Evergreen (11 page)

Romeo bit his lip. Let out a shuddering breath. Nodded.

John wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders, his voice thick. “You know, God is just a prayer away. Right there. All you have to do is say you need Him.”

Romeo wiped a thumb across his eye.

Oh, God, I’m so sorry I didn’t want this kid. This son of Yours. Thank You for giving him to me, for making me realize, again, the gift of being a father.

He, too, wiped his eye, dislodging the moisture there. In fact, it could be that Romeo gave John and Ingrid more than they had given him.

When the phone rang, John got up, found it on the sofa.

“Hey, Dad. . . . Uh, Ivy and I can’t do this Nativity
thing today. She’s . . . she’s not feeling well and . . .” Darek’s voice wavered, and John lowered himself onto the sofa.

“What are you talking about?”

“Mom asked Ivy and me to be in the Nativity scene today, but she’s throwing up and cramping. . . . I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

Panic. John heard it in Darek’s voice, and it peeled back time to his own moment, standing in the Deep Haven ER, waiting . . . fearing.

Yeah, maybe he hadn’t acted out of responsibility but panic when he decided they wouldn’t have any more children.

The knowledge turned his voice raw.

“Darek, listen. Don’t worry about the live Nativity. I’ll take care of it. We’re leaving right now to get Tiger. You be ready to take Ivy to the ER.”

“Dad . . . do you think she’s going to lose the baby?”

“I don’t know, Darek. I do know that it’s not in your hands. Don’t panic. Just pray. That’s your job.”

That’s your job.
The words pinged inside him, registered, hung on as he went upstairs to change, hollering at Romeo to do the same.

Darek met him at the apartment door with Tiger, a backpack, and a grim look.

“Hey, Tiger, want to sleep over tonight?” John asked.

“But what about Santa? How will he find me? I don’t have a stocking at your house.”

“He’ll find you, kiddo,” John said. He ran in and retrieved Tiger’s homemade stocking from the hearth. “We got this,” he said as Darek shut the door.

They drove to the church and unloaded Tiger with the other children getting ready to don wings. A wreath hung at the apex of the entrance, and a trail of lights in paper bags surrounded the portico he’d cleaned.

Someone had layered straw on the ground, but the heaters had even thawed a semicircle of snow outside, right down to the grass. A layer of light snow blanketed the top of the stable, but inside, it looked cozy enough to . . . well, host the baby Jesus.

Something even the original Joseph might have approved of.

Inside the church, he found chaos. Edith and her hospitality crew decorated the tables with plates of cookies as a crew of mothers helped their children don angel wings.

Romeo headed over to a gated Sunday school room. Tiger tugged at John’s hand. “Grandpa
 
—there’s puppies!”

John released him, then followed him to see. Inside the
room, puppies from the shelter frolicked with a handful of children, Kate in the middle, minding the fun.

She met John’s eye. “It was Romeo’s idea,” she said. “He called me about an hour ago and I thought, why not?”

John looked at Romeo. “Really?”

Romeo lifted a shoulder. “Aunt Ingrid was having trouble getting enough animals.”

“John, what are you doing here?”

He turned to find Ingrid holding a pair of broken wings and tape.

“Did you find your wise men?”

She frowned, shook her head, then glanced at Tiger. “What’s going on? Where are Darek and Ivy?”

John stood there, the words caught in his chest. “Romeo, can you help Tiger with his wings?”

“Sure thing, Uncle John.”

“And then come and find me because you’re going to be a wise man.”

Romeo raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“He’s a wise man? Oh . . . okay.”

“And . . . honey, we’re Mary and Joseph.”

“What?”

He grabbed her elbow and brought her into the quiet sanctuary, away from the bustle of the preparations. “I
know I should wait to tell you this, and it was going to be a surprise, but . . . Ivy is pregnant and she’s a little sick right now, so Darek is bringing her to the hospital.”

