The Christmas Pen Part Three

by Donna Poole

“Third Sunday in a row we’ve had snow,” Kathleen said to herself, as she closed her computer. She liked her job as a biomedical engineer, but her real passion was writing. She’d been working on her novel in snatched minutes of time for almost two years and sometimes got so engrossed in the story she lost track of time. Like now.

“Wow, I’m running late!”

Kathleen detested being late for anything, but the prelude was well underway when she slipped into her pew at Christ Calvary Cathedral for the Christmas service. Mr. Ken smiled at her. She felt uneasy about the elderly man; he was still wearing his overcoat and red and green plaid scarf and looked pale. It was plenty warm enough in the building.

Is he sick?

“You okay?” she whispered.

He nodded and patted her hand. His gloves were still on too.

The program started. Without words, accompanied only by the orchestra, children in tailor-made costumes acted out the manger scene.

The production was beautiful, but Kathleen had to stifle a giggle. She couldn’t help remembering the year at Grandpa’s country church when there weren’t enough boys and she’d had to play Joseph. She’d been upset; she’d wanted to be Mary or an angel. And then the bath towel someone had wrapped around her head had fallen off halfway up the aisle and everyone had laughed. She hadn’t thought it was funny then, but it was one of her favorite memories now.

The perfectly dressed children exited, and the choir sang the beautiful song by Ron Hamilton, “Born to Die.”

“On the night Christ was born, Just before break of morn,

As the stars in the sky were fading,

O’er the place where He lay, Fell a shadow cold and gray,

Of a cross that would humble a King.

Born to die upon Calv’ry

Jesus suffered my sin to forgive

Born to die upon Calv’ry

He was wounded that I might live.”

As the choir finished, a hush fell over the auditorium. Two teenage boys dressed like Roman soldiers came up the aisle carrying a big wooden cross. They took slow, deliberate steps in the silence. When they got to the large, decorated Frasier Fir in the front, they raised the cross and dropped it with a loud thud into a stand that had been set up next to the tree. The boys stood quietly, looking at the cross. Then the younger of the two fell to his knees and began crying. It obviously wasn’t part of the script. The older boy looked around awkwardly for a minute; then he knelt next to the younger boy and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered something and the other boy nodded. They stood, both crying now. They faced the congregation, raised their right arms high, fists clenched, then tapped their hearts.

The boys shouted in unison, “Jesus is Lord!”

Kathleen reached in her purse for a few tissues. Mr. Ken needed one too. She heard sniffles all around her.

The pastor stood head bowed. Finally, he said, “My sermon today was titled, ‘The Perfect Tree,’ but I don’t need to preach about the cross. These boys have done a far better job than I could ever do.”

To the soft music of “Silent Night,” the congregation filed out quietly.

Mr. Ken sat in the pew, head bowed, praying. Kathleen waited for him.

Finally, using his gold tipped cane, he struggled to his feet, smiling at her through the tears on his face. 

How can I love this old man I’ve only known a few weeks? But I do. Even his smile reminds me of grandpa.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” she asked.

Mr. Ken chuckled. “Just an old man who can’t get warm. Am I still invited for that awful dinner? You said you’re a terrible cook.”

She laughed. “You are and I am.”

Once again Johnny Dryden was waiting to help them into a cab, and Kathleen’s eyes widened when Mr. Ken invited him to her apartment for lunch.

Johnny’s incredibly blue eyes met hers and he laughed. “You’re safe. I have to get to work.”

She nodded. “I guess physician’s assistants have to work Christmas Sunday?”

“It’s my other job. My volunteer one,” he said, as he helped Mr. Ken into the cab. “But Kat Jones, I still want to get to know you. What did you think of the sermon?”

“Best I’ve ever heard.”

“Same.” He smiled and waved as the cab pulled away.

As promised, Sunday dinner was terrible. Kathleen sighed. “This is the first time I’ve goofed up spaghetti.”

Mr. Ken laughed. He took another bite of the undercooked pasta covered with the too salty sauce. “It’s not that bad, Kat. It’s nice to eat with someone. This more than repays me for fixing your grandpa’s pen. It should work for many years now. The one I have just like it wrote love letters to Ruth and thousands of sermons, and it’s still working.”

“How did you become a pastor, Mr. Ken? I have to leave at three o’clock, but we have time for your story.”

He took a crunchy bite of the too dark garlic bread, coughed, and grabbed his water. “It’s a long story. What do you say you keep eating and I’ll tell it? I’m kind of full myself.”

He’d barely begun talking when Kathleen’s face paled and she pushed away her own plate. He’d been a runaway, hated his abusive parents, hated the church that knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it, and hated God. Then he decided there was no God. A confirmed atheist at the age of sixteen, he’d lived on the streets, a tough kid who’d do anything for food or a bed. Then he got sick.

“It was a bitter cold winter, a lot like this one. I intended to mug and rob whoever answered the door that night, but I was too weak to even knock. I guess I made a lot of noise falling into the door, because a woman opened it. She called her husband to help her, and they half-carried me inside.

“I could see right away they were poor, and I cursed my dumb luck for not stumbling into a place where I could take something worthwhile. They asked my name. I was sick and half out of my mind, but street smart enough not to give my real name. I told them my name was. . . ”

Kathleen interrupted him. “Sam.”

Her mind was racing.

How did I not see this before? The pen. The phrases he uses. The scarf!

He raised his white bushy eyebrows and stared at her. “How’d you know that? Lucky guess? Anyway, they took me to a walk-in clinic that night and got me some antibiotics. I heard Bill, that was his name, tell Shari he was sorry he’d had to use some money he’d been saving for Christmas to pay for it. She hugged him and said she didn’t care; he’d given her a gift she’d never forget by helping me.

“I thought they were a huge joke. Like people from another planet, you know? How could they be for real? They said I could stay with them as long as I wanted. They fed me. She was a terrible cook, and I didn’t let them know it, but I enjoyed every meal. They gave me a warm bed. But they kept talking to me about God, and every time they did, I got mad. I told them there was no God and no good people either. Everyone had an angle, and I’d figure out theirs sooner or later.

“Sometimes I’d hear Bill and Sheri praying for me late at night, and that made me angry too. I didn’t think I needed their prayers. They said they’d always pray for me.

“Bill was a seminary student. He was going to be a pastor somewhere when he graduated. I told him it was a fool’s job.

“I’d been with them about a month. It was Christmas Day. They begged me to go to church with them, said we’d open gifts after we got home. I refused. I’d had it with their God talk. As soon as they left, I raided the gifts under the tree. Sheri had wrapped a gift for Bill, a scarf. I took it. I wear it to this day to remind me of what I was before God saved me. Bill had wrapped a gift for me, the red fountain pen you see me write with. His gift for Sheri was a Bible. I tore pages out of it, left it under the tree, and hit the streets.

“After a few more years of alcohol, drugs, and street life, I was a mess. I ended up in the Rescue Mission. I’d never been able to forget Bill and Sheri and the love and kindness they’d shown me. They’d made God seem real to me, and I hated what I’d done to them. When I finally understood God’s love in sending His Son and asked Jesus to save me from my sin, I looked for them to thank them and ask forgiveness, but they were gone. They probably forgot all about me, but I never forgot them.”

Kathleen had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “Mr. Ken, we’ll eat dessert later. It’s almost three o’clock. There’s somewhere I have to go, and I’d really like you to come with me.”

“Old men need afternoon naps, Kat.”

He looked at her pleading eyes.

“Okay. Let me get my coat.”

She smiled. “And your scarf, Mr. Ken. Be sure to wear your scarf.”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Four

***

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 my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole