It had been, oh, how long? More years than he cared to think about. Life had taken him away from familiar places and people into a world they and he knew nothing of. It was a world of tall buildings and bridges, masses of people and multi-course meals.

He had faced      a steep learning curve; one that had kept him stimulated and focused during most of his waking hours and dreaming of fenestration, tartan grids, and plans during his sleep. It was only a few years ago that his engagement had slowed, then slowed some more until what were once challenges were now no more than mundane tasks. His schedule was so dependable, he could set a Times Square clock by it. Coffee at 6:00. Stepping over the threshold of his office by 7:00. A working lunch at his desk or a quick walk to clear the cobwebs at noon. Home by 7:00 and repeat ad infinitum. His restlessness increased.

One day he looked up from his work, past the steel and glass outside his windows, and acknowledged to himself that something had taken the place of the former puzzles floating through his consciousness and had instead filled his dreams with increased yearning. He couldn’t quite believe it, but it had grown until its undeniability filled the room.

So it was that he found himself back in a familiar place, now slightly changed. There was no decent road in. It was a place only off-road vehicles could manage, and even then, the trees blocked most paths. He scuffed through dried leaves on the track to the shaded snowpack near his Grandpa’s old place. Little animals scurried to hide. The cold walk filled his lungs with crisp, fresh air. He dug his hands into his coat pockets, and the vapor from his breath increased with the distance. He used to pretend it was pipe smoke when he was 5. He wanted to be like his Grandpa. And God. For somewhere in his little boy imagination his Grandpa was pretty near as close to God as anyone. He wouldn’t have been surprised if God smoked a pipe.

He’d spent every summer of his boyhood in the sturdy three room log cabin filling his days chasing frogs, swimming in the creek, and climbing trees. And every other winter, he’d been allowed to spend his Christmas vacation from school with his Grandpa. The crunch, crunch, crunch underfoot stopped as he pulled the key from his coat pocket and unlocked old, forgotten memories.

For a few hours he swept and scrubbed dirt from neglected surfaces. He started a fire in the fieldstone fireplace, then sank down in the chair his Grandpa had favored. His mind wandered back to evenings by the firelight and wisdom the world he had come from couldn’t touch. He closed his eyes and wished – oh how he wished . . .

A sigh escaped his lips. So many years. Had he chosen the right path or was the simpler one his Grandfather had taken the better one? Was money, hobnobbing, and status the best reward? After all, they had their merits. Were those years he could have had – of rewards from physical labor and homey leisure – now lost? Probably.

He recalled the last Christmas he had joined his Grandpa at the cabin. His parents had died within a year of each other, and he hadn’t wanted to bear the season alone. But his Grandpa was stubborn about one thing. That cabin. He never left it. Something about his lost dog returning, though it never did. He claimed he always wanted it to know where to find him. And they had spent a wonderful week together. That was before his choices. Before the city. Before.

He hadn’t come here to sulk. He grabbed an axe – the one that was always in the corner by the door – and walked out to find a tree. It was just the right size, and when he had decorated it with pinecones and berries, it was perfect.

He sat in the dark, firelight and shadow playing over the walls and floor, and he prayed. He prayed for forgiveness of false equivalencies and shallow goals. And he prayed for a miracle. Right here. On Christmas Eve. He didn’t want a fancy dinner nor a Tesla nor even a house in the Hamptons. No, tonight he made a different choice. He wished for one more talk with his Grandpa who so reminded him of the Good Lord, Himself.

And the sweet scent of pipe smoke filled the room.

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It had been a rough day. Gunfire’s repetitive staccato had rattled his bones and jarred his nerves. But it had ended for now, and he was assigned Fire Guard while others slept. Though he was deployed in a part of the world he had always associated with heat, he could see his breath in the night air. It was downright cold!

He’d quieted himself to the point that he was better at discerning the difference between a rogue footfall and the crack of cold, but though a soldier might appear quiet or still, guard duty was never a time of rest.

