This Land

There is always music for those who have the ears to hear

The land was our legacy. My grandfather had saved and saved until he could buy it. He had worked his fingers to the bone so that the Pellyn family would have a legacy, something it could pass on from father to son, generation after generation, as long as our line continued, and then some more. Today, as I stood on the hill overlooking our two-storey house, the land belonged to my father. In some unconceivable future the land would belong to me. That was the way it was. That was how it had been with my father. Some things did not change. Some things remain constant. But then some do change.

Once my grandfather had stood on this hill, and looked with delight over all the land that was to be his. My father had played on this hill, and thought about the land that was to be his. Today, as I stood on the hill and looked out over the densely wooded land that was someday to be mine, I felt trapped. The sky was endless above me. Below me the land stretched out as far as I could see, but still I felt trapped, unable to move. My father loved the land almost as much as he loved his wife and children. The land was part of what made him who he was, almost as much as being a husband and father made him who he was. He was happiest when he was working his land, immersed in the beauty and splendor of it. He enjoyed working the long hours, clearing the trees where they needed to be cleared and in their place planting new vegetation, food to feed a family of six, and selling the excess wood and vegetables. But I did not love it. While I worked with my father I was longing for something different. While I worked in the untamed beauty around me I longed for the tamed world. I longed for the big cities with their reaching buildings, their museums, their libraries, their music.

My father once said to me, “Son, if you stand still and listen long enough with the right ears, you will hear that there is music in the world, no matter where you are. You just have to have the ears to hear it.” My father loved music almost as much as I did. But I could not hear the music of the land. I could not hear the music my father heard and delighted in. For him that was enough, but I needed more.

I heard my sister Nora call. “Hugh! Hugh, it’s time for dinner!” I pretended I didn’t hear for a few minutes and didn’t answer. I wanted a few more minutes to be alone. I knew what was going to happen when I walked down the hill and into the house. I delayed it as long as possible.

“Hugh!” My sister’s voice was closer. I waited until she walked up the hill to me. “Hugh,” she said, “I’ve been calling you. It’s time for dinner.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m coming.”

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” Nora came to stand beside me and looked over the land. When I didn’t answer she looked at me closely. Nora was always the favorite of my three sisters. I think she understood me more than the rest of my family. But not even to her had I told my secret desire. Even Nora wouldn’t understand.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about a lot of things.”

“Away by yourself, it seems,” Nora said. “Dad’s furious.”

“I know.” I sighed. “Come on, Nora, we’d better go down, or he’ll be even more furious.” We raced down the hill and into the back door of the house. My father was not a hard man, but he placed great importance on duty. It was our duty to work, and it was our duty to be on time.

The rest of my family was already sitting around the table. We slipped into our places as Dad gave me a stern glance and began to say grace. I folded my hands and tried to concentrate on the words of the prayer.

“Amen,” we all chorused. We drew in our chairs, and Mother began to serve the food. My father did not say anything as she passed the plates around. Clare began talking about something one of her friends had told her. I did not listen. I looked down at my plate as I shoveled roast into my mouth.

Clare could talk forever if the occasion arose. But finally her story was finished. I knew Dad would not say anything even then. When any of us was in trouble, Dad never spoke of it at the dinner table. When he wanted to bring it up, he would bring it up after dinner, in his library. Dad liked dinner to be pleasant. He and Mother and the girls talked all during dinner. I didn’t say much unless anyone addressed me.

We had chocolate cake for dessert. When Sophie had cleared the dishes away Dad stood up and looked down the table at me. “Hugh, come to the library with me, please,” he said.

I got up and followed him to the library. The library faced the west, and the sun was setting, casting a warm light in the room. It was the perfect time to sit in the window seat with a book, but I knew Dad hadn’t called me into the library to read a book.

Dad sat in one of the big chairs and looked up at me. “Where were you all afternoon?” he asked.

I looked at a book above his head. Galileo’s Discoveries and Opinions. “Down by the river,” I said to the book.

“Doing what?” was Dad’s next question.

“Nothing in particular. Thinking.”

In my peripheral vision I could see my father run his hands through his hair. “Why weren’t you helping me?”

I shrugged. “I wanted to think.”

Dad’s hand came down on the arm of the chair with a thump that made me start. His voice was angry as he said, “Hugh, I waited for a whole hour for you. Your sisters went looking for you. I needed help, and you were off by yourself thinking.”

“I thought you liked people to think,” I mumbled to Galileo.

“Not when there’s work to be done,” Dad said, still angry. I heard him take a deep breath, and then he went on more quietly. “Hugh, now that you’ve graduated from high school, I need your help even more. This land is going to be yours someday, but right now it belongs to all of us, and I expect you to help with the work. You need to learn about it, understand it, and know it.”

