instead of being in the workshop, the Child was in a cradle which was surrounded by animals. And looking down at the Child's face were two of those people the Child and the Worker loved so much. There was a woman named Mary and a man named Joseph.
And in the Child's ears sounded a wondrous song, for in the sky above angels danced and twirled as they sang songs of joy at the incredible news of the Child's special love -- the love that would one day, on a very black Friday, forever snatch from our lips the cup of sin and eternal death... the love that appeared when the Word became flesh and dwelt among us in the quiet place named Bethlehem.
Frank R. Fisher is a second-career interim/transitional pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). He currently serves as the interim pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Fairbury, Illinois. During the final years of his first career as a paramedic and administrator for the Chicago Fire Department, Fisher graduated from McCormick Theological Seminary and was ordained. He is an Oblate of the ecumenical Abbey of John the Baptist and Saint Benedict in Bartonville, Illinois, where he has joined the rapidly growing number of those who are called to follow Saint Benedict's rule.
Christmas in Canaan
by John Sumwalt
When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us."
Luke 2:15
Once upon a time on Christmas Eve just before the turn of the century, somewhere on the trail between St. Louis and the Oklahoma Territory, a child was born in a dugout barn with the aid of a blind midwife and an angel of the Lord.
Silas and Millie Kittleson were on their way from Indiana to Oklahoma where they intended to homestead and raise their family. Millie was expecting. It would be their first child. She had celebrated her 17th birthday on the day they passed through St. Louis. Silas was a seasoned young man of 23, an experienced horseman and veteran trailblazer. He had made the trip several times before and was confident that they would arrive safely in Nickerson, Kansas, before the baby was due. There they would winter with relatives before going on to Oklahoma in the spring.
It was risky to cross the plains with mules and wagon any time in winter. But it had been a mild December with little snow and wind. The towns were frequent and the dirt roads well worn and marked, so they had just kept pushing on day after day. Nickerson was only about twenty miles away. They would make it in time for Christmas. Silas' aunt and uncle would be delighted.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon that December 24th that Millie felt the first contractions. Silas had just guided the mules across a small stream. When they pulled up on the bank they saw what appeared to be farm buildings low against the horizon about a mile-and-a-half in the distance. Perhaps they could get some help and find shelter for the night. But as they drew near they could see that what had once been a prairie homestead was now abandoned and very much in disrepair. There was a small house with a sod roof which had collapsed on one end. About thirty yards from the house was a dugout barn which was still pretty much intact. It was a combination log and sod construction and considerably larger than the house. There was hay in the loft and the faint odor of horses and cattle could be detected in the stalls below.
Silas unharnessed the mules, moved them into the stalls, and fed them some of the old musty hay. The mules' body heat would help to warm them through the night. Millie made a bed for herself with blankets and hay in the empty stall across from the mules. The contractions were more frequent now. She called out to Silas, "Come here and hold me. I'm frightened." Silas held her close, trying not to let on how frightened he was feeling himself. Together they prayed to God for the safe delivery of their child.
About an hour later there was a loud banging on the barn door and then a voice. "I heard you folks might be in need of some help." When they opened the door there was an old woman, hunched over and leaning on a cane. She appeared to be in her 80s. "I'm a midwife," she said. "I deliver the babies around here. I've delivered most all the babies born in Rush County, Kansas for over 60 years. They call me Old Catherine. Don't think I hear 'em. You can call me Kate. That's what my mother called me. I don't see too well anymore. You will have to lead me around a bit. But I know about birthing babies. I've delivered over a hundred in my time and never lost a mother or a baby."
The child was born within the hour. It came breech. Old Catherine said it was a good thing she got there when she did.
And then the neighbors began to come; farmers and ranchers with their wives and children. They brought gifts. The children offered toys, wooden rattles, tops, cornhusk dolls, whistles carved from willow twigs. The women brought more practical things: pillows, blankets, cotton rags, baby clothes, and enough food to feed a thrashing crew. One of the men had fashioned a cradle out of a feed trough. It wasn't until everyone started to leave that Silas thought to ask how it was that they had heard about them.
