A Christmas Miracle Comes to Holy Nativity

A Christmas Miracle

Comes to Holy Nativity

KEN REGAN

Copyright © 2013 Ken Regan.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-0730-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0731-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0729-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916049

WestBow Press rev. date: 09/09/2013

CONTENTS

NEW YEAR’S EVE

JANUARY

FEBRUARY

VALENTINE’S DAY

MARCH

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

APRIL FOOLS’ DAY

HOLY WEEK

MAY

MOTHER’S DAY

SUMMER

FALL

THANKSGIVING

DECEMBER

CHRISTMAS EVE

NEW YEAR’S DAY

for Sophia, Greyson, Isabela, Leila, and Max

NEW YEAR’S EVE

H ow did you ever get approved to be a minister anyway? You have absolutely no aptitude for it. You’re a klutz, a terrible preacher, . . . why, you’re the most introverted person I’ve ever met.

Well, Bishop, I guess I’ve always believed I’ve had this guardian angel watching out over me.

Oh god. Bishop Henry Abbott took in a deep breath. In his 30 years of ministry, the last 10 of them as the Bishop of the New England Lutheran Synod, he had never met anyone quite like the young man sitting nervously in the chair facing his desk.

William F. Sanders, Bill, firmly placed his right hand over his right leg in an effort to control the leg’s involuntary shaking. But that only set his left leg off, which was leaning against the Bishop’s desk. The desk began vibrating in tune with the leg’s constant motion.

What the… ? Bishop Abbott put both his hands on top of the papers on his desk. Do you feel that?

What?

That… movement. Almost like a small earthquake.

Bill quickly moved his leg away from the desk.

That’s odd. Very odd. The Bishop sat back in his chair. Look, son, the Bishop took in another breath, trying hard to be more pastoral, you’re still young… What? 25?

Yes. Bill answered meekly.

Did you ever consider doing anything else?

To the Bishop it looked like Bill hadn’t a thought in his head. But in fact, Bill was thinking quite intensely, his mind racing forward and backward in time in a single second. He was at his father’s funeral, then in his own pastorate, a large congregation in Connecticut, his wife and three children gazing lovingly at him from the front pew, then back in his father’s church, a small child sitting in the front pew, watching his father in the pulpit, thinking he was God. This is where he wanted to be. This is where he always wanted to be. He could see no other path. He needed to express this to the Bishop with all the conviction he could muster.

Well, uh, I don’t think so. he spoke softly.

The Bishop opened up the file directly in front of him. William, Bill, I want you to listen to me for a moment.

Yes sir. Bill inclined his head closer to listen, but the corner of his eye caught the first glimpse of snow falling from the window behind the bishop. He struggled to tune in on the Bishop’s words while taking in the wonder of the snow.

You’ve been out of seminary for six months now. I’ve put your name into seven different churches throughout New England, but everyone turned you down. Now this last one, . . . the Bishop pushed his glasses up his nose to study the file. This last one, you preached a Christmas sermon, a Christmas sermon, and bombed out completely. Bishop Abbott’s glasses slid back down his nose. How can you blow a Christmas sermon?"

Well, uh, actually I thought it was quite good. Bill sat up in his chair. I spent a lot of time getting that one just right.

You preached on ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’. The Bishop’s head fell back, then quickly poked back forward. "And you even got Linus mixed up with Snoopy. Bill, this church was, well, I don’t like to say this, but… But this one was the bottom of the barrel. They haven’t had a pastor in five years, and they still didn’t vote for you. I just don’t have any other places to send you."

Bill could see the frustration in the Bishop’s face. So, what now? he asked hopefully.

The Bishop felt a slight smile creep onto his face. Bill, he began, you know I like you. I really do. You have this certain naive quality about you that’s lacking in the clergy of today. Maybe we could all use some of that. But, Bill, I also think that your naivete will get you eaten alive the way the church is today.

Henry Abbott allowed his thoughts to drift for a moment. He thought back to his own earlier days as a wide-eyed minister fresh out of seminary, back before reality kicked in. He thought about the man who got him started down the path of ordained ministry, Bill’s dad, Rev. William A. Sanders.

Bill, he began again, tenderness slipping into his voice for the first time. This file contains your slip-ups, missteps, mediocre reports. He patted the papers, then closed the file. But it doesn’t tell the whole story. I’ve been watching you, Bill, during your four years of seminary. I know it wasn’t easy for you. There were setbacks. You didn’t get a whole lot of encouragement. There were many with far more skills than you who dropped out. But you hung in there. You fought and worked harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. You really want this, don’t you?

Yes. Bill said matter-of-factly.

