The Christmas Pen

by Donna Poole

It was the second Sunday of December, just two more until Christmas. Kathleen settled into the plush cushion on the pew and listened to the trained choir sing its classical arrangement of Christmas medleys. She admired the white flocked garlands of cedar and fir that hung from the vaulted ceiling. The company Christ Calvary Cathedral hired to decorate for Christmas had outdone themselves this year. Kathleen felt like she was sitting a in winter wonder land.

She was contented with the big city church she’d called her own for the last five years; the preaching was wonderful. Even her grandpa would have approved.

Grandpa. Her eyes stung with tears, remembering the little country church where she’d grown up. Grandpa had been the preacher there, and it had seemed childhood would last forever. That white frame building on the corner of two dirt roads had been a far cry from this beautiful cathedral in Chicago. And the Christmas decorations there?

Kathleen grinned, comparing the two. Corners Church’s only Christmas adornment each year was a straggly cedar cut from a farmer’s field. Some years the tree was more brown than green. Propped in the corner of the platform, its only ornaments were a tinfoil star and construction paper handprints cut by the children each year and tied with red and green yarn to its branches. Each handprint had a child’s name and the words, “I love Jesus.” Since the practice had continued for more than sixty years, Kathleen’s own handprint was still hanging on the tree this year; she was sure of it.

Do I? Do I still love Jesus?

Of course she did. What else would bring her out of her warm apartment to hail a taxi on this bitter cold, snowy day, when it would have been so much easier to stay home and work on her book in her pajamas?

She didn’t come to church for fellowship; she had no friends here. She knew it was partly her own fault, but it wasn’t easy to get to know people. At almost thirty years old she’d tired of singles groups. And no one stood around talking after services like they had at Grandpa’s church long ago. People had talked so long there sometimes meals had dried out in ovens before families got home to eat them. Here you might exchange a polite nod with a stranger as you left by one of the several doors.

Am I just an introverted unfriendly person? Is it me?

As the music in the cathedral continued Katherine’s thoughts wandered to her job. She didn’t have any friends there either. True, the job was by nature self-isolating. A biomedical engineer, she, along with her co-workers, researched things like ways to make MRI’s even stronger. The rest of the engineers were mostly men; the few women were married with families. No one seemed to want to socialize. And the one romantic relationship she’d had in her life had ended in tears a decade ago.

Why am I thinking like this? It must be Christmas. The best time of the year—allegedly. It’s the best time for single, lonely people to feel depressed.

She shook off the feeling. Christmas was more than a time for families and friends to socialize, it was the time to celebrate Jesus, the Light of the world, who’d come to die for the sins of mankind and make a way home to heaven. She’d focus on that. Still; it hurt, being so alone.

The sermon started. Great. The pastor was preaching on “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” He even played the old song, unusual for this church’s formal form of worship. She could see her grandpa doing something like that though.

Home for Christmas? What about those of us who have no home left to go to?

Tears stung her eyes and Kathleen swallowed past a lump in her throat. She reached into her purse to get a Kleenex and noticed the elderly man sitting next to her in the pew. He was taking notes on the sermon in a little notebook and using an antique fountain pen. It looked just like Grandpa’s, the one she always carried in her purse.

He must have felt her staring at him because he glanced up and smiled. She nodded and looked away, a flush creeping into her cheeks. People didn’t look at each other during the sermon, not in this church. But she’d like to ask him if he knew why Grandpa’s pen wouldn’t write anymore.

When the sermon ended the older man used his gold tipped cane to help him struggle to his feet. Instead of exiting the pew, he turned to Kathleen, smiled, and said, “I’m Ken. Ken Fisher.”

She shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Kat. Kat Jones.”

Why did I say Kat instead of Kathleen? No one’s called me Kat since I left home for college years ago.

He smiled at her, brown eyes twinkling over half glasses.

“Would you know what’s wrong with my grandpa’s pen?” she blurted.

He looked puzzled.

Kathleen laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really crazy. I noticed you writing with a fountain pen. My grandpa used one just like it, and I always carry it with me to remind me of him. I’d love to write with it, but it doesn’t work.”

She dug around in her purse, pulled it out and showed it to him.

He looked surprised. “That’s a very old pen. I didn’t know anyone but me still had one like that. I fix pens as a hobby. Would you like me to take this and see what I can do?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t a sentimental person, but that pen and a few of Grandpa’s books were the only material possessions she had that mattered to her.

“Would you bring it back next Sunday?”

He laughed. She liked the sound.

“I can do better than that. I can bring it downstairs to your apartment, or you can come upstairs to mine and get it. We live in the same building. My window faces the street, and I sit in a chair there to read my Bible. I see you hail a cab at the same time every morning.”

Stalker? Creepy old man? Someone to fear?

She studied him. She wasn’t good at guessing age, but he had to be close to ninety and was bent nearly double. His suit coat hung loosely on a small frame that had obviously once been larger. He smiled, waiting for her answer.

“Mr. Ken, would you like to share a cab home?”

He smiled. “Yes, Miss Kat, if you don’t mind the slow pace of a hobbling old man.”

She didn’t mind.

Maybe I’ve found a friend. Grandpa always said, “When it comes to friendship, age doesn’t matter.”

But she didn’t give him the pen. She slipped it back into her purse.

He hadn’t been kidding about the slow pace. Kathleen helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack. She almost offered to button it for him; it took him so long, but she didn’t know him well enough for that. Then he knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. And it seemed to take forever for him to pull on his leather gloves.

By the time they got to the street the usual line of cabs in front of the church was long gone. Ken lost his balance as they waited in the wind for another, and she grabbed his elbow.

“Does anyone usually wait here with you until you get a cab?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know many people here anymore.”

She sighed. “Looks like we both could use a friend.”

“I could use one,” he said. “And when it comes to friendship, age doesn’t matter.”

He’d lowered his head against the wind, so Ken didn’t see the quick look she gave him.

A pen like Grandpa’s and Grandpa’s saying too? It must be a Christmas coincidence.

It was hard getting a hold of the pen with her bulky red mittens on, but she found it and held it out to him.

“I would like you to take a look at this, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

He took it carefully and slipped it into a deep pocket of his wool overcoat.

“I don’t mind at all. It will give a lonely old man something to do.”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Two

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of Donna Poole’s books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole