Chapter Sixteen

“I don’t know what to do!” cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

~Charles Dickens

Ben knew, as he had always known, that the moment would come when the memories he’d held at bay for so long would be too strong to ignore. He’d known that one day soon, he would be forced to look them in the eye. All of them.

He left the Scrooge performance and, for a moment, gazed at the clear night sky punctuated with stars. He wondered if that moment had drawn near. People in the village were already chattering about him, guessing about his past. And one of his closely held secrets had been discovered. How long before the rest would follow?

Instead of contemplating it further, Ben chose denial. He marched to Mistletoe Cottage in the snow, found a sedative, crawled into bed, and switched off his brain. Everything would have to wait until morning.

When morning came, he still wasn’t ready. He blamed the sedative for his grogginess and his inability to focus on the previous night’s events. But after a shower and a shave had revived his senses, he knew it was time to move on. He had hoped to stay for at least another week, through the new year, to get his bearings while in the Cotswold bubble. But he’d already let people in too close. He’d let them care. He’d let himself care.

He decided to wait one more day, give Mary her Christmas Day, then leave just as he’d come, under the cover of snow-lit darkness.

As he walked down the hall, he could hear Henry the Robin’s song coming from the back garden.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Mary said as Ben entered the sitting room. Mary rocked in her chair, her giant Bible open in her lap.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Ben replied.

He hadn’t counted on Mary being up so early. He wasn’t prepared for her inevitable barrage of questions. He owed her the truth. But first, he owed it to himself to clear his head.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading.” He reached for his cap.

“You didn’t. I was nearly finished.” She closed the book.

“I’m going for a jog.”

“It’s terribly cold out there,” warned Mary.

“I won’t be long. Just need to get out for a bit…”

“Certainly,” Mary said politely. She opened her Bible again, and he turned the doorknob and disappeared into the frigid air.

 

Facing certain memories in the light of day was easier than he’d imagined. As Ben jogged, boots crunching in the snow, he scanned the cloudless sky, squinting into the brilliant sunrise. Things did seem brighter, hopeful, in such a beautiful setting.

But actually stepping back into those memories was a darker prospect. Turning behind the church and jogging up that enormous hill, Ben remembered the familiar rush of carrying the boy, hurrying to find the proper medication. Having life and death right there in his hands had been a powerful, frightening, and intoxicating experience—as it had always been for him. Holding a scalpel, fingers poised over a patient, monitors beeping, Ben knew well his purpose. To repair. To heal. To nudge a patient from the edge of death, back toward life.

Even with all his education behind him, even after performing hundreds of surgeries, he still carried the weight of that responsibility. He never took his role for granted or let go of the panic deep inside his gut, telling him that he alone could be the reason someone didn’t make it off that table. And never had he felt that responsibility more than he had on his final day as a surgeon.

On that morning, he had prepped for a routine bypass, feeling edgier than usual. He’d been having nightmares again. Six months had passed since the funeral. He had pressed on, insisting on working full hours, even overtime. He’d ignored the advice of his supervisor, who’d suggested a leave of absence to get grief counseling. That would have been the worst possible thing for Ben. Work was what he needed—the only thing he needed.

The nightmares, always the same, magically disappeared sometime during those months, and he thought he was done with them. But the few nights before that particular surgery, they’d haunted him again. His wife, Amanda, stood holding their child just out of his reach, crying for his help. He would run to them but always smack up against a glass wall standing between them. He tried again and again, until his shoulder throbbed with pain, even through the dream. He always yelled back, reassuring Amanda that he would save them. Amanda nodded, clutching their baby daughter. Then Amanda would walk backward, her face gaunt and stoic, until the darkness swallowed them both whole. Often at that point, Ben woke up screaming her name.

The nightmare, more vivid than ever, had occurred again the night before what would become his final surgery. And he couldn’t shake it. Ben stood in the operating theater before the cardiac patient, surrounded by nurses and techs. Above, in the gallery, a new batch of residents watched him perform the routine surgery, which Ben had performed so many times that he’d lost count. But as his scalpel touched the patient, he sensed an unaccountable panic bubbling up. His vision began to blur, and his thoughts became murky. Even his hearing seemed watery as he strained to hear the nurse beside him.