"Didn't you send her?" It was Old Catherine who spoke first. "She said you needed me and then she rode with me across the prairie. I could never have made it by myself. She was a young woman about 20 years old." Everyone else said they had seen the same woman. "She said come quickly, that a baby was being born out at Canaan."
And then they all knew who it was. There was a moment of utter astonishment and wonder as people exchanged bewildered glances and nods. Old Catherine turned to Silas and Millie and said out loud what everyone was thinking. "There was only one person who ever called this place Canaan. Liza Campbell. Liza and Jed Campbell came here to homestead about 20 years ago. They built the house and barn, and when they were finished Liza said, 'We will call it Canaan. It is our very own promised land.' They put up a sign right out there by the well. 'Welcome to Canaan' it said."
"What became of them?" Millie asked.
Again it was Old Catherine who spoke. "Liza died in childbirth about a year after they settled here. They sent for me, but she died before I could get here. Jed was heartbroken, went back east. We never heard from him again."
There was a long silence as everyone pondered this strange and marvelous occurrence. Could it have been Liza? Who else could it have been? But why, and how? Suddenly their ponderings were interrupted by the crying of the newborn child.
They called him Elmer. Elmer Milton, after Millie's father. And for as long as they lived they never ceased giving thanks to God for the mysterious messenger who had announced his birth.
(From Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle B)
This Doesn't Make Sense
by Paul Lintern
John heard it. Tim did, too. So did Grace and Sarah. But none of them could tell whether the others had heard it.
They were sitting in the subway, riding home later than they had intended. The stores and businesses had closed down hours before and they were not used to being in such an empty car. They had worked late together on a product development project and now were heading back to their cars in the same commuter lot at the end of the line.
Each had heard it. Singing, or perhaps an instrument or a synthesizer. The tone was pure, the tune was undefined yet real; the words were there, soft and vague, but clear enough to understand.
"Glory to God. Peace to you. Come and see. The Word is true."
John glanced at Tim. "Did you notice anything?"
Tim feigned a blank look. "Like what?"
"You heard it, too, didn't you?" John said.
"Heard what?" Tim asked.
Grace responded, "I heard it. Singing, music. Was it the radio?"
"They don't have a radio in here," John said.
"Anyone have a Walkman turned on?" Tim asked.
Grace responded, "No, it was beyond that."
Sarah gave a nervous laugh. "It's late and we're tired. The caffeine is singing to us."
Suddenly Grace jumped up, pointed out the window, and shouted, "Look."
The train had since emerged from underground and was slowing to enter a station. As they looked out, they saw a crowd of people, but were they people? They were shining brightly, glowing there on the bank of the railway, motioning for the four to come and singing their song again.
"Glory to God. Peace to you. Come and see. The Word is true."
"Who are they?" Tim asked.
"I don't know," John replied. "But they don't seem to be standing still, or standing at all."
"What do you think it means?" Sarah asked.
"I think it means we need to go check it out," Grace replied.
"That's ridiculous," Sarah shot back. "We're two miles from our stop, this is probably the last train, and this is not a place to be out walking late at night."
John sided with Grace. "I don't know what this is either, but something tells me to go and see. I don't want to have to wonder about it later."
"You're crazy," Tim said. "Stay here, where it's safe. It's got to be a trick. Why would anybody, or anything, want us?"
"He's right," said Sarah. "Nobody would believe us anyway. We'd be laughed out of the office."
The train stopped. The doors opened. The music filtered in.
"Glory to God. Peace to you. Come and see. The Word is true."
Grace looked back and asked, "Who is coming with me?"
Paul Lintern is the pastor of Oakland Lutheran Church in Mansfield, Ohio.
The Candlelight in the Window
by Stan Purdum
In all their years together, Emily had always been the one who directed the decorating of their house for Christmas -- with one exception, but we'll come to that in a moment. When Emily had moved into Tom's house after their wedding, among the things she brought with her were two large boxes filled with garland, tree ornaments, and assorted other Christmas bric-a-brac that she had retrieved from her grandmother's house after the old woman died. Beyond a tree in the living room, Tom's family had never done much decorating for Christmas, so he hadn't considered that it might be different with Emily. But in early December of their first year, Emily asked him to bring the two boxes down from attic where Tom had put them when they had gone to housekeeping together.
