CHAPTER 3

FIRST SUNDAY
OF ADVENT

December 4, 1864

As Edward took his seat in the church, he heard snatches of conversations, enough random sentences to reveal the topic on everyone’s mind.

“If I get the candle, I know what I’ll pray for . . .”

“I hear Edward already knows who he’ll give it to . . .”

“Do you suppose he’d talk to me about it?”

Edward was relieved to see Bea take her seat at the hundred-year-old organ. Now the service would begin and the whisperings cease. People followed the cue of the ten-member choir as they stood to sing “Come, Thou Almighty King.” Limestone walls echoed with “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow . . .” As the congregation sang, Edward looked out the window and spotted the reverend walking from the parsonage through the cemetery. As he leaned into the bracing wind, he held the neck of his coat closed and then loosened it as he neared the doors of the church.

I wonder what Reverend Richmond has prepared to say to us, Edward considered. He knew what Reverend Pillington would have said. He had understood the cherished place the candle held in the lives of Cotswold villagers. They endured difficult days: crawling out of bed on dark, cold mornings; closing the barn after the sun had set; sewing by the light of the fire; laboring through weeks of rainy, sunless seasons. The former rector had understood the life of the villagers and how the legend of the candle always lifted their spirits. Were he preaching today, he’d speak of surprises and angels and fresh hope in the midst of dark Decembers. He’d speak about the candle.

“No. I can’t do that,” the young minister had told Edward earlier in the week. “I’m not Pillington. I don’t preach about candles. People don’t need old wives’ tales.”

“But this is . . .”

“I know. This is the year. But I give people practical help and solid facts. I stay away from mysteries.”

“You don’t believe, do you?”

“I believe in the Bible. I believe in the church. I believe in God. But I see no reason to promote superstitions or raise false hopes.”

“Don’t you think God can work however he chooses?”

“I believe God worked, and the rest is up to us.”

So as the singing ceased and the choir took their seats, Edward shifted in his pew, anxious to hear what the reverend would say.

The congregation heard the click of Richmond’s boots as he ascended the stone steps to the pulpit. He looked nervously over his flock and unfolded his notes with the ease of a suitor asking for a maid’s hand in marriage.

He spoke of Christmas kindness and neighborly love and Christian charity. Most other churches would have appreciated the message. But not the parishioners of St. Mark’s. As they left the building, some refused to shake the reverend’s hand. Others did so with disappointment.

“The candle?” they asked. “Did you forget?”

Edward tried to hide his frustration but had trouble doing so. “Your sermon could have been better, Reverend.” He then followed Bea as she and Sarah exited the nave.

“Nothing!” Sarah whispered. “He didn’t say a word, not one word!”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Bea replied. “People are already so . . .”

“Persistent,” Edward finished for her.

“Persistent, indeed,” Bea continued.