“Dr. Granger?” Her voice sounded hollow and faraway, though she was standing right next to him.

A panic attack, he thought. Right here, in the middle of a surgery. His worst professional nightmare.

He fought against it, but the panic took over. His heart raced, and his head tingled. After an eternity, his senses snapped back quite suddenly. His vision cleared, and his hearing returned. He felt shaken but centered.

“Dr. Granger?” the nurse said again, touching his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he assured everyone. “Fine.” To them, he’d hopefully looked like a man only taking a strong pause. Surely they hadn’t sensed the panic that had churned inside. He could recover.

Taking a breath, Ben began the procedure. He somehow found his bearings; his confidence came back. But midway through, something went terribly wrong. The panic rushed in again, and his finger slipped, slicing his blade through a ventricle.

Ben struggled to maintain his focus, despite the frantic beeping of monitors, the scrambling of the anesthesiologist, and the nurses’ gasps. Miraculously, Ben was able to push through the chaos, high on adrenaline, to repair the damage in time to fix what he’d broken.

But afterward, hunched over and trembling in a dark corner of his office, he was convinced his career was over. After hearing about the incident, his supervisor ordered a mandatory leave of absence but reassured Ben that he would have his place back when he returned. The incident in the operating room wasn’t an unforgivable sin.

But Ben had already given up on himself. He’d made the decision in that dark corner. He couldn’t do it anymore—keep up appearances, pretending he was fine. It was all over. And part of him felt nothing but relief.

He scribbled his resignation on a sticky note and slapped it on his supervisor’s door. Then he rushed to his flat, texted his good friend Martin a vague explanation about life changes and the need to escape, packed a bag, and left his mobile phone behind. He took a taxi to the edge of London and began to walk. He wandered for weeks, sleeping in empty barns or renting a room at a random pub. He even slept on a grassy patch under a tree in the countryside. He didn’t care. His comfort didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Finally, in an unfamiliar Cotswold village, he’d collapsed in the middle of a street, near someone’s doorstep. That someone had taken him in and opened her home. She’d given him respite and so much more…

Reaching the top of the hill, Ben stopped and bent over, resting his hands on his knees as his breath puffed out in vapors. The stinging inside his lungs was almost unbearable, but at least he felt something.

After a moment, he stretched to his full height, raising his hands high above his head, and looked at the sky. A purple-and-orange sunrise lay before him, more beautiful than any he’d ever seen. He wished Amanda could have been there with him.

 

Hours later, Ben fought off a wave of guilt as he walked with George up to the church for the final night of activities. He owed George and Mary at least a warning that he would be leaving a bit sooner than they’d probably expected. But why ruin their Christmas Eve?

Near the church, the nativity spotlight beamed on Holly, who was wearing a powder-blue dress and head covering. Ben wondered if she was cold. He squinted and noticed a little commotion on Joseph’s—or Fletcher’s—part. He had abandoned his staff and was facing Holly squarely. They were supposed to be as still as statues, but Fletcher had reached inside his costume and was digging something out. George had seen it, too. He and Ben paused in the street.

“Let’s go see,” George suggested, taking a detour toward the nativity, and Ben followed.

Though he stood well behind the growing circle of onlookers, Ben was taller than nearly everyone else in the crowd, so he had a clear line of vision. George had to peer in between a couple of tourists to see.

Something was happening, something orchestrated. Ben watched Holly’s face shift from confusion to growing surprise—one arm holding the baby Jesus, a doll, while her other hand reached up to clamp her mouth shut. Her eyes grew wide, staring at the open ring box in Fletcher’s hand. He was trembling, down on one knee, and he mumbled something to her through his fake beard. Holly paused and nodded, hand still clamped over her mouth. Fletcher smiled and swooped her up in a strong embrace as the crowd cheered.

