The Christmas Box Read online

  “One winter day we were playing hide-and-seek about here. I was hiding from my friend when he saw me and started to chase. I ran though the snow up to the east end of the cemetery; it was an area where we never played. One of our friends swore he had heard the wailing of a ghost up there and we decided the place was haunted. You know how kids are.”

  I nodded knowingly as we trudged on through the deepening snow.

  “I ran up through there,” he said pointing to a clump of thick-stumped evergreens, “then up behind the mausoleum. There, as I crouched behind a tombstone, I heard the wailing. Even muffled in the snow it was heart-wrenching. I looked up over the stone. There was a statue of an angel about three feet high with outstretched wings. It was new at the time and freshly whitewashed. On the ground before it knelt a woman, her face buried in the snow. She was sobbing as if her heart were breaking. She clawed at the frozen ground as if it held her from something she wanted desperately—more than anything. It was snowing that day and my friend, following my tracks, soon caught up to me. I motioned to him to be quiet. For more than a half hour we sat there shivering and watching in silence as the snow completely enveloped her. Finally she was silent, stood up, and walked away. I’ll never forget the pain in her face.”

  Just then I stopped abruptly. From a distance I could see the outspread wings of the weatherworn statue of an angel. “My angel,” I muttered audibly. “My stone angel.”

  Steve glanced at me.

  “Who was buried there?” I asked.

  “Come see,” he said, motioning me over.

  I followed him over to the statue. We squatted down and I brushed the snow away from the base of the monument. Etched in the marble pedestal, above the birth and death dates, were just three words:

  OUR LITTLE ANGEL

  I studied the dates. “The child was only three years old,” I said sadly. I closed my eyes and imagined the scene. I could see the woman, wet and cold, her hands red and snow bitten. And then I understood. “It was Mary, wasn’t it?”

  His response was slow and melancholy. “Yes. It was Mary.”

  The falling snow painted a dreamlike backdrop of solitude around us.

  It seemed a long while before Steve broke the silence. “That night I told my mother what I had seen. I thought that I would probably get in trouble. Instead she pulled me close and kissed me. She said that I should never go back, that we should leave the woman alone. Until now, I never did go back. At least not to the grave. I did come close enough to hear her crying, though. It would tear me up inside. For over two years she came here every day, even in spring when the pouring rain turned the ground to mud.”

  I turned away from the angel, thrust my hands in my coat pockets, and started back in silence. We walked the entire distance to the house before either one of us spoke. Steve stopped at his back porch.

  “The child was a little girl. Her name was Andrea. For many years Mary placed a wooden box on the grave. It resembles the boxes the wise men carry in Nativity scenes. My guess is it’s the box you found with the letters.”

  I mumbled a thank you and headed for home alone. I unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it open. A dark silence permeated the mansion. I climbed the stairs to our quarters and then the attic, and for the first time I brought the Christmas Box out into the light. I set it on the hall floor and sat down beside it. In the light, I could see the truly exquisite craftsmanship of the box. The high polish reflected our surroundings and distorted the images, giving a graceful halo to the reflected objects. I removed the last letter.

  December 6, 1920

  My Beloved One,

  How I wish that I might say these things to your gentle face and that this box might be found empty. Even as the mother of our Lord found the tomb they placed Him in empty. And in this there is hope, my love. Hope of embracing you again and holding you to my breast. And this because of the great gift of Christmas. Because He came. The first Christmas offering from a parent to His children, because He loved them and wanted them back. I understand that in ways I never understood before, as my love for you has not waned with time, but has grown brighter with each Christmas season. How I look forward to that glorious day that I hold you again. I love you, my little angel.

  Mother

  Chapter VI

  SET THE LETTER back in the box and pulled my knees into my chest, burying my head into my thighs. My mind reeled as if in a dream, where pieces of the day’s puzzle are unraveled and rewoven into a new mosaic, defying the improbability of the cut edges fitting. Yet they did fit. The meaning of Mary’s question was now clear to me. The first gift of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas. My body and mind tingled with the revelations of the day. Downstairs I heard the rustling of Keri’s return. I walked down and helped her in.

  “I came back to get Jenna some dinner,” she said, falling into my arms. “I am so exhausted,” she cried. “And so sad.”

  I held her tightly. “How is she?”

  “Not very good.”

  “Why don’t you lie down, I’ll put on some soup and get Jenna ready for bed.”

  Keri stretched out on the sofa while I dressed Jenna, fed her, then carried her downstairs to the den.

  It was dark outside, and in absence of a fire, the room was bathed by the peaceful illumination of the Christmas tree lights. Strands flashed on and off in syncopation, casting shadows of different shapes and hues. I held Jenna in silence.