He didn’t let her protest, simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to himself. “It’ll be okay.”

And for a moment, she clung to him. Everything righting itself, her words from last night vanished. For this moment, he could be what she needed.

“Really, you’ll be Joseph?” She looked at him, her eyes so beautiful that he felt sick for ever turning her down. He nodded.

“Okay.” She pressed her hand to his chest. “The costume is in the nursery, along with your staff and a wool overcoat. I’ll go track down the Mary part.”

He leaned in to kiss her, but she moved out his arms. Probably not intentionally. He hoped not.

Joseph’s attire, along with the wise men’s
 
—or man’s
 
—hung in the nursery, as Ingrid said. Romeo knocked on the door as John pulled on the tunic.

John handed him his costume, a red flannel jacket with fake rhinestones and a crown. “You know, the most important skill the wise men possessed was their ability to recognize the Savior when they saw him. It’s up to you to decide if you’re a wise man.”

Romeo stared at the robe, back at John, and he couldn’t help it
 
—he wrapped an arm around the kid’s neck. Just for a second, but long enough.

“I’ll be outside, trying not to freeze to death.”

The sky had turned dusky with the fall of the afternoon. John found Nate relighting a couple of candles in the bags.

“Wow,” Nate said.

“Don’t start.”

“Hey,” Nate said, “I’ve always thought you’d make a good Joseph.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Joseph was a carpenter.” He nodded to the stable. “And that fortress could withstand a hurricane.”

“Or a blizzard.” Ingrid stepped out from the entrance, wearing a blue dress, a white scarf. And mittens.

“Mary might have had mittens,” she said.

John smiled at her, and a heat swept through him at the sight of his pretty wife dressed in motherly garb. No one fit the part better.

“We don’t have a live baby,” Ingrid said, producing a doll in a blanket. She tromped over to the Nativity, putting the baby bundle in the manger. “By the way, I called Darek. They’re in the ER, but they think maybe it’s just the flu. They’re doing an ultrasound.”

John stepped up behind her. Put his hand on her shoulder.

Don’t panic. Just pray.
His own words reverberated through him. If only he’d had such a voice sixteen years ago.

He took his position behind Mary as she sat by the manger.

The heat blasted out, the coils red-hot behind him. He hadn’t realized what a tight fit it would be, but the enclave was warm. Not exactly cozy, but bearable.

The church choir stood under the entrance and began to hum. Cars pulled up, and a meager handful of community members stopped to take pictures or stand and watch, singing with the choir.

John shivered despite the heater and backed up just a little. Maybe they could go in for cookies early if no one else showed up.

The angels filtered out and stood on the hay around the manger while parents snapped pictures. Tiger waved to him, and John winked.

In his brain flashed a memory of Casper and Owen as angels. To his memory, they’d gotten in a wrestling match and come home wet and frozen.

Then the shepherds appeared
 
—a handful of grade
school boys dressed in bathrobes. Finally the wise man. Romeo approached carrying a gold box.

“I can’t believe I forgot the wise men,” Ingrid said under her breath. “Thanks.”

Pastor Dan stood on a hay bale and welcomed everyone.

“The first Christmas wasn’t even this well attended,” he said. “But the participants were handpicked by God. The shepherds, who were asked simply to believe and to go and worship. The wise men, who recognized the star of Bethlehem before Jesus’ arrival and set off on a journey to find Him. Their searching was rewarded with joy. The angels, the trumpeters of glory born on earth. Joseph, the Savior’s earthly father, his only job requirement that of listening and obeying God. Being trustworthy. And finally Mary, who trusted God and allowed herself to be used by the Almighty for the good of us all. We invite you tonight to the manger and ask, who are you? Is God asking you to believe? Is He rewarding your search tonight with Himself? Are you here with a heart of joy? Or perhaps you need to listen, to trust and obey. Maybe, however, you’re Mary, and God is simply asking you to be willing to say yes to whatever He asks.”

