The Christmas Prayer

DavidHilder12

As Connie rushes off to the live Christmas radio show rehearsal at Whit’s End, she feels herself in need of comfort from a dear friend. Meanwhile, Eugene searches for the perfect gift for Katrina. But Mr. Holstein’s festive antics are getting in his way.

Connie Kendall was late. And the weather was not helping. The snow was falling in large flakes now, giving her old Ford Galaxie a thick white coating. A coating she would need to clear off. At least it hid the rust spots.

Jostling her keys with cold hands, at last Connie found the car key. She pushed the snow aside and slid the key into the lock. The door opened with a creak, and a mini avalanche of snow.

“Oh great,” said Connie. “Just what I need.”

She scraped the snow from her seat and flung it into the driveway. Popping the trunk, she found the snow brush. The bristles were frozen solid into one clump, but it would do the job.

Connie began clearing the snow from each car window. She was late for the Christmas show rehearsal. Jimmy was counting on her, and of course she was late. She had to be there, especially since it was their last rehearsal before the live show. Why had she agreed to this? At the time it seemed pretty simple. Read some lines from a script on Christmas Eve and call it a night. But the busyness of the season had caught up with her.

She reached the last window and brushed the snow away. Was it busyness? No, she hadn’t been that busy this year. Sure, she had struggled to pick out a gift for her dad. Would it be socks or a travel mug capable of keeping drinks hot in minus 4 degree weather? Maybe not so useful for California.

But something was different this year. The Christmas season felt colder somehow. Empty. Something was missing. No, not something. Someone. Whit.

Connie got in the car and tossed the snow brush on the passenger seat. She sat there, key in the ignition, unable to turn it. She hadn’t heard from Whit in a couple weeks. It was her first Christmas since he had left for the Middle East. It was hard to imagine Christmas without Whit, hard to imagine life without him. But he was gone just the same. No imagination required.

It wasn’t fair. She’d gone through these same feelings before. And now they were all coming back again—that same sense of loss, that feeling of being alone when all she needed was a hug. Hearing his voice would be enough.

How long had she been sitting there? The minutes were ticking by. She had a radio show to rehearse. Connie turned the key. The car engine rattled to a start, complaining loudly about the cold weather.

She could think about Whit later. This was her last chance to practice and polish up her lines and—then the thought struck her.

“The script! Of course, I would forget the script!”

Connie bolted out of the car. Ran up the steps. Burst through the front door.

The telephone was ringing. The script was where she left it, on the kitchen table. Just as she snatched it up, the phone went to voicemail.

“Connie? Connie, are you there? It’s me, Whit.” The voice was slightly distorted, but there was no doubt.

The script fell from her hands.

“Whit? Are you still there?” said Connie, the phone trembling in her grip. “Whit?”

The phone crackled.

“Oh, Connie!” came Whit’s reply. “Yes, I’m here.”

Connie could feel her eyes filling with tears. “It’s so nice to hear your voice, Whit.”

“It’s lovely to hear yours as well,” said Whit. “We haven’t talked in a while.”

“Three weeks, Whit. Three whole weeks. I’ve been worried about you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Connie. You know it’s hard for me to reach you from the archaeological digs. And it’s tiring work too.” Whit sighed. “But you’re right. I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“It’s all right,” said Connie. “Where are you now?”

“Bethlehem.”

Connie smiled. “Wow! I guess that makes sense for Christmas. What’s it like?”

“Busy.” Whit smiled, too. “Crowds everywhere. The city is packed.”

“Just like it was when Jesus was born!”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Mr. Whittaker, chuckling. “But it isn’t how you’d feel in a crowd of tourists at Disneyland. It’s different. It’s hard to explain. I feel like I’m part of a bigger story here, part of God’s story. There are people from all corners of the world who have come here, speaking every language you can think of, and somehow, we’re connected. We’re all here to celebrate the birth of Christ together.”

“That’s beautiful,” said Connie.

“It really is. It’s special to be part of it,” said Whit. “And how you doing, my little girl?”

Connie sniffed. “I’m okay.”

“Hmmm,” said Whit. “It’s been hard on you, I know. My being away. I’m sorry for that. It’s been hard for me, too. Harder than I expected.”

“It has?”

“Of course. I love you, Connie. You know that.”

“I know. It’s just nice to hear you say it again. I love you, Whit,” said Connie, drying her eyes.

“Can I pray for you, Connie?’’

“Sure, I mean . . .” When was the last time she prayed? She struggled to think. It hadn’t been that long, had it? “Oh no, I’m late! I’ve got to go. I’m doing a radio show rehearsal and I’ve got to be there. I just know Eugene is going to make some snide comment about it.”

