CHAPTER 9

CHRISTMAS EVE

December 24, 1864 B

By the end of the week, the candle basket was empty. Thirty hopeful Gladstonians guarded their candles and secrets and looked for a miracle. A ten-year-old girl prayed for her arguing parents. The family of a sailor prayed for his safe arrival. A wife prayed for her husband to sober up. Reverend Richmond had never seen so many weekday visitors stopping to pray.

As the Christmas Eve service drew nigh, however, Edward and Bea expressed occasional bouts with doubt.

“What will people do to us when they realize we gave them common candles?” Bea asked.

“Do you think your uncle in Preston could give us a place to live?” Edward teased, only partly in jest.

“Credibility. Friends. Candle shop. We could lose it all,” Bea listed.

“Still, we have to attend the service, if for no other reason than to explain.”

“They won’t believe us,” Bea lamented.

Edward planned his words and mentally rehearsed them over and over. By Saturday night he was ready. They waited until the singing had begun before stepping out into the cold night and walking to the church for the Christmas Eve service. The streets were empty; everyone was in St. Mark’s.

“Well, dear husband, only God knows what awaits us.”

“At least one person will be happy to see us.”

The couple found space on the back pew and took a seat. Strands of garland draped between the windows, and a row of flames flickered in each sill. The children’s nativity play was in full swing. Emily Barstow had organized the cast and props. The locksmith played one of the wise men, as did Adam from the livery stable. A homemade doll rested in the manger, and a lamb kept bumping it over with her nose. Laughter and applause bounced off the church’s stone walls.

Reverend Richmond began his welcome. “We thank the ladies who cleaned the floors, our men who repaired the door. We appreciate the Haddingtons for the window candles.” Several heads swiveled and looked at the couple. Edward and Bea kept their eyes on Reverend Richmond.

“This is my first Christmas Eve service with you,” the reverend continued. “I understand that the church traditionally begins this gathering with testimonies and announcements of blessings. We have all been blessed, far more than we deserve. Yet I am told that among us sits one person who has benefited from an angel’s touch.” He paused, looked over the audience, and invited, “Could I ask that soul to stand?”

Edward and Bea gulped. She closed her eyes. He took her hand and whispered, “We’ll be all right, dear.” He bowed his head and offered a silent prayer. Lord, these are your people, your flock. Look with kindness upon this moment.

He heard the congregation begin to murmur. “What is this?” someone said aloud. Another wondered, “How can this be?” Then a third, “What is going on?” Edward assumed the worst. No one is standing.

But when he and Bea opened their eyes, they couldn’t believe what they saw: people standing all over the sanctuary.

Reverend Richmond took a step back from the pulpit. “I don’t understand. Why so many of you?”

Villagers began asking for permission to say a word. The reverend called on a farmer on the front row. “You know me, Edward.” He turned and spoke across the crowd. “I can’t resist the bottle. But since you gave me the candle, I’ve been here, in prayer, each evening. Why others are standing, I can’t say, but I haven’t touched a drop in four days.”

“Reverend,” requested another man, “may I?” The young minister nodded, and James stood. “My landlord and I have been at odds for months about the rent. But last Sunday, Edward gave me the candle. The missus and I prayed, and yesterday the landlord came to me and said, ‘Who am I to make demands? Apart from God’s mercy, I would have nothing,’ and then he gave me a clean slate and said he’d extend more credit if I needed it.”

Adam, from the livery, spoke next. “Like you, Reverend, I’m bewildered by this response. I know this, however: my head is better. Not healed, but better.”

The Widow Leonard rose. “I rented out the back of my house.”

A man stood up next to her. “And I found a place to live.”

Even Emily raised her hand. Looking directly at the minister, she said, “I’m not sure he notices me, but the more I pray, the more I know God does.”

Blessing after blessing.

“My husband’s been gone since summer. But he promises he’s back to stay.”

“Our son is back from sea.”

“Mr. Barstow hired me at the mercantile. I don’t have to sell my farm.”

Edward and Bea watched with wide eyes and listened with happy hearts. Finally, after a harvest of good news, Edward stood. “I need to say something.” He walked down the aisle, turned, and looked into the weathered faces of the villagers.

Digging his hands deep in his pockets, he began, “The night the angel came something happened that no one expected.”

He told them the story, every detail: the deep slumber, the glowing light, the tingling foot, and the fall. (All chuckled at this point.) “Who has the real Christmas Candle? Only God knows, but he does know. And I know he uses the mistakes of stumblers.” He cast a knowing glance at the reverend. “And he has heard our prayers.

“Perhaps we trusted the candle too much. Perhaps we trusted God too little. So God took our eyes off the candle and set them on himself. He is the Candle of Christmas. And Gladstone? Gladstone is one of his Bethlehems. For he has come to us all.”

A chorus of amens boomed in the church.

“Bea, I’ve preached enough. Come to the organ. It’s time to sing!”

Bea played every Christmas carol she knew, from “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Queen Victoria heard no sweeter music than St. Mark’s did that Christmas Eve.

But midway through “Silent Night” the service came to a frightening halt. The entrance doors slammed open, and a disheveled man ran in screaming, “Help! Someone help!” Sudden air gusted, whipping the flames on back window candles. Singing stopped and a hundred heads turned toward the rear of the sanctuary.

Edward, with a clear view from his aisle seat, recognized the man as the driver of the coach wagon. He was a stark contrast to the worshippers— they, gleeful and warm; he, saucer-eyed and freezing. Ice clung to his beard and fear hung from his words. Grasping for breath, he sputtered, “One side of the bridge . . . Collins Bridge . . . it gave way.”

Gladstonians gasped at the thought. “Are you hurt?” someone shouted.

“No . . . my passengers . . . they fell over the side. I looked for them, but it’s too dark.”

“They?” Richmond asked. He stepped up the aisle toward the man. “Who was with you?”

“A girl and her baby. The other passengers got off at Upper Slaughter. We should have stayed the night there, it’s so cold and icy. But she insisted.”

Richmond spun toward the front of the church. “Hurry. The creek is shallow. She may be all right. All able-bodied men come with me.”

“I’ll have a fire going in my house,” Sarah volunteered.

“I have extra lanterns in my pub,” shouted James.

“And I have more in my store,” Barstow offered.

“Get them. Grab blankets and rope as well,” Richmond instructed. “We don’t have a minute to waste. Adam, bring a wagon. This girl will be in no condition to walk.”

“Certainly.”

“Meet at the bridge! May God have mercy.”

The moment the people said “amen,” the midnight bells began to ring. Worshippers scurried into the frigid night under the commission of twelve chimes.