He stepped down, and the choir sang a verse of “Silent Night.”

John stood there, warm in the enclave.

Perhaps you need to listen, to trust and obey.
He found Romeo’s eyes on him and remembered his question. Why did God pick Joseph? A simple man who worked with his hands, with the one skill God wanted for raising His Son. The ability to listen.

Not provide. Not protect. Not even lead, but listen, trust, and obey.

Like when God appeared to Joseph in a dream and told him to keep his engagement to Mary. And later, when God told him to move to Egypt in the night to protect Jesus. After that, the dream to return home so Jesus could grow to be the Nazarene, a fulfillment of prophecy.

Listen. Trust. Obey.

You stopped trusting God. And I . . . I stopped trusting you.

Oh. He swallowed hard against a gasp. He
had
stopped trusting God
 
—he’d simply decided that he should be in control, rather than God. He’d held his children in his arms and thought,
I must provide.
But what if God handed him his family and said,
Trust Me; listen and obey
?

He pressed his hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. She glanced at him.

He met her eyes, held them, struck by how young and beautiful and immensely blue they still were.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His throat tightened. “I’m so sorry.”

She blinked and bit her lip. Then her eyes widened and she jumped up. “John! You’re on fire!”

A
T LEAST NO ONE
had to stand out in the cold for an hour.

John’s robe had caught fire against the hot coils of the heaters, and as he shrugged it off, flames bit at the edges of the straw. He’d practically picked up Ingrid in his arms and tossed her into the snow. By the time Pastor Dan found the shovel, John and Nathan and a handful of other men had been scooping snow with their bare hands, throwing it onto the flames of the engulfed manger.

The fire streaked into the sky, searing the night and calling out the neighbors. Someone alerted the police and then the volunteer fire department and even the rescue squad, which came in handy when the Bethlehem star affixed above the manger exploded in a shower of glass and sparks.

Parents scattered with their children back into the church, where the EMTs checked for injuries.

Then the newspaper staff showed up with photographers.

Someone must have alerted the Lutheran church prayer chain because the pastor and his wife
 
—not to mention a handful of carolers
 
—arrived, probably straight from the senior center, where they’d been hosting a Christmas Eve service.

A significant portion of the Congregational Church, having been let out of their own Christmas Eve service, showed up to offer moral support. They brought cookies.

In the midst of it all, somehow the puppies escaped, and as more onlookers arrived, a few scampered out into the snowy night. Which brought out the search parties to track them down; then, of course, a few traumatized children who envisioned frozen puppies lost in the snow had to be comforted.

Snow and boots and coats lined the foyer. Ingrid found Tiger and simply fed him cookies, watching the chaos.

No, watching John.

Watching his hands turn red with cold as he tried to keep their church from catching fire. Watching as he donned a turnout coat and boots and joined the crew to
douse the flames, stomping out any remaining ash, raking his beautiful manger scene to glowing embers.

Watching as he searched through the snow for lost puppies, warming them in his big hands with towels they’d found in the church kitchen.

She watched as he bore the brunt of more than a few jokes from the cookie-hungry fire personnel. He managed to laugh, his voice loud and low, just a hint of chagrin on his face.

Humble. Patient. Protecting.

He retrieved Tiger, helped him take off his wings, and replaced them with the turnout coat and hat.

Ingrid caught a puppy and hunkered down with it, and that’s when John found her. He crouched beside her and handed her a gingerbread man.

“I have to say, honey, your live Nativity just might be the best attended one ever,” he said, his face solemn, his blue eyes twinkling.

How she wanted to laugh. Could feel it bubbling up, right under the surface. Oh, John. He could be magnetic and breathtaking and infuriatingly darling and . . . Tears burned her eyes.

Maybe, however, you’re Mary, and God is simply asking you to be willing to say yes to whatever He asks.

She’d been asked to love this man. To trust him. Even when he failed her.