I know you do. Bishop Abbott smiled and talked softly. Bill, you know how much I admired your dad. But I think that’s part of the problem. Your father was quite a man, quite a pastor. He was well known and respected throughout this synod. He was a dynamic preacher, very personable, very charismatic. He single-handedly built up the largest congregation in the whole synod. When he died he left some mighty big shoes to fill. And Bill, son, I’m afraid that you’re just not the one to fill them.

I know that. Bill said, for the first time a twinge of sadness entering his voice.

I don’t mean to be harsh, son. I don’t know of anyone who could fill your father’s shoes. And maybe it’s unfair to make a comparison. But as long as you stay in New England it’s going to happen. You’ll always be in your father’s shadow. I don’t think you stand a chance in this town, son.

So, uh, what are you saying, exactly? Bill’s confusion was showing.

The Bishop pulled out another file from the pile. Bill, the bishop of the Central Pennsylvania Synod, Harold Simpson, is an old friend of mine. We were classmates in seminary. He opened the file. I talked to him about your, er, situation. He has a church looking for a pastor that might be suitable for you.

How so?

They’re desperate.

Oh.

It’s a real small congregation. Holy Nativity. They can barely afford to pay a pastor. They’ve had some trouble in the past…

What kind of trouble?

Harold wouldn’t tell me. Look, Bill, this may be your last shot at getting a church. It may not be much, but you would be a pastor at last. The Bishop shifted in his chair. Here’s a way of looking at it. Today is the last day of the year. Tomorrow starts a new year. It can be a fresh start for you. Put the troubles of this past year behind you and get a whole new start in a new place where nobody knows you.

Sounds good to me. Bill’s legs finally stopped shaking. He looked out the window and saw that the snow was coming down steadily. He smiled.

As Bill drove the two hours back home to New London, Connecticut from the Synod Office in Massachusetts, he re-ran the discussion with the Bishop through his mind in an endless loop. Every now and then he let out a groan when a witty reply that he could have used suddenly came to him.

He tried to put it all behind him as he stopped along the Connecticut Turnpike to get some gas. He had put gas in before leaving from home that morning, but since his gas gauge wasn’t working quite right, he figured it was better to be safe than sorry. The gas gauge was just one of many things that didn’t work right on the ’63 Pontiac Le Mans convertible that he had inherited from his father. It was his father’s prized possession, the thing that had come the closest to making him break the 1st Commandment. It was the first new car he had ever owned. He bought it shortly after being ordained and receiving his first call in a small country parish in New Canaan, Connecticut. He had many cars thereafter, but he always held onto his Le Mans and doted on it through the years. When Bill found out that it had been left to him in the will, he was dumbfounded.

The car had been kept in the garage for years, driven only once a year on the first sunny day of spring. But Bill was cash poor and needed the car as his means of transportation. He had been driving it since it became his in his last year of college and he lacked the funds to maintain it properly. Still, the car was to him a badge of honor, something that told him every time he got in it that his father did love him.

As Bill filled the tank, he thought about his father, still a large presence in his life, and still a large influence over the course his life was taking. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, he found himself re-playing the conversation with the Bishop.

Guardian Angel watching over me. he said half-aloud. I guess that was kind of lame. Still, as he reflected, it was true. Bill did feel that way. He had felt that way since he was a small child. Perhaps it was something instilled in him through his father. No. No, it wasn’t his father. It was his mother. His father was always the looming large presence, but his mother Elaine, in her own way, had just as much influence on Bill in bringing him to this life of faith. It was his mother who sat at his bedside each night when he was little reading him Bible stories. His father was always out at some meeting or visiting a parishioner. It was Elaine Sanders who told little Billy that he had a Guardian Angel watching out over him. And Bill always trusted his mother. He believed whatever she told him.

There were many times as he grew older that Bill felt that guarding presence protecting him and leading him toward his present course. All right, so maybe staying in New England wasn’t in the cards. Pennsylvania wasn’t such a bad state. Maybe it was time to step out from his father’s shadow and be his own man. He got back in his car and headed for home to tell his mother the news.

Hi. Mom. I’m home. Bill walked in the kitchen door of the house he knew as home. He had lived in many houses growing up, all church parsonages. But this was the first house his family truly called home. His father bought the house, his first ever, when he was 52. He had been serving as the senior pastor of Christ Lutheran for 15 years and was looking toward the future, toward retirement when he convinced the Church Council to hire an assistant pastor and let her move into the parsonage. He wanted his own house so that he would have something to call his own at retirement. He had heard too many horror stories, some from ministers he knew personally, of ministers who retire after living always in church owned parsonages, never having built up any equity to buy a home of their own. Worse yet were the stories of ministers who died, leaving their families with no means of support when they had to move out of a parsonage to make way for the next minister. Bill’s dad never had that scenario in mind, but it’s exactly what would have happened had he not had the foresight to buy a home. He never lived to enjoy retirement. He only had five years to enjoy his own home.