“Is that right? I’ve been trying to reach Eugene, but I haven’t been able to. How’s he doing?”

“Oh, he’s just great. Smitten with Katrina. The two of them hardly notice anyone else.”

“I see,” said Whit, pausing. “And how is he doing . . . spiritually?”

“He’s . . . I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything about it.”

“I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately—and praying. Praying every day that he’ll realize his need for God. I know we all have.”

“Yeah, I mean, I try to. Most days,” she said, twisting the phone cord in her fingers. “Anyway, Whit, I’ve got to go. I’m already late.”

“Connie, if you have a moment, I’d love it if I could pray for you, and for Eugene. Jesus says in the Bible that where two are gathered in his name, he is there with them.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. You start.”

“All right,” said Whit. He let out a deep breath. “Dear God, thank you for Connie. Thank you for all the gifts and talents you’ve given her, and for bringing her to Odyssey. You placed her here for a reason, for your own special purpose. Guide her every step of the way. Guard her heart. And give her your special peace during this Christmas season. Let her know that she is loved by you and so many people too. Give her a wonderful Christmas, and draw her closer to you every day. Bless her more than she can imagine.”

Connie could feel herself crying now. “God, bless John Avery Whittaker,” she said. “Thank you for everything you’ve made him to be, and for putting him in my life. You knew I needed him. Keep him safe, and well-rested, and give him the strength to do the job you’ve called him to do. And in your timing, God, please bring him home.”

“Oh, Connie,” said Whit. “Dear God, I pray for Eugene. You know exactly what to do for him, even if we don’t. Let your will be done. Cut through the busyness of his life and let him know how much you love him. Guide him towards your salvation. Let him find his peace and his hope in you, Lord, very soon.”

“Somehow, show Eugene what he needs,” said Connie. “Show him that he needs you and your love, God. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Whit.

***

“Ah, Mr. Eugene Meltsner, wilkommen to my humble store,” said Fred Holstein.

“Oh! Greetings, sir,” replied Eugene, slightly startled. Mr. Holstein was outfitted in a bright red robe, a fluffy, false beard, and a pointed hat. In his hand he bore a staff, curved at the top like a shepherd’s crook. Blocking Eugene’s way with the staff, Mr. Holstein cut an imposing figure.

“What is the matter, Eugene?”

“The matter? Nothing at all,” said Eugene, taking a step back. His intention of slipping into the bookshop unnoticed had not gone according to plan. “I merely wasn’t expecting . . . I wasn’t expecting you garbed in such apparel.”

Holstein’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “You were not expecting a pair of something?”

“I wasn’t expecting Santa Claus to appear on the day before Christmas.”

“Santa Claus? Is that who you think I am being? That is so American of you, a good joke,” he said with a laugh. “Nein, I am the German Weihnachtsmann. I am here to bring presents to all the little girls and the little boys. See, my sack of toys is sitting on the desk there. But don’t think you can just take one like you want to be as thick as a thief. You must sing a Christmas song for me first.”

“A Christmas song?” Eugene felt his mouth going dry. “Mr. Holstein, I’m afraid my vocal talents are rather, out of practice, especially for festive occasions . . .”

“Are you pulling on my pant leg? I have heard you sing with your small guitar,” Mr. Holstein laid a hand on Eugene’s shoulder. “Come now, you must know O Tannenbaum.”

Eugene did. But he didn’t have time for this. He had to get back to Whit’s End to the radio show rehearsal. But first, he had to get a gift.

“Mr. Holstein, I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to direct me to the . . .” Eugene scanned inside the shop. “To the . . . nutcracker display?”

Fred Holstein’s face lit up. “Ah, jawohl! A wonderful choice. I knew you would appreciate only the best. Right this way.”

Eugene instantly regretted his words. He had no time for this. Jimmy and the cast members would soon wonder where he was. Katrina would wonder where he was.

Mr. Holstein led Eugene inside the bookshop, up to the elaborate display. A two-foot-tall wooden nutcracker, painted red and gold, stood to attention on an oaken table, complete with soldier’s cap and sword. Surrounding the nutcracker was a crowd of smaller dancing figurines, which included several candy canes, chocolates, and the Sugar Plum Fairy herself, a ballet dancer in a sparkling gown which caught the light. And in the center of it all, a prince and his princess danced the night away.

Eugene’s eyes widened. Something about the whole scene struck him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. But he felt himself being drawn into the scene. The prince and the princess, in particular, caught his eye.

“Mr. Holstein, this is remarkable.”

