Christmas in Harmony (7 page)

Barbara reached over and took my hand, her face tight with concern. “What do you suppose is happening?” she asked again.

“I’m not sure. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

W
hen I arrived at the meetinghouse the day before Christmas Eve, Dale Hinshaw and Asa Peacock were waiting in my office.

“It’s not my fault,” Dale said, as I came through the door. “You shoulda told us you were coming. It wasn’t my fault it blew up.”

“What blew up?” I asked, wading into the conversation at midstream.

“My pickup truck,” Asa moaned. “I heard shooting in my back field last night. I thought it was hunters. When I went to run ’em off, Dale shot at me and hit the gas tank. I barely got out before the truck exploded.”

Dale reddened Well, what did you expect? It was pitch black. How could I know it was you? Besides, you said we could use your field for our security training.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to be out there at night,” Asa complained.

“Will someone please tell me what this has to do with our church?” I asked.

“Dale said the church’ll buy me another truck, since they were there on church business,” Asa explained.

“Wasn’t your truck insured?”

Asa glared at Dale. “Try telling that to Dale. He’s my insurance agent, but he said this type of thing isn’t covered, that the church has to pay for it.”

I stared at Dale. “Let me get this right. You blew up Asa’s truck and you expect the church to pay for it?”

Dale shrugged and looked helpless, as if the matter were out of his hands. “Asa’s policy doesn’t cover acts of war.”

One more day, and it would all be over. Dale would be gone to his sister-in-law’s house a hundred miles away. The progressive Nativity scene would be done with, at least for another year.

“Dale, the church didn’t ask you to provide security for the Nativity scene. That was your idea. Now you’ve blown up Asa’s truck. You’re his insurance agent, so you figure out a way to pay him for his truck.” I spoke slowly so he would understand.

“I want a 1968 red Ford,” Asa said. “Just like I had.”

“Asa, can’t you see I got more important things to worry about just now?” Dale said. He turned toward me. “Ned Kivett wants his angel of the Lord back. We can’t have a Nativity scene without an angel of the Lord. I was thinkin’ maybe I could borrow one of your boys.”

“Borrow one of my boys? What would you do with him?”

“Dangle him from a branch over the manger. It’ll only be for a couple hours. He can wear long underwear so he don’t get cold. All he has to do is yell, ‘Glory to God in the highest!’ every now and then.”

“I don’t think so, Dale. Why don’t you make an angel of the Lord out of plywood like the Baptist church?”

He frowned. “That won’t do. Dang that Ned Kivett anyway.”

“I would love for you to stay and visit,” I lied, “but I have work to do.”

I ushered them to the door, said my good-byes, told Frank not to let anyone in, then locked my office door and lay down on the couch in my office—an unsold remnant from a church rummage sale years before. I could feel a throbbing pain start at the back of my head, move over my scalp, and center itself between my eyes. A Dale migraine.

Twenty years before, I had sat in this very office and confided in Pastor Taylor that I wanted to be a minister, having mistaken Miriam Hodge’s compliment on my Youth Sunday sermon as a sign of God’s call. Now it was too late. I was tied to the tracks and the progressive Nativity scene was steaming toward me—my punishment for taking the wrong path in life.

Pastor Taylor had suggested I find another vocation and volunteer in the church instead. “You don’t want to do this,” he’d said. “Your life isn’t your own, and the pay’s lousy. People hound you all the time. Why don’t you get a normal job and volunteer in the church. You don’t have to be a pastor.”

But I was young and pigheaded and couldn’t be dissuaded. In arrogance born of youthfulness, I presumed I would be a better pastor than Pastor Taylor and could easily master the challenges that had discouraged him. I hadn’t counted on Dale Hinshaw.

I knocked off at noontime to eat lunch with Frank at the Coffee Cup. It was more crowded than usual, the farmers having come to town to buy Christmas gifts for their wives. We had to sit on stools at the counter, beside the Juicy Fruit rack next to the cash register. Large, pear-shaped men lined up behind me to pay their bills. I spent my lunch craning my neck around to answer their questions. “Yes, I’m fine. She’s fine, too.” “No, I hadn’t heard that joke. I’ll have to remember it.” “Last Sunday’s offering was fine, thank you, did you want to add to it?” That usually silenced them.

There were a few comments about the progressive Nativity scene. Didn’t we think ten dollars was too much? Why had Dale shot at Asa? Would he be shooting anyone else? Was it safe to take their children? I assured them the money was going for a good cause, Brother Norman’s shoe ministry to the Choctaw Indians, and that we had told Dale not to bring his gun.