The proposal hadn’t surprised Ben—he’d overheard Fletcher the other day as they were clearing away the booths, asking Adam how he’d proposed to Noelle. Odd, though, that he would choose a nativity scene for a proposal. But, as Ben thought about it, the proposal also seemed unique—and rather appropriate. Weren’t Mary and Joseph engaged when she gave birth to Jesus? And what better way to surprise Holly than to pop the question on Christmas Eve? A night to remember.

“Good for them,” George said then resumed his walk as Ben trailed behind.

They had arrived early for the concert, to see if the choir needed a hand in moving anything on or off the stage. The ladies began their warm-up, with only twenty minutes until the concert. After helping move a couple of chairs offstage, Ben and George took their seats up front, where they each studied a paper program Mary had thrust into their hands when they first arrived.

“Mr. Granger? I mean… Dr. Granger?” Ben heard from behind. He looked around to see Caroline Lamb shyly entering his pew with her little boy.

“Hi,” Ben said, hoping to put him at ease.

“Dear, tell him what we said,” Caroline coached her son in a whisper.

“Thank you,” the boy told Ben, “for saving me.”

“You’re quite welcome. I’m glad you’re all right.”

Caroline opened her mouth to speak, her bottom lip trembling. “Thank you so much for yesterday. I don’t know how I can ever—”

“It’s okay,” Ben said. “It all worked out.”

“I should have had the medicine with me,” she explained. “I always carry it in my bag, but I didn’t have a spare this time. I felt like such a fool. And if you hadn’t been there to get into Dr. Andrews’s office for us, I can’t imagine…”

Ben reached out to pat her hand as a tear splashed down her cheek. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself.” Hearing those words come out of his own mouth, Ben wondered if he really meant them. He didn’t believe them in his own case, so why should he utter them so assuredly to someone else?

“You’ll never know how grateful I am.” She slipped back out of the pew with the boy as quietly as she’d entered.

“Ben!” Mary approached him, her face frantic.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mrs. O’Grady. She’s taken ill. She’s just phoned and said she won’t make it here after all.”

“I’m sorry?” He didn’t understand what the woman’s absence could possibly have had to do with him.

“She’s our pianist,” Mary said, emphasizing the word so he would understand.

“Oh.” The light came on. “No. No, no, no…” Ben shook his head and raised his hands.

“But you’d be brilliant!” she pleaded. “No trouble at all for you. And it’s only three songs, not even the whole concert. The rest is a capella.”

“Mary, I’m sorry. I just can’t—”

“Ben, please. I’m begging you. The ladies need you.” She paused. “I need you.”

He saw the desperation in her eyes. She was making a refusal absolutely impossible.

He blew out a long sigh. “Right, then. I’ll do it.”

“Bless you!” She reached over and clasped his cheeks with her cold hands, giving his forehead a quick peck.

She jounced back to her place in the choir, and Ben asked George with a wince, “What have I just done?”

“What I do every single day—anything Mary says.” He grinned, slapping Ben on the back as he got up to do his duty.

Mary was right—the songs themselves were no trouble for him. Ben glanced at the simple sheet music before rehearsing them once through with the choir, which more than adequately prepared him for the concert. Sight-reading had never been a problem for him.

But as he watched people file in, mulling about to find seats, his nerves gathered strength. He’d played concerts as a teenager, with all eyes on him, but that had been decades ago.

Soon, the vicar’s wife approached center stage, holding her baton and welcoming the crowd, whose conversations had dwindled to a few whispers. Ben’s fingers hovered over the keys, ready for her baton’s command. He played shyly at first, perhaps too shyly, being careful not to overpower the ladies’ voices as they sang “O Holy Night.” He’d never accompanied voices before. Following her baton accurately was a bit of a challenge, as he could barely see it from where he was sitting. But he got through it and waited his turn through four a capella songs, until they reached “Ding Dong Merrily on High.” Then he waited a little more before the grand finale, “Angels We Have Heard on High.” The crowd appeared to enjoy it, clapping and cheering after the final song. Ben regretted ever turning Mary down in the first place—what had it really cost him to help her out?