“Wunderbar, is it not?” Mr. Holstein replied. “You know, the Nutcracker ballet is set in Germany, of course. Where else?”

“But the display,” continued Eugene, “the arrangement of the figurines—it has a, an almost enchanting quality to it. The prince and the princess are, well, beautifully captured.”

“This coming from Eugene Meltsner the computer-man?” Mr. Holstein laughed. “I admit I would not have expected you. But you have noticed what my other customers have not.”

Holstein leaned close to the display, his staff swinging to the side and nearly knocking Eugene on the head. “Everyone else is first looking at the Nutcracker, of course, and then at last the Sugar Plum Fairy. They say her dress is so beautiful. But they are not seeing the prince and his love.”

“I’m afraid I’m not able to recall the story,” said Eugene. “How does it go?”

“You cannot experience this story looking from the outside, at a display in a bookshop, mein Freund. When you go to the ballet, you are living it. But I will say this to you now: After the Nutcracker dies battling the evil Mouse King, to save his love, Clara, she herself is devastated—how you say, breaking the heart. She begs her godfather, Drosselmeyer, the toymaker, to do something. And he is so impressed by their great love, he brings the Nutcracker back to life! But now he is changed to a handsome prince, and he takes Clara to his kingdom of the Land of Snow,” Mr. Holstein sighed deeply, his false beard sagging. “I think what you see in this display is their love, the love that is stronger than even dying.”

Eugene stood there, mulling over Fred Holstein’s words. Everything else seemed to have left his mind. His eyes were still fixed on the two lovers, dancing arm in arm.

Mr. Holstein gave a knowing smile and leaned close to Eugene’s ear. “And you know, it was Katrina Shanks’s ideas to be setting this display up.”

Katrina, that was it! Eugene had come to find a Christmas present for her. And he had to get back to the rehearsal at Whit’s End immediately.

“Mr. Holstein, would I be able to make an inquiry regarding Miss Shanks?”

Fred Holstein leaned on his staff, puzzling. “Uh, you want to send regards to her?”

“For this festive season, I’ve been wondering what token to acquire for her.”

“You have . . . taken a choir lesson?”

“I want to get Katrina a Christmas present!” Eugene was turning red now.

“Ah, why do you just not say that? You and Katrina, I see you two together so often you know.”

“Mr. Holstein, I’d like to clarify that Katrina and I are simply friends . . .”

“As you say, my boy!” Mr. Holstein slapped Eugene on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Come with me, come with me.”

Mr. Holstein led a flustered Eugene to a nearby shelf and pulled down a leatherbound book. It was embossed with gothic script, which read: The Holy Bible. Holstein offered Eugene the book.

Eugene raised his eyebrows. “Ah, well, I suppose this would be appropriate considering her newfound faith. Though, if you have any alternative suggestions, I . . .”

“Eugene, do you know what this is?”

“What it is? I fail to understand. It’s only a Bible, is it not?”

“Only?” Mr. Holstein’s voice was stern and commanding. He gripped his staff tightly. “Do you know what Herr Martin Luther, German of course, went through to bring this to us?”

“I’m familiar with the historical accounts of the Reformation . . .”

“Familiar?” Holstein said, laughing. “And do you know what this book speaks about?”

“Of course, the Israelites and the culmination of their story in Jesus is quite well-known.”

“And are you moved by this story?”

“Moved by it?” Eugene considered the question. Was he? Perhaps, at times. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“Eugene!” Eugene jumped. Mr. Holstein was looking at him with fiery eyes, the same color as his Weihnachtsmann robe. “You know of this from your studies, but you do not really know.”

Eugene shrank back. Holstein pointed the Bible at Eugene’s chest and continued. “You see the great love of the prince and the princess, but you are not seeing this? This book tells of a love greater. It is the words of this book that brought me here, that is causing me to make this bookshop. And it is this book that tells us that dying is nothing. Love is everything.”

It wasn’t long before Eugene had purchased the Bible and hustled out of Holstein’s Books. He didn’t know why he was so disconcerted by Mr. Holstein’s words. He had never thought of the Bible in that way. And now, as he gripped it in his hands, close to his heart, he felt he was holding something special, a treasure almost.

But what he felt about it didn’t really matter, did it? The Bible was for Katrina, after all, not himself. She would appreciate it, of course. No, appreciate was too academic a word. She would love it. Treasure it. She would understand what Mr. Holstein meant, better than Eugene ever could.

And so, what better person to receive the Bible? Katrina would graciously accept it, valuing the gesture. And that would be that.

A blast of snow hit Eugene full-on. He gripped the Bible tighter to his chest and kept walking.