  “Dad, is Mary coming home for Christmas?” she asked.

  I ran a hand through my hair. “No, I don’t think so. Mary is very sick.”

  “Is she going to die?”

  I wondered what that meant to my little girl.

  “Yes, honey. I think she will die.”

  “If she is going to die, I want to give her my present first.”

  She ran over to the tree and lifted a small, inexpertly wrapped package. “I made her an angel.” With excitement she unveiled a petite cardboard angel constructed with tape, glue, and paper clips.

  “Dad, I think Mary likes angels.”

  I started to sob quietly. “Yeah, I think she likes angels, too.”

  In the silence of the lights we faced the death of a friend.

  In the outer hall I could hear the ringing of the telephone. Keri answered it, then found us downstairs.

  “Rick, that was the hospital. Mary is dying.”

  I wrapped Jenna up warmly and set her in the car with Keri. We drove separately, so that one of us could bring Jenna home when the time came. We arrived at the hospital and together opened the door to Mary’s room. The room was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. We could hear Mary’s shallow breathing. Mary was awake and looked toward us.

  Jenna rushed to the side of the reclining bed and, inserting her tiny hand through the side rails, pressed the little angel into Mary’s hand.

  “I brought you something, Mary. It’s your Christmas present.”

  Mary slowly raised the ornament to her view, smiled, then squeezed the little hand tightly.

  “Thank you, darling.” She coughed heavily. “It’s beautiful.” Then she smiled into the little face. “You’re so beautiful.” She rubbed her hand across Jenna’s cheek.

  Painfully, she turned to her side and extended her hand to me.

  I walked to her side and took it gently in mine.

  “How do you feel, Mary?”

  She forced a smile through the pain. “Do you know yet, Rick? Do you know what the first Christmas gift was?”

  I squeezed her hand tightly.

  “You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I understand now. I know what you were trying to tell me.”

  Tears started to fall down my cheeks. I took a deep breath to clear my throat.

  “Thank you, Mary. Thank you for what you’ve given me.”

  “You found the letters in the Christmas Box?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry that I read them.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m glad the letters
were read. They were meant to be read.” She fell silent for a moment.

  “I’d like you to have the Christmas Box. It’s my Christmas gift to you.”

  “Thank you. I will always treasure it.”

  The room was quiet.

  “Andrea waits,” she said suddenly.

  I smiled. “She has been very close,” I said.

  She smiled at me again, then lifted her eyes to Keri.

  “Thank you for your friendship, dear. It has meant a lot to me.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mary,” Keri said.

  “God bless you, child,” she said back lovingly. “Take good care of your little family.” She looked at Keri thoughtfully. “You’ll do fine.”

  Mary closed her eyes and lay back into her pillow. Keri’s eyes watered as she lifted Jenna and carried her out of the room. I stayed behind, caressing the smooth, warm hands for the last time.

  “Merry Christmas, Mary,” I whispered. “We’ll miss you.”

  Mary’s eyes opened again. She leaned forward toward the foot of the bed. A smile spread across her face as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She said something too soft to hear. I leaned my ear near to her mouth. “My angel,” she repeated. I followed her gaze to the foot of the bed but saw only the green cotton hospital gown draped over the end rail. I looked back at her in sadness. She was leaving us, I thought. It was then that I heard the music. The gentle, sweet tines of the Christmas Box. Softly at first, then as if to fill the entire room, strong and bright and joyful. I looked again at the weary face. It was filled with peace. Her deep eyes sparkled and the smile grew. Then I understood and I too smiled. Andrea had come.

  By the time I reached home it was well past midnight. Mary’s brother had arrived from London and in deference I had left them alone to share the last few minutes together. Jenna had been put to bed and Keri, not knowing when I would return, had sadly laid the Christmas packages under the tree. I sat down in the rocker in front of the illuminated Christmas tree and lay my head in my hands. Somewhere between the angel and Mary’s house I had figured it out. The first gift of Christmas. It just came. It came to my heart. The first gift of Christmas was love. A parent’s love. Pure as the first snows of Christmas. For God so loved His children that He sent His son, that we might someday return to Him. I understood what Mary had been trying to teach me. I stood up and walked up the stairs where my little girl lay sleeping. I picked up her warm little body and, cradling her tightly in my arms, brought her back down to the den. My tears fell on her hair. My little girl. My precious little girl. How foolish I’d been to let her childhood, her fleeting, precious childhood slip away. Forever. In my young mind everything was so permanent and lasting. My little girl would be my little girl forever. But time would prove me wrong. Someday she’d grow up. Someday she’d be gone and I would be left with the memory of giggles and secrets I might have known.

