She’d seen it hundreds of times as she passed it on the street. It was a little storefront with a sign saying simply Chiromancy. This time, though,her steps slowed as she approached the window. What would be the harm in seeking out a fortune-teller; more to the point, a palm-reader?

There was enough of the unknown in her life that she wished to peer into tomorrow. Perhaps it would relieve some of her stress or give her a new lease on life! Heaven knew she needed something; something to steer her in the right direction. But with the way everything was going, that would take a miracle. Even at Christmas, the season of miracles, she doubted one would appear to her, of all people. God, if He did exist, had more important things to do.

Clink. A little round piece of something rolled up against her boot. It was funny she even felt it. She bent down and retrieved it. It was a token, something like you would get at a carnival or party. She turn the gold piece over in her hand. One side was gold and the other held the image of a manger scene. A manger scene? She peered more closely, trying to imagine what sort of person or gathering it came from; then looked around to see if someone had dropped it. There wasn’t a pedestrian to be seen, but a scraggly dog trotted near her; abandoned from the looks of him.

She called to him with a click of her tongue and he came near enough for her to reach out and pet him. Her palm would be dirty now, and she wondered what the palm-reader would think. The dog nuzzled closer and licked her hand. Then he trotted a few steps down the street, looking back, as if inviting her to follow him. Her gaze alternated between the storefront and the dog. She really wished for direction; direction a fortune-teller might be able to give her! But the dog came back and nudged her knee for a pet. She absently reached down and gave him one. He nudged her again, and she patted him. He rolled onto his back and she gave him a good tummy rub. Her hand slowed as she felt his heartbeat.

And it was that heartbeat that spoke to her. If God had created even the heart of a scraggly dog and kept it beating day in and day out, did he care for small things as well as big, important things? And she was more than a dog, wasn’t she? She turned the coin over in her hand and studied the manger scene. How in the world had it rolled to hit her boot? Where did it come from? Did God know her heartbeat?

A new thought occurred to her as she followed her new friend down the street. She still wanted to know what her future held. But maybe it wasn’t to be found in the palm of her hand.

The bell had last rung in 1945 on Christmas Day, its peal joyful and jubilant. The bell was twenty years old then, and the one who rang it was strong and sinewy. He could still remember the sweater he’d worn that day. It was of heavy knitted wool, handmade by his girl, Betty. He planned to ask her to marry him the next evening and knew she’d say yes.

He knew, because that’s the way life was for him. It was almost as if he could make what he wanted appear before his eyes. If he wanted a job, he got it. If he wanted a girl, she loved him. When he wanted a house, he’d be moving in the next month.

They’d had a small wedding in the church where he was bell-ringer, but the bell didn’t ring on his wedding day. It didn’t ring on any Sunday or holy day afterward, either. He’d checked to see what the problem was. The clapper seemed fine. There were no noticeable cracks and the bolts were tight. He’d climbed up to examine the mechanism of ropes and pulleys. Nothing. So there it remained, in its ordained place high above the church, looking for all the world like a working bell, but in reality doing only that and nothing more.

He and Betty had raised a family. Five strong boys and a daughter whose life had been cut short by a high fever and misdiagnosis. Betty, his Betty, couldn’t stand the loss and she had died within a year. Neighbors were puzzled. She’d seemed in good health. But he knew it wasn’t her health. It was her heart.

He’d soldiered on, looking up at what he called “his bell” each time he crossed the church threshold. He hadn’t been able to fix the bell just as he hadn’t been able to fix Betty’s grief. It bothered him, not being able to make things right. But the bell was the first to teach him that life can clobber even the luckiest man.

It was Christmas Eve, and the years had marked time as they do in everyone’s life. He was tired and the church was, too. And he thought, as he listened to sweet carols sung by weary voices, that what he needed was what the church needed. And what the church needed was what the world needed.

He slipped out of his pew before the last song and climbed the tower stairs to stare once again at the bell. And he did something he hadn’t done when trying to fix it nor in all the trials in his life that he’d found to be unfixable.

The good Lord had more important things to do than listen to an old man make a needless request. But this time, well this time, he’d approach the throne. After all, even Kings give presents to their servants.

