The Max Lucado Christmas Collection Read online

  The question stopped Mr. Chumley in his tracks. “You don’t know about the candle?”

  “No.”

  He removed his hat and scratched his head.

  “It’s best that I let Edward tell you about it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “He’s the candle maker.”

  CHAPTER 2

  EVENING

  May 4, 1864

  Clad in his finest homespun Sunday coat, Edward Haddington was standing beneath the sign that read CHANDLER.

  “He’s all yours,” Mr. Chumley said.

  Edward smiled and reached up to wrap an arm around Reverend Richmond’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, my friend. We aren’t eating in my shop. I was just checking a few matters.”

  Edward said good-bye to his brother-in-law and led the minister next door, explaining as he walked, “My father and his father lived in the shop. I grew up there. But when I married, I promised Bea a house. She never could adjust to the smell of the candle shop. The tallow, you know. When her friends stopped coming over for tea . . . a change was needed.” The two paused in front of the slate-roofed home.

  “Our dwelling belonged to a tailor. When he died, his widow moved to Chaddington and sold it to us. What do you think?”

  “Seems small.” The reverend had to bend his neck to enter, lest he hit his head. The entire cottage consisted of one room. A table and four chairs sat to the right and a wrought-iron bed just beyond them. Two rockers rested in front of the fireplace, where a heating kettle filled the house with the smell of oxtail soup.

  “Welcome to our home, Reverend. Won’t you join us at the table?”

  Reverend Richmond turned to see Bea, her silvered hair swept under a bonnet and glasses resting on her nose.

  For the third time in one afternoon, the young man took a seat and began to eat. They drank beer and ate soup and just-baked bread.

  Edward was never one for small talk. He went directly to his question. “How is it that you’ve come to Gladstone?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Barstow says you excelled in your studies.”

  The reverend arched an eyebrow. “Well, yes, I did quite well.”

  “You seem awfully bright for our village. Seems you would be assigned to a, well, how would you say it, Bea . . . a more sophisticated parish? We’re simple folk.”

  “Forgive us, Reverend,” Bea interjected. “We don’t mean to pry. We’ve never needed a new rector.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better suited for a large church?” Edward persisted. “Perhaps in London? Don’t you have family there?”

  “No openings,” was the reverend’s terse reply.

  Edward looked at Bea. She tilted her head as if to say, “Enough on this topic.”

  Edward looked away.

  Bea proposed another question. “What do you find interesting about our village?”

  Reverend Richmond stroked his beardless chin and remained silent. Edward got the impression that he was having a hard time coming up with anything. “The candle,” he finally answered.

  “I’m curious about the candle.”

  Edward leaned forward. “Are you now? And what do you know about it?”

  “Only that everyone keeps bringing it up.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear its history?”

  Bea asked.

  “Why, of course.”

  “Perhaps we best fill our glasses, then.”

  As Bea poured, her husband lit his pipe and began to relate the details of Gladstone’s favorite topic. “We need to go back a long way. I’m the seventh Haddington to make candles for Gladstone. The sign over the shop door? My grandfather made and hung it.”

  “Could use some paint,” Bea added.

  “My great-grandfather built the kiln. His great-grandfather, Papa Edward, migrated from Scandinavia in the 1650s. He built the shop and was the first Haddington to live in Gladstone. He was also the first to see the Christmas Candle.”

  “What do you mean, he saw the candle?” Reverend Richmond asked.

  Bea spoke up. “We know less than we’d like about its origin. We’d know more had Edward’s father not drowned in Evenlode River. It was a hard day, a hard time. Edward was sixteen, still an apprentice. He was not fully trained yet. A bit too young to run the shop, but what choice did he have?”

  Edward shrugged. “Mother and I did the best we could. And, in time, we did fine. I married Bea and buried Mother, and Gladstone settled down to another generation of candle buying.”

  He leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe as though he’d finished the story. Indeed, he thought he had. Bea had to jog him. “Edward, tell him about the Christmas Candle.”

  “Oh, of course. Yes, well, as Bea said, some of the details died in the river along with my father. But what I and all of Gladstone know is this.

  “Papa Edward had passed a bitterly cold Saturday evening dipping candles for the Sunday service. Being the night before the final Sunday in Christmas Advent, he’d made more than usual. To this day I still do. We stand them in the windowsills and give them to the choir to hold as they sing. We’ve always enjoyed yuletide services and large church crowds during December. Is it the same where you’re from, Reverend? Why, I remember one year when Reverend Pillington arranged for a chorus from St. John’s at Chadwick to join us. Bands of folks from three and four miles away came to sing the old, old songs.”

  He leaned forward and, with twinkling eyes and a bouncing head, sang a verse:

  “Peace and goodwill ’twixt rich and poor!

  Goodwill and peace ’twixt class and class!

  Let old with new, let Prince with boor

  Send round the bowl, and drain the glass!”

  “Edward.” Bea placed a hand on his. “The candle.”

  “Oh yes. The candle. Where were we?”

  “The night before the final Sunday in Advent,” Reverend Richmond aided.

