The Max Lucado Christmas Collection Read online

  “Her final wish was granted. She held a baby on Christmas Eve.”

  For a long time neither Joe nor I spoke. He sat leaning forward, hands folded between his knees. He wasn’t there. Nor was I. We were both in the world of Ottolman and Carmen and the sculptured baby in the manger. Though I’d never seen their faces, I could see them in my mind. I could see Ottolman pulling back the hospital sheets and placing the infant Jesus next to his daughter. And I could see him setting a chair next to the bed, taking Carmen’s hand in his . . . and waiting.

  I broke the silence with one word:

  “Carmen?”

  “She died two days later.”

  “The baby?”

  “He came, early. But he came.”

  “Mr. Ottolman?”

  “He stayed on in Clearwater. Still lives here, as a matter of fact. But he never went back to his house. He couldn’t face the emptiness.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  Joe cleared his throat. “Well, the church took him in—gave him a job and a little room at the back of the sanctuary.”

  Until that moment, until he spoke those words, the possibility had not entered my mind. I leaned forward and looked directly into his face. “Who are you?”

  “You have her eyes, you know,” he whispered.

  “You mean, Carmen was . . .”

  “Yes. Your mother. And I’m, well, I’m . . . your . . .”

  “. . . Grandfather?”

  His chin began to tremble as he told me, “I’ve made some big mistakes, son. And I pray I’m not making another one right now. I just wanted you to know what happened. And I wanted to see you while I still could.”

  As I struggled to understand, he reached into his shirt pocket. He removed an object, placed it in my palm, and folded my hand around it. “I’ve been keeping this for you. She would want you to have it.” And I opened my hand to see a cross—a small, wooden, scarlet cross.

  Later that evening I called Meg from my room. I told her about Carmen, Ottolman, and the family I’d discovered. “Were you angry at Joe?” she asked.

  “Funny,” I said, “of all the emotions that flooded me in that church library, anger wasn’t one of them. Shock? Yes. Disbelief? Of course. But anger, no. Joe’s assessment of himself sounds fair. He is a good man who did a very bad thing.”

  There was a long pause. Meg and I both knew what needed to be discussed next. She found a way to broach it. “What about me?” Her voice was soft. “Are you angry at me?”

  With no hesitation, I responded, “No, there’s been too much anger between us.”

  She agreed. “If Carmen forgave Joe, don’t you suppose we could do the same for each other?”

  “I’ll be home tomorrow,” I told my wife.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she replied.

  So Meg flew to Texas to be with us.

  She made it to Clearwater in time to have dinner with two men who, by virtue of mistakes and mercy and Christmas miracles, had found their way home for the holidays.