When the clapping subsided, the vicar’s wife started to thank the audience, but Mary interrupted to whisper something to her.

“Oh, yes—and we want to thank Dr. Ben Granger, nephew to Mary Cartwright, for stepping in at the last minute. Wasn’t he wonderful?” More applause followed. Embarrassed, Ben dipped his head in acknowledgment then exited the piano’s nook.

“Oh, Ben, that was marvelous.” Mary approached him as the crowd dispersed, and she leaned in to give him a hug. “You’re a lifesaver!” She caught her own play on words and said sheepishly, “Both figuratively and literally, I suppose…”

“No trouble at all. Glad to help out.”

A few of Mary’s friends stood behind her, taking turns to compliment his playing.

“Hey, nice job, Doc!” Ben turned around to see Adam grinning. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Ben shrugged. “Music lessons as a boy. Drudgery.”

“Well, look who I brought with me.” Adam stepped aside to reveal his wife, Noelle, holding their brand-new baby boy. Ben could only see the center of his pink face, eyes closed in tiny slits. The rest of him was wrapped up tight in a fleecy blue blanket.

“Meet my namesake. Adam Junior.” Adam pulled back the edge of the blanket so Ben could get a better look.

Ben knew what he was supposed to say. Congratulations, beautiful baby, how much did he weigh? But none of it came through. All he could do was stare at the button nose and remember another button nose: a baby almost that same size, lifeless, whom he’d held for ten minutes then given up to a nurse, his arms trembling and mind reeling.

“I’m… happy for you,” Ben managed to utter then stepped back to find the air. The church felt stifling and suffocating. People had begun exiting through the back, and Mary grabbed Ben’s arm. “We’re all going down to the pub. Christmas Eve celebration! Drinks are on Joe.”

Ben nodded to let her know he understood. “You go on.” He slipped through a side entrance close by, tipping the door shut behind him. He hadn’t even known where it led, only that it led away from that baby, away from that reminder.

He remained in the narrow hallway, his back flush against the cold stone wall, and made himself breathe. In. Out. In. Out. His breaths came in gasps. He traced the angled shadow on the opposite wall with his eyes, trying to steady his focus on something. He followed the sharp line up to the corner then down again to the opposite corner, until his breathing slowed.

Several minutes passed before he was sure he wouldn’t black out, and by the time he reached out to turn the brass knob, he felt marginally better, at least physically.

The church was completely empty, and Ben realized that the thought of singing Christmas carols in a cheery pub nearly made him nauseated. They would make a mockery of the anguish going on inside him. Christmas made less sense than ever, though he’d been a crucial part of the celebration just an hour earlier, and even in the weeks before, he’d constructed a manger for the baby Jesus. What have I been doing all this time? Playing a role?

His legs carried him over to a center pew up front. Unable to go any farther, he slumped down, dead weight. All of him felt dead.

 

“You go on, dear. I’ve left something behind. I’ll return in a few minutes,” Mary promised George at the pub’s door.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She patted his arm and headed off for the church.

She had seen the way Ben looked at that baby. He’d tried to cover the shift in his gaze, but he hadn’t fooled her.

After a chilling walk, she opened the church door with a grunt and saw him immediately, hunched over in a pew. Obviously a broken man. Mary only hoped he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

She walked quietly, shrugging off her nerves. Am I intruding? What if I say the wrong thing? Still, she followed her intuition and pressed on. Halfway down the aisle, she saw Ben turn with a start.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He turned back around and folded his hands over the pew in front of him. She recognized a flash of silver between his fingers—the angel she’d found beside him in the snow.

She assumed the last thing he wanted was company, but she’d danced around the question for far too long. It was time. It was Christmas Eve, he was in pain, and it was time. No more messing about.

She sat down beside him, leaving a bit of space between them. After a moment, Mary spoke. “Tell me, Ben.”

He inhaled a deep, conscious breath, and she wondered if he’d been crying before she came in. He cleared his throat and folded his fingers together—the angel disappeared between his palms.

