The Christmas Pen-Part Two

by Donna Poole

Kathleen had wondered about Mr. Ken a few times during the week.

Has he been able to fix the pen? Did he even remember to take it out of his overcoat pocket?

He’d said she could come up to his apartment and get Grandpa’s antique fountain pen he was supposed to be repairing for her, but she’d felt funny doing that. After all, he was practically a stranger, even though, in some strange way, she felt close to the old man.

You must be desperate for human connections, Kat.

Wait. So, now I’m calling myself “Kat,” my childhood nickname, the name I never use but gave to Mr. Ken for some unknown reason?

She thought back to their taxi ride home from church the previous Sunday. Ken had told her she reminded him of someone.

“A granddaughter, maybe?” she’d asked.

“No, Ruth and I never had any children.”

“So, Ruth was the love of your life?”

“Ruth and Jesus! But Ruth would say it was Jesus who came first!”

Not for the first time he’d reminded her of Grandpa. That’s what Grandpa had always said about Grandma. “The loves of my life, Grandma and Jesus.”

And sweet little Grandma had said, “Tell it like it is, dear. You know I come second. It’s always Jesus first with you. And that’s okay with me. Like you say, ‘a Christian marriage is a triangle, two people and Jesus. Keep Jesus at the top, and the closer the two people at the sides of the triangle move to Jesus, the closer they get to each other.’”

Kathleen suspected maybe it was because Grandpa loved Jesus best, he had so much love to give to others.

“Who do I remind you of if not a granddaughter?”

“It’s your smile. You remind me of a friend I had once.”

“You remind me of someone too. My grandpa.”

“Tell me about him.”

But they were back at the apartment building by then. She’d helped him out of the cab and to the elevator. They’d parted ways when she got off on her floor.

Kathleen didn’t know if she’d see Ken at church on Sunday. She had no idea if he attended often. But when she slipped into the pew where she always sat, there he was.  

“You’re here! And sitting right where you sat last week,” she said.

He chuckled softly. “I’ve sat in this same pew far longer than you’ve been attending church here. I’ve been sitting next to you for five years now.”

Her face flushed. “Would you believe I never noticed?”

He chuckled again. “I’d believe. You’ve probably never noticed the handsome young man who sits two pews ahead and sometimes glances back at you.”

What handsome young man? The only man I see in that pew has a bald spot on the back of his head.  

But she couldn’t ask Mr. Ken about it now; the prelude was beginning, and the pipe organ’s swelling music reached the rafters. “O Come, Let Us Adore Him.”

Kathleen forgot about Mr. Ken, her grandpa’s pen, and the supposedly handsome young man as she worshipped the Lord Jesus, the One she’d learned to love long ago when she’d been a little girl in Grandpa’s country church.

During the sermon Mr. Ken once again took copious notes with his antique fountain pen, the one that matched her grandpa’s broken one.

Kathleen’s mind wandered during the sermon. How did I not notice the person sitting next to me for five years? Well, he sits to my right, and I always go left to exit the pew, but still….

She remembered something Grandpa had taught her to pray, “Love through me, love of Jesus.” She had a feeling Jesus wouldn’t sit next to someone for five years and never notice them. Had she really let a decade ago broken heart make her that cold toward people?

Well, he’s never said anything to me either. Or has he? I don’t remember. Pay attention to the sermon, Kathleen.

“What can you give the Lord this Christmas?” the pastor was asking. “He said whatever we do for the least of His children we do for Him. I’m asking you to leave your comfort zone and do something you’re unaccustomed to doing in this church. I’m going to stop talking for sixty seconds. Look around you, to your left, your right, in front of you, and behind you. Who do you see that might need a smile, a helping hand, a meal, a friend this Christmas?”

Sixty seconds can seem a long time. Kathleen knew she wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable. Uneasiness hung thick in the air. In this beautiful, professionally decorated cathedral, something like this just wasn’t done. She stared at her folded hands in her lap.

Okay, Kathleen, it’s not like he asked you to go on a yearlong mission’s trip.

She looked up and smiled at the woman in furs to her left. The woman didn’t smile back. She glanced at the people in front of her. The man with the bald spot looked directly at her and grinned. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. She forced herself to look away and glanced at Mr. Ken. He was smiling.

Invite Mr. Ken Fisher to dinner next Sunday. It’s Christmas, and no one should eat alone, including you, Kat Jones.

She pushed aside the thought. She was a terrible cook. No one should have to eat her food; she could barely stand to eat it herself and ordered take out whenever possible.

When the service ended, Mr. Ken took forever to struggle to his feet. Bent nearly double, he craned his head, looked up at her and smiled.

“Would you like to share a cab again?”

This week the foyer wasn’t empty when they finally got there. The young man with the bald spot and incredibly blue eyes was waiting there.

“Pastor Fisher!” He bent down and hugged the older man. “I don’t expect you remember me, but you baptized me the last year you were pastor here.”

Ken smiled. “Of course, I remember you. Little Johnny Dryden. You were nine years old. You probably go by John now.”

The man laughed. “Nope. Johnny Dryden, physician’s assistant, at your service. How do you remember me after all these years?”

“Because,” Ken said, “I’ve prayed for you every day, you and all the others I’ve baptized.”

Johnny’s eyes filled with quick tears. “You’ve prayed for me for twenty years?”

Kathleen did the math. Johnny was the same age she was. But he wasn’t here to talk to her; he hadn’t said a word to her.

The next thing she knew her hand was in his two warm ones. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ve been trying to catch you to talk to you for a long time, but you usually hurry out and are gone before I can get out of my pew.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ken laughed.

“Johnny Dryden, meet Kat Jones. She’s my neighbor, and we’re just about to share a cab home. Don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”

“I wish I could,” Johnny answered Ken, still looking at Kat, “but I have a deacon’s meeting. It’s probably already started. I’m late, but I’m going to be later, because I’m going to help the two of you get a cab.”

Johnny helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack and waited patiently while he buttoned it and knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. Johnny acted like he had all the time in the world as Ken slowly struggled into his leather gloves.

Johnny linked one arm into Ken’s and the other into Kat’s and walked them out into the snowstorm. This Sunday, one cab was left from the long line that always formed in front of the large church. He helped them into it.

Before he shut the door he said, “Kat Jones, I’d like to get to know you.”

She smiled. She still hadn’t said a word. Her thoughts were reeling. After a few minutes she turned to Ken.

“Mr. Ken, you were a pastor? Here at Christ Calvary Cathedral?”

He nodded. “I was. I retired twenty years ago.”

“But last Sunday you told me you didn’t know many people here anymore.”

He sighed. “I don’t. The congregation now is mostly newer people, and the ones who were here when I was a pastor seem to have forgotten me now.”

“Johnny Dryden remembers you.”

He raised white, bushy eyebrows and smiled at her.

“That young man doesn’t seem like the kind likely to forget anyone who matters to him.”

“Mr. Ken, would you like to come to dinner next Sunday? I’m a terrible cook.”

He laughed. “I had a friend long ago who always said that. She really was a terrible cook too, but I enjoyed every meal I ever ate in that house. I’d love to come. And I should have your grandpa’s pen fixed by then. I had to order some parts.”

“Oh! I’ll pay you!”

He waved one hand. “No, you fix me a terrible dinner and we’ll call it steven-even.”

She caught her breath. “Grandpa always said steven-even instead of even-steven.”

He smiled again. “Did he now?”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Three

***

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