“Father,” he whispered, his breath making puffs in front of him. “I’m so tired, and this here church is world-weary. And who are we, anyway? We aren’t any of us impressive or even good. I’ve tried, Lord, how I’ve tried to get this bell to ring. It was my job, and I failed. I couldn’t figure it out. I couldn’t fix it. And it won’t matter, I guess, if you don’t do this. But it’d mean a lot if this old bell could ring again; If it would do what it’s meant to do, and on Christmas Eve, no less. Let it ring, Father. Let it fill the night with the voice of the angels.”

And the old man, full of years, grabbed the rope and pulled with all his might. And clarion rings called from the church tower, echoing through the town and fields. Its peals were taken up by bells across the town: big, booming bells; choir-like bells that rang in harmony; even tiny bells hanging from Christmas trees in homes of the townsfolk. The church people rose from their pews and ran outside to look up in wonder. And the old man pulled and pulled with tears streaming down his face, while voices of the angels sang.

Three days. That’s how long it had been since the power went out. At first it had been kind of fun, and after she and her cat watched white snowflakes in their persistent descent against a storm-gray sky, she’d gone to bed under cozy covers and dreamed she was at the North Pole.

Morning had brought the chill of winter indoors and realization flashlight games with Simba would hold little amusement in a room cold enough to see her breath. She’d slipped long johns on under her clothes, and pulled on two pair of socks, a hat, and gloves. Simba slipped under the comforter.

She called the power company again and got the same recorded message she’d heard the day before. It would be at least a week before everyone’s service was restored. Her small house on a little-traveled road was at the bottom of the priority list, which meant power to her house would come in seven more days at the earliest! Tonight was Christmas Eve and Christmas would essentially be blacked out. Typical. Okay. Okay. She preferred soft shadows to glaring light anyway, didn’t she?

She’d bought it – the house – with money from her grandfather’s inheritance, for solitude she’d wished for during ten years of living in the concrete jungle where she’d found comfort only in the shadows. At the time of purchase, she hadn’t thought of emergencies; only of getting away from too many people, too much light, too much everything.

Getting away from it all was good, right? The shadows of tall pines secreted her from the world. She admitted, though, that as the years passed, she’d begun to wonder if, by leaving behind some things she’d pegged as needless, she had shut out something else. Something important, perhaps.

She wrapped a blanket around herself more snugly and stared at the Christmas tree she’d set up in the corner. It seemed somehow ridiculous with all light stripped from its branches. Little ornaments hung listlessly. Suddenly, a glass ballerina she’d had since childhood broke from the cold. Was it a sign? She shook her head to clear it. The cold must be doing things to her mind. She began to wonder if the shadows that had weaved in and out of her life were of her own making. Did no one love her or had she simply shut love out? Humph. Nonsense. She laughed mirthlessly as she swept up the pieces.

And as a nearly invisible weak winter sun sank below the horizon, the shadows began to change from cozy to ominous. Warmth and light suddenly seemed unattainable. Her life wasn’t one to which good things came, something she’d repeated for years like a mantra. And miracles (for that’s what it would take)? That was just a charming word, more fiction than fact. Two days had passed and she was already quite miserable. It hung over her like an unlit candle: that sense of dread that night would stretch on forever and light would disappear.

She stretched out on the couch, Simba next to her, and wished for the week to be over, the week the power company claimed it would take to turn the power back on. Wind from the storm rattled the windows and drafted through minute crevices.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself something she’d always strictly forbidden: She thought of Christmases past; of people from long ago; of out-of-key church choirs and imperfect cookies and snow-trampled sidewalks. And she began to remember stories told by long-silenced voices she had dismissed as out-of-touch. A baby born in a shadowy cave and placed in a manger. Of a God so loving He sent His own Son and called Him Light. If only it were true. If only light filtered into sad, sightless, cold shadow and brought warmth. Please. Please send light. Please, she thought. Or was it a prayer? She drifted in and out through the night, the unforgiving cold disallowing sleep. Then sometime near the dawn of the third day it happened. She saw it first, then felt it. Light! Warmth! And Christmas Day – the day God sent Light into the shadows of the world – broke through. After all, light casts no shadow.

The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world. John 1:9; Images: Pexels.com