Ben stared up at the stained glass as he spoke. “Her name was Amanda. We were married thirteen years ago. University sweethearts. We were one of those couples you envy and even sort of hate for being so completely in love. We were best friends. She knew everything about me—every weakness, every insecurity. And she never held them against me.” He reached up to wipe his nose then refolded his hands. “She helped me work my way through med school without a single complaint. Then she endured my residency and new position on staff. The long hours, the nights on call, the boring parties. All of it.”

Mary stared ahead as he spoke. Picturing her, Mary wondered how pretty Amanda was, what color her hair might’ve been, and how she and Ben had looked together.

“The time came to start a family, and we thought it would be easy, like everything else that came to us. But after the first year, we realized it wouldn’t be… easy. So, we went through the necessary tests and treatments and trials. We did it for two years, barely hanging on. And after three miscarriages, she got pregnant again.”

Mary felt her throat catch with excitement, then she remembered his brokenness. His story wouldn’t end well.

Ben’s voice remained even and low—detached. “It was a Tuesday night, a busy one for me. Amanda was in her eighth month but was having some difficulties. Eclampsia—high blood pressure,” he clarified. “It can be dangerous, so she was on bed rest. Her mother was able to come and help during days, and I got the night shift.”

He peered into his hands and rubbed the angel with his thumb. “Anyway, that night, I was offered a case—a surgery I’d never done before, one I’d been hoping for, talking about for months. I’d already worked a thirteen-hour shift and was knackered. But Amanda insisted over the phone. It was a chance I couldn’t miss, she said. She and the baby would be fine. She was about to go to sleep anyway and would see me in the morning. So, I took the case. And when I got home…”

Mary heard his breath change. She wanted to help somehow, offer comfort, but she had to stay out of the way.

“I found her on the floor, beside the bed, unconscious but still breathing. She must’ve fainted trying to get out of bed and hit her head. The eclampsia was likely a factor, but the doctors were never sure. I rushed to her side, cradled her with one hand and rang for an ambulance with the other. I talked to her, stroked her hair for the eternity it took the ambulance to arrive, praying she would just open her eyes. A flutter, anything.” He was talking to the air as if seeing the scene all over again. “Please, God. Just a sign. But it didn’t come. We rode in the ambulance, and they delivered the baby an hour later at the hospital. Stillborn. Angelina was her name. I held her, memorized her features. The most beautiful hair… honey-colored. Like Amanda’s. And then they took her away from me. Amanda was still critical—she’d had a brain hemorrhage. I stayed with her that night, held her hand, told her about Angelina. Begged her to fight, to stay with me. I couldn’t lose them both. But she died four and a half hours later. She took her last breath at 5:22 a.m.”

For the first time, he made eye contact with Mary, his gaze watery and helpless, like a little boy’s. But there was anger, too, as he squinted through the tears, causing one to slide down his cheek. “This was my fault. I was daft and selfish, choosing a prestigious case over my own wife. I should have been there with her—I could have saved her, called sooner for help. And my baby girl…”

His face twisted into a sob, and Mary leaned in to catch him as he dipped toward her, burying his face in her shoulder. He gripped her tightly, weeping into the soft cotton fabric of her coat. The sound echoed inside the church’s walls.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re all right.” She patted his back and waited for him to finish, fighting back her own tears. She could break down later, privately. She had to be the strong one now.

Soon, the sobs turned to slower breaths, and Ben backed away, wiping his eyes with his fingers. “I’m so sorry…” he whispered.

“For what?”

“Losing control.”

“Ben.” She waited until he made eye contact. “You needed to lose control. It was high time.”

He cast his eyes downward.

“You’ve been through a horrific trauma,” she whispered, praying for all the right words. “You lived through hell, and only a short time ago. And I’d venture that you haven’t told this story to another soul since it happened.”

He nodded.

“I’m honored that you told me. I’m honored to know about your wife, your daughter. They deserve to be talked about. Remembered.”

Ben flicked away another tear. “Thank you.”