Large as the boxes were, there really weren't that many individual pieces when they unpacked them. Besides the artificial greens and some bulbs and strings of lights for the tree, there were a few figurines -- a Santa, two angels, a cluster of carolers in 19th-century garb, a snowman, and a complete nativity scene. That day, Emily placed those objects in strategic locations around the house. But as she examined the remaining things, she commented that some would not do. For one thing, the light strings were the old kind, where when one light bulb burned out the whole string went dark.
"We can afford some new lights, can't we?" she asked Tom.
"I imagine so," Tom said. "I don't think they cost much."
Rummaging deeper into the boxes, she pulled out a carton containing delicate glass tree ornaments. A couple had gotten broken, but the rest looked all right.
"We'll need to get a tree, of course," she said. Tom agreed that they could go to the tree lot that very afternoon.
Looking satisfied with what they had done, Emily suggested that Tom put the storage boxes back in the attic. Tom carried the first one up, but when he picked up the second, he noticed a dingy white object protruding from beneath the rumpled newspaper packing material still in the box. Pulling the papers aside, Tom found four plastic candlesticks with electric cords extending from them -- the kind that use nightlight-size light bulbs. "What about these?" Tom asked, holding one up.
Emily frowned. "I don't remember Grandma ever using those. I didn't know she had them. Just leave them in the box, I guess."
"We could put them in the front windows," Tom said.
"If you want to. It's up to you."
Later, when they made the trip for the tree, they stopped in the village hardware store for new light strings, and while they were there Tom purchased light bulbs for the window candles.
Putting the candlesticks in place was easy enough. There was plenty of room on the windowsills of the old house Tom and Emily were buying. For two of the windows there were wall outlets near enough that the electric plugs reached them, but for the other two Tom had to make another run to the hardware store and purchase extension cords to get electricity to them. But he soon he had all four candles burning -- two in the two main-floor front windows and two in the two second-floor front windows.
Darkness fell by 5 p.m. in December, and Tom liked the warm glow the window candles shed in the rooms where they were burning. He put on his coat and walked outside to see how they looked to passersby, and it seemed to him that the candlelight somehow made the house look warmer and more inviting, especially when compared to the dark houses on either side where no one was home at that moment.
It turned out, however, that keeping the candles burning wasn't as easy as Tom had thought it would be. They were not well designed. All plastic, there wasn't enough weight in the base of each one to keep the candlestick part upright if anything disturbed it. One got knocked over when Emily's cat jumped onto the window ledge. The upset jolted the bulb so that it burned super bright for about a minute and then went permanently dark. Another was yanked over when Tom, moving a chair, caught the leg on one of the candle's electric cords. A third fell down repeatedly simply because it was top-heavy, and by the time a week had passed, Tom had had to replace some of the light bulbs twice. Seeing his frustration, Emily suggested that they just forget the window candles, but Tom had other ideas.
That was because, when he could keep them burning, the effect, with the small lights shining in the darkness, was cheering. And though Tom was not very demonstrative, something about those small lights in the night touched a quiet place inside himself.
So Tom decided to tackle the problem. When he couldn't think of an easy way to add weight to the hollow plastic bases themselves, he instead attached them with screws to pieces of wood he had cut to match the width of the window sill. The attached wood gave the candlesticks a wider footprint and increased their stability somewhat, but still the candles sometimes went over thanks to the cat or to tangling with one of the power cords. Not to be defeated, however, Tom used some C-clamps to fasten the new wooden bases securely to the ledges.
That solved the problem. But of course, all this engineering did not add to the decor of the house, but Emily had a quick solution for that. Now that the candlesticks were firmly anchored, she hung some greenery from them that covered the wood and the clamps.
And so it went for several years. Early in December, Tom helped Emily with the general decorating. Each year, Emily purchased a few new ornaments and other seasonal items, and soon Tom was hauling four, then five, then six boxes down from the attic as the decorating began; but installing the window candles always was his project alone.
That first year, Tom removed the candles during the first week of January when the tree came down and the rest of the decorations were returned to storage, but as the early darkness continued through the cold evenings of January and February, Tom found himself wishing he'd left the candles in place. He missed the tiny lights shining bravely in the night. Emily liked them too, but she wasn't drawn to them the way Tom was. So starting with the next Christmas, Tom, with Emily's agreement, left the candles in the windows after the other accoutrements of Christmas had been returned to the attic. They remained in place until late February, when the natural light began to linger longer.