So, how did everything go with the Bishop? his mother asked. Elaine Sanders had just celebrated her 60th birthday, but she could still pass easily for someone in her early 50’s. She always credited her youthful face and skin to her Scandinavian heritage. Bill had inherited the youthful looking face, which he was sure he would appreciate someday. But for now, he looked more like a teenager than a 25 year old. He hated when people always looked upon him as a kid instead of an adult.

His mother turned from the kitchen sink where she was washing the dishes, dried her hands on the apron she was wearing, and walked over to Bill to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Bill took a moment to appreciate his surroundings before reporting the news, which he wasn’t sure if his mother would receive as good or as bad. He knew she would outwardly say it was good news. She never had a negative word about anything or anyone. But Bill had also learned how to read his mother’s face to see what she was really thinking on the inside.

He looked around at the brightness of the kitchen. From the day they moved in, it became his, and his mother’s favorite room. His father spent most of his time in the library, preparing sermons or reading his favorite religious books. But Bill and his mother sat at the kitchen table for hours each night, sharing stories, playing cards, drinking hot chocolate in the winter or lemonade in the summer, and having milk with cookies in the in-between seasons. The square, wooden table was in the corner, with built in benches along the corner walls. An overhead chandelier could be brightened for family meals or dimmed for evening’s entertainment. The walls were a bright yellow, making the room seem to glow when all the lights were turned on. Whenever Bill thought of home, what he really thought about was this kitchen.

What’s the matter, honey? his mother asked. You look a million miles away. Did everything go all right?

What? Oh yeah. It was fine, I guess. Bill snapped back into the moment.

What do you mean, ‘I guess’? Something went wrong, didn’t it? What did Henry say to you? Does he have another church for you?

Well, yes, . . . well no, . . . well kinda.

‘Well kind of’? What kind of answer is that? The concern on Elaine’s face was evident. She motioned Bill over to the table as she herself sat down. Come here, honey. Sit. Tell me what happened.

Bill sat down on the bench. Well, all in all, I’d have to say it went all right. Not the way I expected. But all right.

So, did he give you the name of another church to interview at? Elaine’s forehead crinkled in anticipation of the answer.

Sorta.

Billy, you’re killing me. What do you mean, ‘Sort of’?

Bill paused and took in a breath. Well, he gave me the name of a church. Bill paused again to prepare himself to gauge his mother’s reaction. It’s just not in New England.

Oh no. You’ve been banished to North Dakota. Elaine’s right hand slapped against the table. How could he?

No it’s not North Dakota. It’s… what’s wrong with North Dakota?

Nothing. Bill noticed the forced smile that his mother always put on when she tried hard to hold back what she really felt like saying. I’m sure it’s a lovely state, even though I’ve never been there myself. Maybe I should go there some time. I’m sure the people are very nice there.

Mom. Bill knew she was going off track on purpose.

Oh, it’s just an old joke that North Dakota is to ministers what Siberia is to Russians. They always sent the lose… er, uh, the less proficient ministerial candidates to North Dakota. I don’t know why they chose North Dakota. Or was it South Dakota? Oh well, either way, I’m sure it was very unfair to slander the good name and reputation of a fine state, North or South, whichever. Just forget I said anything. So, where is this church?

Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania! Elaine’s voice went up as she said the word. Pennsylvania’s nice. And it’s not that far away. Where in Pennsylvania?

A town called Littlestown.

Oh that sounds nice. It sounds very quaint. Where in the state is Littlestown?

Sort of in the center, about an hour west of Harrisburg.

The state capital. That’s very nice.

Bill smiled. His mother knew all the state capitals. She tried to pass on her knowledge to Bill, but he could never remember them. Geography was never his strong suit. That was something he had inherited from his father. Neither of them could follow directions without getting completely lost. Bill learned from his father to add two hours to his driving time to allow for getting lost.

Bill got up and went over to the refrigerator to get something to drink. Hi, Bing. he said, stepping over the family dog. Don’t get up.

Bing never got up. Even if there were an earthquake, Bing would not get up. The brown-haired mutt spent most of his life lying on floors in the middle of rooms, acting as a speed bump for people to walk over or go around. Bing was now an old dog, making it easy to blame his lack of energy on old age. But the truth was he had always been this way. He was never much interested in running around, chasing sticks, or any kind of exercise for that matter.

The family got Bing from a pound when Bill was 14. There was a robbery scare in the house they were living in, so they decided to get a dog for protection. His parents’ first pick was a Doberman named Spike. But the dog scared Bill to death, so they opted for a puppy of Bill’s choosing, a passive, drooling mutt named Lassie that looked a little like a collie, but with darker brown hair. When they got the dog home and it promptly plopped down in