  Jenna took a deep breath and snuggled close for warmth. I held her little body tightly against mine. This was what it meant to be a father, to know that one day I would turn around and my little girl would be gone. To look upon the sleeping little girl and to die a little inside. For one precious, fleeting moment, to hold the child in my arms, and would that time stood still.

  But none of that mattered now. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight Jenna was mine and no one could take this Christmas Eve away from me but me. How wise Mary had been. Mary, who knew the pain of a father sending his son away on that first Christmas morn, knowing full well the path that lay ahead. Mary understood Christmas. The tears in the Bible showed that. Mary loved with the pure, sweet love of a mother, a love so deep that it becomes the allegory for all other love. She knew that in my quest for success in this world I had been trading diamonds for stones. She knew, and she loved me enough to help me see. Mary had given me the greatest gift of Christmas. My daughter’s childhood.

  T WAS AROUND nine o’clock Christmas morning that Mary’s brother called to tell us Mary was gone. The call found Keri and me holding each other on the couch in Mary’s den, surrounded by the aftermath of Christmas giving. I lifted the Christmas Box down from the fireplace mantel where we had placed it in memory of Mary. I set the box near the hearth, then one by one, let the flames devour the letters as Keri watched in silent understanding. The Christmas Box was at last empty.

  Mary was buried next to the small angel statue that she had so faithfully visited. In the course of our assisting in the burial arrangements, the funeral home had asked Keri what they should engrave on the headstone. “A loving mother,” she said simply.

  Every Christmas Eve, for as long as we lived in the valley, we returned to the grave and laid a white lily beneath the feet of the angel with outspread wings. Keri and I lived in the mansion for the space of several more Christmas seasons until the family decided to sell the estate, and we purchased a home in the southern end of the valley. In the years since, our family grew from three to six, and though the demands of providing for such a family oftentimes seemed endless, I never forgot the lessons I learned that Christmas with Mary.

  And to this day, the Christmas Box remains a source of great joy to me. For though it appears empty, to me it contains all that Christmas is made of, the root of all wonder in a child’s eyes, and the source of the magic of Christmases for centuries to come. More than giving, more than believing, for these are mere manifestations of the contents of that box. The sacred contents of that box are a parent’s pure love for a child, manifested first by a Father’s love for all His children, as He sacrificed that which He loved most and sent His son to earth on that Christmas day so long ago. And as long as the earth lives, and longer, that message will never die. Though the cold winds of life may put a frost on the heart of many, that message alone will shelter the heart from life’s storms. And for me, as long as I live, the magic inside the Christmas Box will never die.

  It never will.

  In Memoriam

  The Angel statue, of which the author makes mention, was destroyed in 1984 by the great floods that came through the Salt Lake Valley.

  A new Angel monument, in remembrance of all those who have lost children, was erected in the same Salt Lake City cemetery and dedicated December 6, 1994.

  The author wishes to invite all those who find themselves in Salt Lake City to lay a white flower at the statue’s base.

  The address of the City Cemetery is:

  City Cemetery

  200 “N” Street

  Salt Lake City, Utah 84103

  Please send flowers to the attention of the City Sexton.

  About the Author

  DEBRA MACFARLANE

  Richard Paul Evans is the #1 best-selling author of The Christmas Box. Each of his twenty novels have been New York Times bestsellers. There are more than fifteen million copies of his books in print worldwide, translated into more than twenty-four languages. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including the American Mothers Book Award, the Romantic Times Best Women’s Novel of the Year Award, the German Audience Gold Award for Romance, two Religion Communicators Council Wilbur Awards, the Washington Times Humanitarian of the Century Award and the Volunteers of America National Empathy Award. He lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife, Keri, and their five children. You can learn more about Richard on Facebook www.facebook.com/RPEfans or visit his website at www.richardpaulevans.com.

  Also by Richard Paul Evans

  Holiday novels

  Lost December

  Promise Me

  The Christmas List

  Grace

  The Gift

  Finding Noel

  The Sunflower

  A Perfect Day

  The Last Promise

  The Christmas Box Miracle

  The Carousel

  The Looking Glass

  The Locket

  The Letter

  Timepiece

  The Christmas Box

  The Walk Series

  The Road to Grace

  Miles to Go

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sp; The Walk

  For Children and Young Adults

  The Dance

  The Christmas Candle

  The Spyglass

  The Tower

  The Light of Christmas

  The Michael Vey Series

  Michael Vey:

  The Prisoner of Cell 25

  Michael Vey: Rise of the Elgen

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1993 by Richard Paul Evans

  Introduction copyright © 2012 by Richard Paul Evans

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  This Simon & Schuster hardcover edition October 2012

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