Something in me snapped then, and I began to yell. “I don’t want the land,” I stormed. “I don’t want it at all. I hate it. I don’t ever want to see it again, much less work it. I don’t care if it was grandpa’s dream. I don’t care if it’s our legacy. Our damn legacy can go to hell!”

I stopped then, not because I was finished, but because Dad had slapped me across the face. It startled me and made me shut up.

“Hugh, calm down,” Dad said, surprisingly calm himself, considering my outburst. “If you have something to say to me, say it in a respectful way.”

I took a deep breath. “Dad, I don’t want the land. I’ve never wanted it.”

Dad sat down again, crossed his legs, and looked at me. “Hugh, this land is our legacy. It is very important to me, and it should be to you as well. My father bought the land so that I, and you and your children, would have a chance at something.”

I let my breath out in a loud puff. “I know Grandpa bought this land to give you a chance, and you love it. But I don’t love it like you do. I don’t want your chance. You had your chance, so why can’t I have mine?”

“What do you want?”

“I – I want anything that’s not this. I want the big buildings, the cities, the music. There’s so much in the cities that I can’t have here. I want to live in the city, maybe study music, or art. I just want to see what the world is like.”

Dad nodded slowly. “I see,” he said, and his voice was very sad. “Funny, because I came here to get away from all of that.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose we don’t all love the same things, but I just can’t…” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ll have to think about this,” he told me. “You may go now.”

I went out. I knew what the outcome would be. Dad would never let me have what I wanted, because to him the land was the most important thing, and he would see that I remained on it, working on it until the day I died. That was the way it was. I went into the living room and began to play on the big grand piano. It was my mother’s piano, and she had brought it with her when she married Dad. It was she who had taught me and my sisters to play. She loved music.

As I was playing, Mother came in and sat beside me on the piano bench. When I had finished the piece I was playing, she said, “I just talked with your father. He told me what you said to him.”

I looked down at the piano keys and played a few notes with my forefinger.  “Oh,” I said.

Mother touched the keys gently. “You know, Hugh, I was going to be a concert pianist,” she said.

I looked up at her. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you?”

“Well, I met your father, and he was, and still is, everything to me. Being a concert pianist suddenly wasn’t important. What was important was building a life with him, a life where we could raise our children in love and beauty.”

“But isn’t music important?”

Mother nodded. “It is, Hugh, it is. But music is one of those things that is important no matter where it happens, no matter who plays it. I realized I didn’t need to be a famous pianist to do what I loved. I love playing for my family and teaching people how to play just as much, if not better, than playing in front of great audiences. Music should be shared, but it should also be shared in love. I’ve never been happier playing for my family, and teaching you how to play.”

I picked out the first bar of Fur Elise. “But Mother, I don’t have that. I want to do something different. I don’t want to do what Dad does. I don’t know why he can’t see that. All he can think about is the land.”

“Hugh, honey,” Mother said, “that’s not true. He loves you, and he wants what’s best for you. I do, too.”

“And you think what’s best for me is to stay here and never see anything besides our land and the town. That’s not very much.”

“It’s more than you think it is. There’s something about this land that makes me feel more alive. It makes me love what I do even more.”

I shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t do that to me. All it makes me do is want to leave.”

Mother got up and dropped a kiss on my head. “Someday you’ll understand,” she told me. “Someday you’ll see what I see.”

I didn’t think so, but I didn’t say so. I began to play Fur Elise as Mother went out. The music calmed me, and I felt much better as I went to join the rest of my family as they gathered in the living room.

The next evening I was reading in the living room when Clare came skipping in and told me Dad wanted to talk to me in the library. I put down my book with a feeling of dread and went to the library. Dad was standing by the window when I came in. “Hugh,” he said, “sit down. I want to talk to you.”

We sat in the big antique arm chairs. Dad cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” he began. “I talked to your mother as well. Are you really serious about wanting to go away?”

I nodded. “I am.”

“I see. Well, we’ve come to a decision. I want you to do what you love, and I don’t want to hold you to something that will make you unhappy. But there is something to be said for doing your duty.”

I held my breath. What was Dad getting to?

Dad went on. “We’ve decided that you may go away and do what you want to do in the city.”

I jumped up, elated. “Thank you, Dad!” I cried.

My father held up his hand, and I sat down again. “There is one condition,” he said to me. “The condition is that you stay here and work on the land for six months. If by the end of the six months you still want to go, you may, with my blessing. But while you are here, you must put everything into your work. Do I have your word?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I promise.”

Dad held out his hand, and we shook solemnly. “Thank you, Dad,” I said again. As I went out of the library, I thought about my promise. “If you still want to go,” Dad had said to me. Of course I would still want to go! There was no doubt about that.