Something caught his eye, and he zeroed in on it. Oh. A star. Only a star. But its brightness pulled his gaze back to the sky, and he thought of the old story – the one about wise men following a brilliant star and shepherds in the night.

Shepherds in the night. Now there was something he could understand. Men of varied ages spending time in the field. Without decent food. Smudged and dark from dirt and sun. Always slightly on edge, a result of their responsibility to protect. To fight when necessary. To be invisible, unremembered, and essential. They guarded sheep. He guarded freedom.

On a night not unlike this one and in a place relatively near to the station he guarded, those shepherds watched; watched the sheep and the undiscernible darkness. Their eyes, like his, might have blurred from tiredness. Some of their comrades might have been collegial – others, not so much. But, unlike him, their night had exploded in light and sound and magnificence with the announcement of the ages. Glory! To God! In the highest! A baby was born who would first save the world for all history, then rule for all eternity. History! Eternity!

The One who was announced did battle with the forces of evil. Yes, he knew something about that. And He loved. Yes, he knew love. Wished he knew it better. And He finished what He started. Yes, it was part of the Soldier’s Creed.

The soldier felt suddenly small in the grand scheme of things. He stretched and gazed as far as his eyesight would allow. He wouldn’t see magnificence tonight. He would only see the stars over the hills. His view was magnificent, was it not? It would have to be enough on this Christmas night. While those he loved and those who hated him and those who didn’t give him a thought celebrated with feasts and presents and songs and candlelight, the stars would have to be enough.

“Merry Christmas”, he whispered.

And then, then he saw . . . something. Were his eyes playing tricks? No, no, he was as sure as anything he’d seen it; if only for an instant. Angels! Not a multitude. And not glowing and beautiful like the pictures he’d seen in books when he was a child. But fierce. Profoundly scary and somehow comforting. No one would believe this. Not his buddies. Not his friends and family back home. But when you witness the unseen, you never forget it. He knew what he saw.

And his heart beat fast with awe as he blinked back grateful tears on the quiet Christmas night.

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There is an ancient pine tree deep in the Forest of Dirgel that stands taller and stronger than any other variety, of its own and others. No one knows when it sprouted nor how long it grew. Perhaps the mysterious forest originated with the tree, or maybe lucky placement gave it enough room and light to stretch to the beckoning sky. But whether it was the first in the forest around it or was the result of a pinecone dropped by tree or animal, it became the reigning presence that lent itself to the old story.

The legend is nearly as old as the forest, itself, handed down from generation to generation; though two pilots recounted seeing the very tree on Christmas Eve, and a rugged ranger, long gone, witnessed it, himself.

On the day before Christmas, goes the story, as the light dims, fading from winter white to periwinkle to black, the moon dips slightly lower in the sky, lighting the forest with its winter beams – a spotlight on the ancient tree. The air, sharp with cold, begins to shimmer with golden flecks of light, turning the night into a velvety backdrop. Then the branches of the tree reach lower, and lower still until they brush the ground. And in the glittering, gleaming night something amazing begins to happen!

Tiny red, blue, and green berries sprout along the soft green needles. Gradually little bits of corn and pumpkin spring up in concert from the branches; and fruit of all kinds drop from the already laden boughs.

Then one by one forest animals begin to gather around the old tree. Some internal knowledge tells them there is a miraculous feast awaiting them as the glittering light breaks through the darkness. First, little chipmunks, fresh from their winter hibernation, peek up from the snow. Then squirrels: gray, red, and brown chatter to each other as they scamper near. Deer and wolves, friends for the evening, sniff the air and begin to munch on the feast. Birds drop down onto the higher branches and lend music to the night when they break from dining on the abundance of the old tree. The quiet of the forest erupts with happy sounds of animals, some very hungry from too many snowy days, as they enjoy the profusion of good food.

And in the still and sparkling Christmas Eve the stars glimmer and shine as they watch the gathering. They know how the legend began, for they saw the One who calls them each by name and hears their songs in the night reach low and create the hidden gift in celebration of another most spectacular gift one silent night long ago.