  “Right . . . Papa Edward and his wife were sound asleep when brightness exploded in the room. You would have thought a curtain had been yanked opened at noonday. A bonfire couldn’t have been brighter. They sat up and saw a glowing angel. They watched him touch one of the candles and then disappear. Papa Edward grabbed it, looked at his wife, and the two spent the rest of the night wondering what had just happened.”

  “They had no idea what to think, Reverend,”

  Bea continued. “They went to Sunday services saying nothing about the angel’s visit. They feared people would think they were crazy.

  Before they left, however, Mrs. Haddington gave the candle away. Touched by the plight of a young widow, she gave her the candle and urged her to light it and pray.”

  Edward picked up the story. “Each Christmas Eve church members are invited to stand and share a blessing. Well, imagine who stood first that year?”

  “The young woman?” asked the reverend.

  “She was a changed person. A generous uncle had provided for her needs, and Grandmother and Grandfather Haddington wondered about a connection between the candle and the gift, but they drew no conclusion.”

  Edward took a drink from his glass. When he did, Bea spoke up. “Half by hope and half by obligation, they continued to hang extra candles each eve of the final Advent Sunday. Then, after a quarter of a century, the December night glowed, and an angel touched another candle.

  Papa Edward gave it to a shepherd who was searching for his son. The father found the son, shared the news at the Christmas Eve service, and Grandmother and Grandfather knew something special was happening.”

  The reverend shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “And you credit God for this?”

  “Who else?” asked Edward.

  “You realize, of course, that these could all be coincidences.”

  “Indeed they could,” Edward conceded. “But two hundred years have passed. Every quarter of a century an angel has touched one candle. Every prayer that was offered over the candle was answered.”
r />   “The Christmas Candle has become legendary,” Bea interjected, “and so have the Haddington candle makers. Even when the region had other chandler shops, the angel only and always came to Papa Edward’s descendants. The citizens of Gladstone have anticipated each candle maker’s child the way the rest of England awaits a royal heir, which brings us to the hard part of this story.” She looked at Edward. “God gave us only one child, a son. He was born to us late in life and died from cholera when he was twenty.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was he married?”

  “That he was. His wife died several months later in childbirth.”

  “My goodness. One tragedy followed the other.”

  “It did. Indeed, it did.”

  Edward noted this first ray of warmth from the reverend. His guard, for just a few moments, was lowered.

  “And your grandchild?” Richmond asked.

  Edward chose to veil his reply. “As you can see, Bea and I are alone. We’re both in our seventies; we won’t be having any more children.”

  “Does that mean the angel visits stop with you?”

  “We assume so.”

  Richmond began reviewing the facts, counting them with his fingers. “The angel comes once every twenty-five years?”

  Edward nodded.

  “He touches one candle?”

  “So far.”

  “And that candle has power?”

  “No, God has the power. The candle is just the . . . Bea, what did you call it?”

  “The vessel.”

  “Yes, the vessel.”

  The young minister crossed his arms and looked out the window.

  “You find the story hard to believe?” Bea asked.

  Reverend Richmond cleared his throat and looked back. “It’s not the type of event you hear about often.”

  “No,” Edward agreed, “far from it.”

  “How long since the last visit?”

  Edward looked to Bea and let her answer the reverend. “Twenty-four years.”

  “Twenty-four? That means this is the . . .”

  “Yes, this is the year,” she agreed.

  “Goodness. No wonder everyone’s talking about the candle.”

  The conversation ended soon after that.

  Nothing else seemed worthy of mentioning.

  Reverend Richmond spent the night in the care of the soft-spoken churchwarden who had welcomed him at the parsonage. His Gladstone tour continued the next day. He met a farmer who showed him his flock. (“Purebred Cotswold sheep. My rams are famous.”) And a retired tailor, inquisitive and cautious. (“Some of us were hoping for an older minister, you know.”)

  All in all, the villagers could not have been more friendly . . . or more untitled, rural, and backward. (One farmer asked Reverend Richmond if he’d ever delivered a lamb.) No match for an academician like himself.

  He returned to Oxford the following day and awaited the next opportunity: the call from London, Southampton, or at least Bristol.

  The don made it clear: no other options were coming. “Given the problems you’ve had, Gladstone is your only option.”

  “Gladstone doesn’t fit me,” he said, shrugging.

  The Gladstonians held the same opinion.

  “Not quite right for us,” was Barstow’s tactful comment in his note to the Oxford don. The citizens returned to their routine, hoping for someone older, married—seasoned. A pastor with thick skin for the winters, a warm heart for farmers, and an open mind for the mystery of Christmas miracles and angel-touched candles.

  He never came.

  Reverend Richmond came.

  He arrived in June. June labored into July. Summer cooled into autumn. Apple trees dropped fruit and then leaves. Maples turned a rusty tint, and blackthorn bushes produced their purple sloe berries. Early October felt the first freeze, and Gladstone’s new minister purchased an extra blanket from Barstow’s Mercantile.

  As he made his selection, Emily Barstow watched. When he looked up, she blushed and looked away.

  In the church vestment box, Reverend Richmond found a warmer cape to wear in the pulpit. It was this robe that he donned the first Advent Sunday in December, the day he refused to preach about the candle.