I kept my word to my father. As the days went by, I did what he told me. I worked beside him every day, doing what he loved, and I did not complain. I hated it, but I did not complain. The land meant nothing to me, and it was only long hours of work, for nothing, it seemed. I got no joy out of it. I would watch my father as he straightened up from his work, ran his hand across his forehead, looking out over his land with such joy in his eyes. There was peace in his eyes. He really was happy. It was as if he were listening to a beautiful symphony, or sitting beside my mother of an evening as she played the piano. No matter how hard I listened, I could not hear what he heard. I could not hear his symphony.

Sometimes when we worked, my father would tell me stories of when he was young, or when my grandfather was young. I had never known my grandfather; he died just after I was born. Grandpa had had many adventures in his youth. He had travelled the world until he came to this valley, and knew that was where he was going to settle down. He worked hard to buy the land, and in a few years he had saved up enough. Then he built the house, married Grandma, and proceeded to produce and raise a family of seven: one boy, my father, and six girls. Having one son and many daughters ran in the family. Many times I found myself wishing boys ran in the family. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about taking over the land. I often wished I could have known my grandfather. Perhaps then I could understand what he wanted for my father, and for me. But there was no way to ask him that. All I had to go on was what my father said, and at the moment we weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye on certain matters.

One day as we were working, my father stopped to take a breath. He leaned on his shovel and pushed his hat back from his face. He looked all around him, and said, almost as if he were talking to himself and not to me, “I always feel so much closer to my father when I’m out here working. It’s as if he’s here working with me.”

At that moment I got a bit of a glimpse of my father. He was my father; he’d been there as long as I could remember, and before. By working the land with his father, he had created a bond with him. We could not have that bond, I realized sadly, because I did not love the land as he did. To me the land was a place to live, a ground to walk on, earth to give me food, trees to shade me from the sun and keep me warm in the winter. To my father, it was something different, something to be loved. But I could not see it, and I could not love it.

My father was not one to give up without a fight. Nor was he one to go back on his word. Thus it was that he tried his hardest to bring me to love the land, but in the end, when he realized he could not, he agreed that I might go away. I did not like to see the hurt in his eyes, but I was determined to make a new life for myself. I began to pack my bags.

Then Dad got sick. We didn’t know what it was, or exactly how it happened. He was fine that morning, and went out to work as usual. At lunch he was tired, but seemed well enough. When dinner-time came, he did not appear. Mother sent me to look for him. He’d said he would be clearing some trees that day, so I went to the grove, calling his name. There was no answer, and I searched around until I found him, lying on the ground, unconscious. I ran back to get help, and Mother and I carried him back to the house.

The doctor could not name his sickness. He had never seen anything like it before, he said – the fever, the weakness, the constant fainting. He told Dad to stay in bed, and not to set foot out of it until he was better. He left, saying he’d be back in the morning.

In the morning Dad seemed a little better. He did not have a fever, but his legs were unaccountably weak, and he could not walk. The doctor decided it was some kind of stress on his body, and prescribed him a month of inactivity. Dad of course was upset. How was he to work? Even after a month, he would hardly be strong enough to continue to work as before. There would be no money. A whole month without money would set us back terribly, even though we were careful.

No one told me I could not go away to school, but the thought was there, nagging, in the back of my mind. I pushed it away at first, but as I lay in bed at night, it came to me again, and I knew what I must do. I did not like it, but I must do it. There was no other way.

The next morning I announced to my family that I would not be going to school. I was going to stay and do Dad’s work until he was able to do it himself. Mother begged me not to throw away my dream; she could manage. I knew she knew that was not true. Finally she kissed me and told me I was a good boy.

Dad was quiet for a long time when I told him. Finally he said, “You are sure of this?”

I nodded.

“We had a deal.”

“I know, Dad. But I can’t let the family suffer while I am off doing what I want. I’m going to stay. You’ll be back to work in a few more months.”

“And by then, you will have missed the entrance date,” Dad said. “You will have to wait another whole year. I don’t want you to do that.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m going to stay.”

Dad smiled at me and grasped my hand. “Thank you, son.”

Again I worked. I worked so hard that I thought my back would break in half. Every night I sat with my father and told him what I had done, and he told me what I should do in the morning. Then I would go to bed and sleep heavily until it was time to get up and do it all over again. I had never worked so hard in my life. I wondered how my father stood it. No wonder his body had given out temporarily.

One afternoon I was so tired I put down my shovel and law down on the grass for a moment. The ground under me was cool and soft as I closed my eyes. My whole body ached, and for a while all I could focus on was my discomfort. But then I relaxed a little, and I began to listen, and I heard sounds. There was a bird. And there was the wind sighing through the trees. The creaking of the trees. The sounds blended in my head. I do not know if it came to me just at that moment, or if it had been there all the time, and I had just ignored it. I understood how my father saw the land. He did not see it as work, or merely ground under his feet. To him it was not just a place to live. It was a place to love. It was alive, and it was beautiful. It was music, and I could hear it as it played around me. There was nothing more beautiful, not any music made by man, not any human voice. Dad had once said something that had always puzzled me. He said that the world was God’s love. I hadn’t understood it then, but now I knew what it meant. As the birds sang to me and I felt the ground under me whisper to me, I understood.