Tom and Emily's daughter Susie was born while they lived in that house, and when Emily became pregnant with their second child, they decided they needed a bigger place. Tom had been promoted to a better-paying position at work, and they calculated that they could afford to make the move.
The new place was nice, but there were more windows, so when their first December there rolled around, Tom shopped for additional candlesticks. He was disappointed to find that the ones available weren't any better made than the old ones they had, but he now had another problem. The windows in the new house had almost no sills at all, certainly nothing wide enough to accommodate the plastic candles, with or without the wooden bases Tom had added. Emily suggested that they discontinue having window candles, but Tom wouldn't hear of it, and he soon engineered a solution. Using scraps of wood, he constructed little shelves that he attached to the narrow sills with screws. The resulting affair was, if not pretty, at least sturdy. As before, Emily covered the improvised platforms with holiday greens.
One of the families in this new neighborhood was really big into outdoor Christmas lights. They put strings of light along the eaves of the roof, around the trim of their windows and doors, and in every tree in the front yard. They had a huge Santa all in lights, and on the roof they put a painted plywood sleigh with lights all over it. When Tom and Emily drove by the house, Emily said, "Wow! Look at that!"
"It's overdone," Tom said. "Too gaudy."
The winters went by, and in each one, from December to February, Tom's candles shone in the darkness.
There was, however, one year that they almost didn't. That November, their daughter Susie died in a traffic accident while riding with some of her high-school friends. Grief hung heavy in the air of their house as December began, and neither Emily nor Tom had much heart for decorating, but they finally forced themselves to do so for the sake of Rachel, their younger daughter. They put the tree up and some of the figurines, but for Tom, the sorrow inside was so deep that displaying light from his windows seemed like a lie. But then Rachel asked, "Dad, aren't you going to put the candles in the windows?" She sounded so forlorn that Tom knew he had to install them, regardless of how he felt. And so he went to work, screwing his improvised platforms into place and anchoring the candlesticks to them.
Then on Christmas Eve, as they sat in the service at the church they had attended for years, their pastor read from the first chapter of John where the gospel writer spoke of Jesus as the Word that brought life and light to our world. "The light shines in the darkness," the pastor read, "and the darkness did not overcome it." When Tom heard that verse, he thought of his window candles, and he was glad Rachel had pushed him to put them up.
A few years later, Tom was in a store in late autumn when he noticed window candles for sale. Unlike the ones he'd used for years, however, these were well-designed affairs that wouldn't fall over. Each gleaming white candlestick had a single metal foot that could be inserted under the window sash. These improved candlesticks cost more than twice as much as the old kind, but Tom was so happy to see the improvement that he immediately purchased enough to replace all of his old ones, plus enough for Rachel's house too. She had just married, and had recently asked her dad how to fix her window candles so they wouldn't fall over. So from then on, Christmas candles burned from Advent to Lent in both households.
There's not a lot more to this story. Tom and Emily had a lot of years together. Rachel brought her children home to visit their grandparents often. The family had its measure of good times and joy and troubles and pain like most of us do. They were ordinary folks like we are.
But the day finally came when Tom's heart gave out. He lay for several days in the hospital, conscious but growing rapidly weaker. Emily was with him almost constantly, while Rachel came for hours every day and her husband brought the children for brief visits. As long as he could, Tom talked and laughed with them all, but eventually he could no longer respond. His eyes were shut and his breathing was labored. It went on that way for hours, until all at once a smile spread across Tom's face. "What is it, Tom?" Emily asked, hoping he could hear her.
"I won't need window candles," he said. And then he was gone.
***
This week we celebrate the one who brought the light that no darkness can overcome. Probably most of us do not get as captured by a single symbol of Christmas as did Tom, but in this world that has its share of gloom and heartache, we need this seasonal reminder that Jesus is the light of the world and that that light cannot be extinguished by any darkness, no matter how powerful. Not ever.
And in the end, the light wins.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
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How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and e-mail the story to us.
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StoryShare, December 24-25, 2005, issue.
Copyright 2005 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