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Eight quarters. That’s what did it. It was two dollars sucked into a laundromat dryer with nothing to show for them that cracked her final effort to put on her game face. And now, as she sat on a cold bench, holding a large bag of wet laundry and waiting for the bus, a few tears burned her eyes. She blinked quickly to chase them away.

It had been six months since she moved from her small town back in Oklahoma. Her parents had worn worry on their faces like freckles; but they had bravely waved goodbye, whispering prayers – prayers for her to remember where she came from, prayers for a sense of home in a strange city – they thought she hadn’t heard. Her dad had flipped a quarter in the air and she’d caught it.

“Remember,” he’d said. “Remember even a quarter says to trust God.”

“And if a quarter knows as much,” her mom had added, “then you do, too. And whenever things get troublesome, just take a quarter’s advice.”

Only she had used her last quarter in the laundromat dryer – the dryer that didn’t work. She didn’t even have a quarter to look at. Oh, she went through the motions of bedtime prayers and thanks for food, but . . . The baby in the manger seemed very far away.

Now it was Christmas Eve. She would be missing the special stew her mother always made and cocoa and cookies as they decorated the tree. But if she thought about it too much, it would just depress her. She would ignore the day. She had rejected her parents’ offer of transportation money. Too proud, she admitted. She would take their phone call and pretend she had gone somewhere exciting. A trickle of water seeped from the laundry bag in front of her and ran down the slanted pavement.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

She glanced over at size 13 shoes. At least 13, she thought. Her eyes moved to a wooden cane topped with an engraved solid brass cane head in the shape of a tree branch, and upward to a wrinkled, leathery face.

“Looks like you were in a hurry,” he chuckled.

“I . . .”

“Dryer on the fritz?” he tossed her the question that felt like a lifebouy.

“Yes, that’s it.” She wouldn’t admit the quarters she’d lost in it were some of the last until her next paycheck. At least she had a bus ticket.

Fumes from the bus clouded the air as they climbed the steps. It occurred to her that steps might be hard to manage with a cane, but when she turned to look, the old man seemed strong and spry.

As she stepped off the last stair at her stop, she heard a familiar voice.

“Imagine living so close,” the tall stranger marvelled. “Say – I have a washer/dryer in my unit you can use.”

She considered. Was it safe? Her wet load made her decision, and she nodded.

His apartment building was so close – only a couple of buildings from her own. But she supposed it wasn’t unusual to not have met him before.

She couldn’t have said what she’d expected, but she stepped into a surprisingly cozy home. For that’s what it was. The very air was a welcoming hug. He plugged in lights on a Christmas tree in the corner, then showed her to the dryer.

While waiting for her clothes to dry, he brought her a heavy blue bowl of beef stew along with buttered french bread, perfectly toasted. The simple meal warmed her through. It reminded her of home.

“I was going to finish decorating the tree this evening. Care to help?” he asked.

He held out an ornament with an iridescent glow. She took it and carefully hung it on a branch. It was one of a kind. Truly stunning.

As she lay in bed the next morning, the events from the previous evening played in her memory. She could almost taste the gingerbread cookies and hot cocoa the old man had brought out while they finished decorating his tree, a tree that rivaled any she’d ever seen.

The phone rang: a Christmas morning call from her parents. Was she doing okay? Had she made any friends? They still prayed every day for her to encounter some sort of family-like support when she needed it. They missed her, and had hung her special ornaments on the tree. She told them of the tall old man she’d spent Christmas Eve with, leaving her wet laundry and missing quarters out of the story.

She slipped into her newly laundered jeans and sweater. She couldn’t remember laundry smelling so fresh! Energized, she decided to hand-deliver a thank you note to her new friend. The winter sun muted the light as she stepped onto the sidewalk on her way to the old man’s apartment two buildings down. She passed the first building and – wait. She turned around. No, this was where his apartment building had been. Had been! She stared at an empty lot. Yet not completely empty. For there, a few steps in, was a pile quarters. Eight, to be exact. And snowflakes gently fell as she read, IN GOD WE TRUST.

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