She looked away, wiped a finger under her eyes.

John swallowed, the twinkle in his eyes dying. “Let’s go home.”

“Yes,” she said quietly and let John help her off the floor. She returned the puppy, found Tiger and Romeo, and headed out the door.

She managed to pull together some soup and a plate of leftover cookies from church. Then she tucked Tiger onto her lap and read him the Christmas story.

Admittedly, without Butter curled at her feet, she struggled to summon the joy she knew she should feel at the holiday. And Tiger’s tears when they told him that Butter had “gone to heaven” only turned the evening somber.

Thankfully, the phone call from Darek updating them on Ivy’s condition lightened her grief, but worry settled in again when Darek said they wanted Ivy to stay the night for observation, just to make sure the baby was out of danger.

It all brought back the memory of Benjamin. The joy at being pregnant, the fear when he stopped moving inside her. The moment when she felt her body release him, the blood on the floor, and the hazy hours that followed.

Long after they tucked Tiger in bed, she sat in the family room, rocking, wishing for Butter’s fur to run her fingers through.

John and Romeo found a puzzle, something simple they could finish in a night.

After a while, Romeo went to bed. John sat in silence, watching the fire flicker, until finally he left her also.

Maybe, however, you’re Mary, and God is simply asking you to be willing to say yes to whatever He asks.

She pulled her legs onto the chair, stared at the tree, lights glistening from the bulbs. Patches of naked green tree remained, but John had waged a worthy battle to cover its bareness with ornaments.

In fact, she couldn’t deny the evidence of John’s attempt to resurrect Christmas for her, from the trip to Europe to the half-decorated tree, from the Nativity scene to his words today just before the chaos erupted.

I’m sorry.

Oh, how those words had the power to burrow into the wall around her heart, open up fissures and cracks.

I’m so sorry.

She didn’t want to hear it. To see his love in a thousand small ways. Because then she’d have to loose her hold on the ember of bitterness, let God heal her heart.

Worse, she’d have to reckon with the truth that she might be just as responsible for the rift in their marriage.

If you love someone, you don’t act like they annoy you. You like them, and you try to make them think they’re the most important person in the world to you.

Romeo’s words had tucked inside, just under her skin, and seeing John in action only uncovered the ugliness. Somehow, over the past few months, she’d stopped loving John. Even liking him. She’d been going through the motions, pretending, masking her wounds.

And when he didn’t notice them anyway, they only grew deeper.

But deeper than her pain lingered the truth. She did love John. Loved him so much that sometimes she could weep with the depth of it. And if she were honest . . .

Of course she trusted him. Every day of her life. She simply didn’t want to forgive him. She’d preferred to hold on to the anger, the resentment, rather than face the grief of her loss.

But forgiveness just might fix this.

She drew in a long breath, got up, and headed upstairs.

He wasn’t asleep as she had supposed. Instead, he stood at the window, still dressed, staring out at the lake.

“I always thought my job was to protect you. To provide
for you. I had no idea doing that would also destroy what we had.” He didn’t look at her. “I wish I could, but I can’t fix this, Ingrid.”

She sank down on the bed. “I should have told you how I felt.”

To her surprise, he shook his head. Then he turned. A dim light from the bedside table scattered the darkness, and she easily traced his beautiful blue eyes, the look of sadness in them. “And I should have listened to you.”

Oh. She didn’t know why his admission turned her throat thick and scratchy, but she blinked back the burn in her eyes, fighting the urge to flee.

He came and knelt in front of her, taking her face in his wide, strong hands. “I can’t fix it, but I believe God can. I know He can help me be a husband who listens. And I pledge to do that
 
—to listen. To you, to God. To obey and trust God.”

A tear dripped down her chin, over his thumb. “I’m sorry I blamed you
 
—”

“But I am to blame. I did this.”