Then Frank and I discussed our Christmas plans. He was going to help me with the livestock, then hit the sack, wake up early, and call his daughter and granddaughter in North Carolina.

“You could be down there by midnight if you left now,” I said. “The roads are clear. Why not go be with your family?”

“They didn’t invite me. Besides, they’re leaving for vacation to Florida on Christmas afternoon. Plus, who’d help you with the livestock?”

“There’s not much livestock left,” I said. “Barbara loaded the pigs in the car and took them back to Ellis and Miriam’s. She said Jewish people wouldn’t have had pigs anyway. I guess Dale hadn’t thought of that. Now we’re down to a cow, a sheep, and a goose.”

“Do you know none of the Gospels mention any animals at the birth of Jesus?”

“I know that, and you know that, but don’t tell Dale. He’ll get all worked up.”

“And according to the Gospel of Matthew, the wise men didn’t show up until two years later,” Frank observed. “Did you know that?”

“Yes, but don’t say anything to Bea. She’s been sewing wise men costumes all week.”

“Did you know Mark’s Gospel doesn’t even mention Jesus’ birth, and that most scholars consider it the most accurate Gospel?” he asked.

I looked at him. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Frank, have you been reading my
Progressive Christianity
magazine again?”

“It was on top of your desk. Besides, if you don’t want people knowing you read those kind of magazines, you need to hide them under your mattress.”

Penny came to take our dishes away. “Not meaning to be rude, but it is Christmas Eve and some people would like to get home early. Like me, for instance, so could you two move along, for crying out loud?”

We settled up our bill, then went our separate ways, Frank to his house and me to mine. I kept our sons occupied while Barbara hid out in the bedroom wrapping Christmas presents. Even though we were down to three animals, it took several hours to groom them. Except for the goose, who was opposed to grooming, and pecked me on the head when I tried to brush him. That was fine with me. If he wanted to go out in public looking like a mess, that was his business.

Frank came for supper, then we herded our menagerie out to the front yard for the livestock portion of the progressive Nativity scene. It was already dark. We’d no sooner staked out the animals than Bob Miles from the
Herald
stopped to take a picture. “You’re the second stop. I just came from Dale’s. Boy, he’s got some setup over there. Signs and lights and Clevis Nagle running the sound system. How Dale ever got his wife up in that tree, I’ll never know.”

“His wife?”

“Yep, she’s supposed to be the angel of the Lord. But I think they’ve had a fight. He told her she needed to look more joyful, and she told him, well, maybe I better not say what she told him. Anyway, she didn’t look too happy.”

He pulled his camera from his bag. “Sam, if you could, why don’t you stand next to the animals so I can get your picture. I’ll make sure you get some extra copies to send to your relatives out of town.”

“No thank you, Bob. I’d rather they never found out about this.”

He snapped a dozen pictures before moving on to Asa and Jessie Peacock’s house to view the Holy Family.

By now I was anxious to visit the other stops. I asked Frank to hold down the fort while I traveled the progressive Nativity circuit. Dale’s house was closest, so I went there first. I wasn’t expecting much, so I was surprised to see cars lining both sides of the street for several blocks in each direction. It looked as though everyone in town was there. I had to park three blocks away. I hung back from the crowd, not wanting to be publicly identified with this event, trying to appear as if I were from out of town and had wandered past by accident.

The sound of static filled the air, then the clearing of a throat, and Clevis Nagle came on the sound system. “Welcome to the Progressive Nativity Scene of Harmony Friends Meeting, sound system compliments of Clevis Nagle and the Royal Theater. We’ll be closed this week, but will reopen the day after Christmas with a showing of
Santa Claws!
See what happens when an escaped grizzly dismembers a mid-Western family on Christmas Eve! As usual, family discounts are available. So bring the kids for an unforgettable evening of holiday fun!”

Dale stood off to the side, beaming.

I had seen enough. I walked back to my car, then drove out to the country to Asa and Jessie’s house to see the Holy Family. There was no one there, except for Asa and Jessie in bathrobes, who looked a little long in the tooth to be with child. They were clustered around the Baby Jesus, compliments of Kivett’s Five and Dime. Behind them, in the barnyard, I could see the blackened husk of Asa’s truck.

I climbed from the car. We exchanged pleasantries. “Been busy?” I asked.

“Not a soul’s been by,” Asa said.