“And I have news for you.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t your fault. You were a loving husband, a loving father-to-be. These deaths—these losses—are not on your head. You are not to blame.”

Ben’s tone became frustrated, even angry. “I’m a rational man, Mary. I know better than that. If I’d rejected the case and gone home instead, I would have saved her. At least gotten her help in time. She would be with me, right here, today. But instead, I saved a stranger’s life and lost my family.”

“How do you know?” Mary urged. “How do you know, one hundred percent, that she wouldn’t have died, anyway? Yes, you’re a rational man. So, can you guarantee that your presence would’ve prevented that? Absolutely guaranteed?”

He paused then relented. “No. But it might have. You don’t understand. I was a workaholic. My career was everything. More important than my family.”

“Rubbish!” Mary said more firmly than she meant. “You’re telling yourself that so you can continue feeling guilty. You loved your wife—I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. Look at the angel you cling to—the one you had in your hand the night you collapsed. You loved them both more than any surgery, more than any job. That night was a horrible tragedy. But it wasn’t your fault.”

For a second, she thought he might’ve believed her, but then he retorted with, “Well, if it wasn’t my fault, then maybe it was God’s. He’s in control of everything, isn’t He? Why would He allow it? Amanda didn’t do anything wrong. She was blameless. So was my little girl. Why couldn’t He have taken me instead?” His eyes filled with anguish again.

“Oh, Ben.” Mary shook her head. “Why does it have to be anyone’s fault? Does that make it easier to accept? Does that bring them back to you?”

Ben shook his head. “No. It doesn’t.”

She calmed her voice, knowing where she had to go next but not knowing if she had the strength to do it. “Look. I, of all people, understand wanting to blame someone and needing to ask, ‘What if?’ Don’t you think I asked myself that question a million times after Sheldon’s death? What if I had insisted he not go to London? What if that car had made its left turn five seconds later? But I’ve learned that it changes nothing. What-ifs are poison. Those questions are futile. They didn’t bring Sheldon back to me. And I discovered something. I was damaging his memory by obsessing about it. I was wasting time focusing on the questions rather than on the precious time he’d spent with me on this earth. There comes a time for acceptance. For faith. For letting go, just a little bit. Not of your memories or of your daughter and wife—but of the blame. Of the guilt. Ben, that sort of guilt will destroy you. It nearly destroyed me.”

Somewhere in the middle of her speech, Ben had softened. She couldn’t find the anger in his eyes anymore. In fact, the intensity of his expression told her he had soaked in every word.

He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again in a whisper, “How? How do I get there? To your place of acceptance? I don’t think I can…”

“It will come,” she said, placing a hand on top of his. “It takes time. You must give yourself time. There’s no other way.”

Her hand left his, to reach for the Bible in the pew. She put on her glasses as she spoke. “I know you might not want to hear this, but there’s a verse that absolutely got me through those early days. And although it didn’t fully answer the question of why, it gave me inexplicable comfort.”

She flipped through until she found the right passage in Psalms 139. She knew it by heart but didn’t trust her weary mind to be accurate. She read aloud: “‘For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb… All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.’” She removed her glasses to look at Ben again. “That tells me that every person, every creature who is born, has a very specific number of days to live on this earth. ‘Ordained,’ it says. Don’t you see? We have no power over those ordained days. They’re set in stone. Permanent. There is nothing I could’ve done to help Sheldon. It was his time to go, no matter if I wasn’t ready for it. His days were already ordained for him. Just like Amanda’s. And your little girl’s.” She said her next words slowly, purposefully: “There is nothing that you could have done to change that. It was entirely out of your hands.”

Sharing scripture was a great risk—it might even do the opposite of what she hoped for. He might shut down or close off as he mentally scoffed at her ridiculous theories. But after a moment, she saw in his eyes a difference: an acknowledgment that what she had said might—just might—hold a little merit.

“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching for a hug. This time, it wasn’t a desperate, mournful hug but a solid one—a little less broken.

He leaned away, rubbing his face and sighing deeply. “I’ve kept you from your party.”