She hung her hands on his wrists. “I know. And when you did, I should have forgiven you. Trusted that God could heal me. But . . . I don’t know that I wanted to be
healed. Or that I should be
 
—should I ever really heal from the loss of our child?”

John found her eyes. “I think healing is different from forgetting. I admit I’ve been guilty of that too. I’m sorry I tried to fix everything with a dog. Not an inspired move
 
—I get that. But I gave you Butter because I didn’t know what else to do. And I got a vasectomy because I was scared. I feared losing you, losing another baby. I was overwhelmed with my life and . . . yeah, I thought it was all up to me to fix it. To take care of us. So I tried to put it behind us when I should have tried to help you heal. I should have leaned into God for courage, instead of reacting in fear.”

She closed her eyes, tipping her head forward to touch his. The sense of his presence
 
—strong, warm
 
—flooded through her, shook her.

How she’d missed him.

“You’re an amazing mother, Ingrid. Our children are going to be just fine. We need to let them sort this out. And . . .” He backed up, met her eyes again. “Romeo is going to be fine.”

“You think so?”

“I know it.”

She touched his face, ran her fingers along the stubble. “Perhaps it’s a good thing we have such a quiet house this season.”

Then she leaned in and kissed him. Softly at first and then with a depth, a passion that came from knowing this man, believing in him. Seeing all the ways he loved her without speaking.

John pulled back, moisture in his eyes. So blue . . . She could remember the first day they landed on her, turned her mouth to dust, and curled desire inside her.

“I love you so much. And I want the next thirty years to be even better than the last.”

Ingrid ran her thumbs over his cheekbones. “I believe they will be.”

She kissed him again, and this time he didn’t pull away, didn’t hesitate to hook his arm around her waist, pull her with him onto their bed. She sank into his amazing arms
 
—strong, protective, safe
 
—and found in his embrace the woman she’d been once upon a time. Young. Eager.

Humbled by her destiny and willing to say yes to whatever God
 
—and John
 
—asked.

Christmas arrived with the smells of brewing cider on the stove and homemade cinnamon rolls, the sound of Tiger’s laughter.

John slipped on a bathrobe, his slippers, and headed downstairs.

Tiger sat on the floor, surrounded by the decadence of his stocking
 
—Matchbox cars, markers, a LEGO kit, a giant chocolate Santa. He got up and ran to John. “Merry Christmas, Grandpa!”

John swung him in the air, gave him a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Tiger.”

He put down Tiger, who turned to Ingrid. “Now can we open presents?”

Ingrid closed the oven after basting the turkey. “Wait until your mommy and daddy get here.”

John walked over to her, slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her back against himself, and kissed her neck. “When do I get to open my present?”

She whacked him with a pot holder. “John Christiansen, you got your present.” But she turned in his arms, lifting hers to wrap around his neck, and gave him a kiss that promised perhaps he had more waiting for him.

Much more.

“That’s gross.”

John released his wife to see Tiger staring at them. The boy covered his face with his hands, giggling.

“Have you talked to Darek or Ivy yet today?” John asked.

Ingrid disentangled herself and walked over to the coffeepot. Took down a cup. “Ivy is fine and so is the baby.” She poured coffee into the cup and handed it to John. “She was just dehydrated.”

“I’m so glad.”

“They’re waiting for the doctor to discharge her; then they’ll be over.” She looked at Tiger. “Another grandchild. That feels so . . .”

“Wonderful.” John couldn’t help it. After the dry spell, the wounds between them, he simply wanted to savor the feeling of having his wife surrender freely in his arms. He reached for her, cupped her cheek, and she smiled into his eyes.

“I think you need to wake up Romeo,” she said.

Romeo. He kissed her, then headed upstairs.

The door was closed, but he heard whining, faint and high, as he knocked.

“Just a second
 
—”

John opened the door without waiting. Romeo stood in the middle of the room in a T-shirt and pajama pants, holding a squirming puppy in a blanket.