“Everyone’s over at Dale’s,” I said. “They’ll be by before long.”

We visited for a while, but still no one came, so I left for Bea’s house. No one was there either, except for three wise men—Ellis Hodge, Fern’s nephew Ervin, and the radio man from WEAK, who appeared to be giving serious thought to finding another line of work. They were huddled around a small fire, rubbing their hands briskly, while also trying to look reverent as they worshiped the Baby Jesus, which was no small trick since he was three miles away in Asa’s front yard.

I asked if anyone had stopped by.

“Not a soul,” they reported.

This was worse than the Christmas the year of Pastor Taylor’s midlife crisis, when he’d read from the California Bible.

I pushed on to Fern’s house, not looking forward to facing thirty irate Friendly Women. But, to my surprise, it was packed. The cookie sales were brisk, Fern reported happily. Apparently, people had decided to skip Jesus and go straight to the refreshments. Not an altogether uncommon occurrence.

I visited briefly with the ladies of the Circle, drank some hot chocolate, then took half a dozen cookies back to Frank. No one had stopped by. “I don’t think they’re getting it,” he said. “I don’t think people understood they were supposed to come by here next.”

“They’re over at Fern’s eating cookies,” I explained. “Asa and Jessie didn’t have anyone stop by either.”

“Mind if I go home?” he asked.

“No, go ahead. And thanks for your help, Frank. I appreciate it.”

“Need some help getting the animals in?”

“No, I can handle it.”

We waved good-bye, and then I led the animals back to the garage.

My boys were still up, but in their pajamas, so I read them a story, answered their barrage of questions, then tucked them in. Barbara was downstairs arranging their presents under the tree. I was too preoccupied to sleep, so I decided to go for a walk.

I headed toward town, past Dale’s house. The people were gone, and Dale was taking down the sound system. I hoped in the dark he wouldn’t notice me, but he did. “What a night that was,” he said. “Wasn’t that something?”

“It certainly was something,” I agreed.

“Did you get by the Peacocks’ house?” he asked.

“Yes, I did.”

Dale paused for a moment, and a thoughtful look crossed his face. Never having seen Dale look thoughtful, I was caught off guard.

“You know, Sam, having the Nativity scene spread out like that kinda reminded me how we never really see the full picture. We think we do, but mostly we’re just lookin’ at bits and pieces, thinkin’ we’re seeing the whole thing.”

I was utterly stunned at his insight.

“Say,” Dale said, “this was such a hit, why don’t we be thinkin’ about doing something like this for Easter? Maybe have a Crucifixion in my yard and the Resurrection in your yard. Wouldn’t that be something?”

It appeared Dale’s detour into wisdom would be a brief one.

“I guess it’s something to think about,” I said. “Well, Dale, you take care. Safe travels to your sister-in-law’s.”

I continued walking toward town. Before long, I could see the Christmas lights the Odd Fellows had strung across Main Street. It was late and still, except for an occasional car driving by. I walked past the meetinghouse and noticed Frank had left a light on, so I went in to turn it off. Frank was there, seated by himself in the third pew, right-hand side.

I wasn’t going to disturb him, but he looked up, noticed me, and motioned for me to sit beside him.

“Hey, Frank.”

“Hey, Sam.”

“Everything all right?”

“Oh, sure. I don’t know. I was just walking past and thought I’d sit for a while. It’s nice in here.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “Very peaceful.”

“So I’m sitting here thinking old-man thoughts.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet.

“Mostly remembering when my daughter was little and we’d sit here on Christmas Eve. She’d be in her pajamas. Right here.” He patted his lap. “Now she’s in North Carolina. I wonder how she is.”

“I’m sure she’s just fine,” I said.

He didn’t speak for several moments. “I missed this tonight. I missed the Gospel of Luke and going to the basement for cookies.”

“I did, too, Frank. I missed it, too.”

We grew quiet, remembering. Frank with his Yule thoughts, and me with mine. Sitting at the dining-room table writing out Christmas cards with my wife. Walking the aisles of the Five and Dime searching for the perfect gift, my sons in tow. Finding that exquisite tree at Grant’s Hardware, eight feet tall with vertical integrity, a tree among trees. Watching Clarence the angel rescue George Bailey on a Friday night at the Royal. My boys sitting on Santa’s lap—one a skeptic, the other a true believer. Tucking them in bed not an hour before, their little bodies squirming with excitement. Still little, and still with me, and not in North Carolina. Not even the prospect of Dale’s progressive Easter could dampen that.