  The young mother pulled the blanket over the face of her infant son. Even seated inside the train, she felt the chill of the December air.

  “Ticket?”

  She looked up to see the uniformed conductor.

  “Oh yes .” She’d forgotten to keep it handy. Reaching over her sleeping child, she found the ticket in her purse. The conductor checked it and handed it back.

  “We’ll warm up as the train leaves the station,” encouraged the lady in the adjacent seat. She was matronly in appearance: gray hair peeking from beneath a bonnet, wrinkled face still red from the chill. “Long trip for you and the baby?”

  “All day,” Abigail said.

  “I’ll keep you company, then.” The lady looked around the crowded car. “Lots of travelers. Busy season.”

  The young mother nodded, cradled her son closer, and looked out the window at the sea of travelers. All wore coats and hats; most carried bags or children. Everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere. The train lurched, and Abigail grabbed the seat, then smiled at her neighbor.

  “Jerky things, these trains,” the woman sympathized.

  Iron wheels slowly rolled the locomotive, mother, and child out of Paddington Station and into the city. Buildings passed, signs blurred, and Abigail felt moisture form in the corner of her eyes. She looked down at her sleeping son and spoke softly so no one would hear. “Are we doing the right thing, little man?” Then, as if answering for him, she said, “What else can we do?”

  She sighed and reached into her bag and extracted a large brown envelope. She looked at the address, ran a thumb across her printed name, removed the letter, and did what she’d done a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours. She unfolded it and stared at the words. She thumbed away another tear.

  “Are you all right?” asked the lady.

  Abigail nodded but didn’t look up.

  “This letter. I, uh, I can’t read. But my land- lord read it to me. So I was just looking at it.”

  “Would you like me to read it to you?”

  Abigail smiled. “I would like that very much.” She handed her neighbor the paper and looked down into the face of her child and listened as the woman read.

  CHAPTER 3

  FIRST SUNDAY

  OF ADVENT

  December 4, 1864

  As Edward took his seat in the church, he heard snatches of conversations, enough random sentences to reveal the topic on everyone’s mind.

  “If I get the candle, I know what I’ll pray for . . .”

  “I hear Edward already knows who he’ll give it to . . .”

  “Do you suppose he’d talk to me about it?”

  Edward was relieved to see Bea take her seat at the hundred-year-old organ. Now the service would begin and the whisperings cease. People followed the cue of the ten-member choir as they stood to sing “Come, Thou Almighty King.” Limestone walls echoed with “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow . . .” As the congregation sang, Edward looked out the window and spotted the reverend walking from the parsonage through the cemetery. As he leaned into the bracing wind, he held the neck of his coat closed and then loosened it as he neared the doors of the church.

  I wonder what Reverend Richmond has prepared to say to us, Edward considered. He knew what Reverend Pillington would have said. He had understood the cherished place the candle held in the lives of Cotswold villagers. They endured difficult days: crawling out of bed on dark, cold mornings; closing the barn after the sun had set; sewing by the light of the fire; laboring through weeks of rainy, sunless seasons. The former rector had understood the life of the villagers and how the legend of the candle always lifted their spirits. Were he preaching today, he’d speak of surprises and angels and fresh hope in the midst of dark Decembers. He’d speak
about the candle.

  “No. I can’t do that,” the young minister had told Edward earlier in the week. “I’m not Pillington. I don’t preach about candles. People don’t need old wives’ tales.”

  “But this is . . .”

  “I know. This is the year. But I give people practical help and solid facts. I stay away from mysteries.”

  “You don’t believe, do you?”

  “I believe in the Bible. I believe in the church. I believe in God. But I see no reason to promote superstitions or raise false hopes.”

  “Don’t you think God can work however he chooses?”

  “I believe God worked, and the rest is up to us.”

  So as the singing ceased and the choir took their seats, Edward shifted in his pew, anxious to hear what the reverend would say.

  The congregation heard the click of Richmond’s boots as he ascended the stone steps to the pulpit. He looked nervously over his flock and unfolded his notes with the ease of a suitor asking for a maid’s hand in marriage.

  He spoke of Christmas kindness and neighborly love and Christian charity. Most other churches would have appreciated the message. But not the parishioners of St. Mark’s. As they left the building, some refused to shake the reverend’s hand. Others did so with disappointment.

  “The candle?” they asked. “Did you forget?”

  Edward tried to hide his frustration but had trouble doing so. “Your sermon could have been better, Reverend.” He then followed Bea as she and Sarah exited the nave.

  “Nothing!” Sarah whispered. “He didn’t say a word, not one word!”

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” Bea replied. “People are already so . . .”

  “Persistent,” Edward finished for her.

  “Persistent, indeed,” Bea continued.

  CHAPTER 4

  MONDAY

  December 12, 1864 A

  An outside noise interrupted Edward’s sleep. He opened his eyes and stared into the dark, not wanting to climb from beneath the covers. The bell in the ancient tower struck the five o’clock hour with lingering vibrations, as if its teeth were chattering in the belfry.