“No, you haven’t. I would’ve rather been here than anywhere else.”

Ben reached down and squeezed her hand, and she could tell her time was up. He needed to sort through things on his own.

She replaced the Bible and stood, feeling somehow that her talk had helped her even more than it might’ve helped Ben. She felt oddly renewed, and the image of Sheldon appeared fresh in her mind. She realized tears had formed, knowing that her Sheldon might have helped someone else find his way tonight…

 

After Mary left, Ben opened the Bible again, found the passage she’d read to him, and kept on reading. Mary’s words resonated in his mind as he thumbed through page after page. He could hear her intent and, beneath it, an earnest and steadfast faith. She had spoken from heartbreaking experience, and she had given Ben precisely what he’d needed. The truth. He had longed to hear it for months, and finally, someone found the courage to offer it.

He ached for Mary’s kind of faith, one that could anchor him. He always had. He’d tried to fill that void all his life with good grades and accomplishments, with a career, and even with a marriage and fatherhood. But everything was fallible. Even a wife, or a child, could be taken away in a single heartbeat. And so, when everything else was gone, what else was left?

Mary’s advice hadn’t made him ache any less for Amanda or Angelina. It hadn’t resolved all his questions or even diminished all the anger and guilt he still held. But in the two hours since their conversation, Ben had started to challenge the thought patterns and beliefs he’d so stubbornly clung to for months. He analyzed his life from a different angle, inside a new dimension. His first instinct had been to fight any change in thought, but what Mary had spoken was too powerful. It made too much sense to him. He had experienced nothing less than an epiphany.

Ben rose from the pew as if he were an old man. His bones creaked, and his muscles quivered. Yet, inside, he felt… relaxed. People always spoke of a calm before the storm. But what about the calm after a storm? After tears have been shed, demons have been confronted, battled, and slayed, and fallacies have been brought to light? He’d experienced a near euphoria, much like a cool-down after a long, exhausting workout, after the body has been tested to its limits, endured hardship and discomfort, then come out the other side. A relaxed, easy, exhilarating calm sets in.

Ben made his way out of the church doors, in no hurry, knowing he’d experienced a clear change of heart, similar to what Scrooge experienced on his own Christmas Eve. There was no other way to describe it. Hope had sprung where only despair had been. Excitement grew where dullness had festered. He wasn’t sure how a newfound hope would influence his future days. But he was actually able to picture future days with more than just dread or uncertainty. The world contained color again. There was life still to be lived—and people still to love, as the villagers in Chilton Crosse had shown him. They had no reason to love him or care about him. But still, they had.

Ben walked out into the falling snow and paused. He could see the entire village from the spot where he stood—the shops, the pub, and Mistletoe Cottage at the end of the street, its lights twinkling in the darkness. Not a soul was in sight so late on Christmas Eve.

He started to walk. Everywhere. On empty pavements in front of the shops. On the fringes of the village behind Storey Road. On vacant country roads. The cold didn’t affect him—he was used to it, numb to it. Each step brought him closer to sorting out his epiphany, filling in the gaps and answering the questions. He turned them over and over in his mind until he was sure of something. And when he was sure, he went to the only place that made sense to him in that moment.

Dark and empty, the nativity was lit only by the full moon. Ben approached the rugged manger he’d crafted with his own hands. He saw the baby inside: a doll wrapped lovingly in a blanket. Jesus.

Before that night, before knowing Mary Cartwright and her faith in this child, Ben hadn’t thought much of Jesus beyond a few Bible stories. But this was the source of her faith—this person, this God. He was the reason she was able to live life with such peace and joy, even in the face of unspeakable tragedy. What is it about Him that gives people such hope?

Ben wanted to know more. He had to know more. And so…

 

No one in the village saw the dark shadow kneel, stamping deep craters in the powdery snow. No one heard the thump of his hopeful heart or saw the tremble in his fingers as he clutched the silver angel. And no one could hear the earnest, searching prayer he uttered to a small baby lying in a manger.