I stood up and looked around me, and I saw the land as my father saw it. I understood my father as I never had before. He worked hard to make it thrive, and because of that he loved it. I hadn’t wanted to make it thrive, and I had hated it. This land was mine. It would always be mine, because I loved it. It was my legacy, and suddenly that legacy was no longer a burden but a gift. I knew then that whatever I did next, wherever I went, I would always come back. This was my land. And that was music enough for me.

Those Days

To Jennifer, in memory of those days, the good and the bad. Thank you for being my friend through all of those days.

They were red and brown, those days,

Those days we sat under the golden trees

And talked of poetry, and how one day

The world would all be ours.

Those days of fleeting warmth,

Of golden sunshine touched with faintest rose

That touched and warmed our eyes and hair;

Those were the days that we were young.

They were silver and blue, those days,

The days when we walked along the icy walks,

And talked of books, and how we’d change the world,

Just one step at a time.

Those were the days of driving wind and ice caps

Forming on our frozen noses as we walked

Under a gray and dismal winter sky;

Those were the days we were alive.

They were gray, those days,

The days when we sat beside the burning fire

And talked of the world, our little world,

And all the troubles that it held.

Those were the days we longed for sunshine,

And when it did not come, we sang our songs

Beside the glowing fire in the hearth;

And those were the days that we grew wise.

They were the golden days,

Those days we sat under the spreading trees

And talked of times gone by, and how one day,

Some day, they’d come again.

Those were the days of sweetest warmth,

And fragrant sunshine touched with memory’s hand,

The hand that warmed our hearts to fire;

And those were the days when we were young.

Death and the Monsignor

In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.

May the angels lead you into paradise; upon your arrival, may the martyrs receive you and lead you to the holy city of Jerusalem. May the ranks of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, once a poor man, may you have eternal rest.

Today I sang those words, and I cried.

I don't suppose I knew Monsignor Pointek very well. Not personally, at least. I believe he always scared me a little as a child. Growing up, he was a part of my life, and the life of Tehachapi. I don't think there was a time when I did not know him. He was always around, saying Mass when Msgr. Barnes couldn't, hearing confessions, visiting the sick, and the imprisoned, and the poor, and all while he was an elderly, retired priest. He was always to be seen at Kelcy's Cafe on Tehachapi Boulevard of a morning, and he always had a pocket full of Snapple caps to hand out to the children. I remember him mostly as a funny, eccentric little old man, with his long white beard and his many peculiarities. He was convinced that if he walked only on the middle of the squares on the post office floor he would avoid Alzheimer's. But he was also a good man. As Fr. Michael said at the funeral Mass, "he was a man who was not in tune with what the world believes to be important. He was a man in tune with Christ." There are countless stories about Msgr.'s eccentricities, but there are also countless stories of the good he did for the Church. In late 2013, Msgr. reached his 100th year. And how did he do it? To quote a priest friend of his, "Good clean living, breakfasts at Kelcy's, and a deep love for the life that God gave him."

As I said, I did not know Msgr. very personally. But as we sang "In Paradisum" while the casket left the church, I began to cry. Funerals always have that effect on me ever since the death of my grandfather, and that of the girl I went to school with, Christine Allen. As I sang those words through my tears, I realized how incredibly beautiful the "In Paradisum" is. It is the kind of beauty that brings tears to my eyes, because the ranks of angels are coming to receive the soul of the deceased and lead him into paradise. It is beautiful because that is beauty, that life after death with Beauty himself. We do not despair, nor fear death, because we shall have life. It is the kind of beauty that makes you long for the indescribable, yet makes you feel at peace. It is a sorrowful moment when the casket leaves the church, yet there is peace. 

I have often pondered death. I do not understand it. Yet today I had this incredible feeling of peace. It was as if I could see it, see Msgr.'s soul being born up by the angels to be received by Christ, and Christ was smiling on him, and reaching out his hands to greet him. Though I cried, it was certainly more for our loss and the reminder of my other losses than for any loss on Msgr.'s part. Whenever I think of Faith, I think of death. It is faith that makes us rejoice in the death of a person we love. It is how we move on. And I think of how great is the gift that God gave us - his Son, so that we might have that joy in death. I cannot but weep.

May the soul of Monsignor Francis Pointek rest in peace. May Christ and his angels come to greet him, and bear him up to eternal life.

"I want this gathering for family and friends to be a joyful time so that all persons meeting in memory of me shall renew loving ties to each other in celebration of my entry into eternal joy. I ask my family and friends to remember me with joyful, not sorrowful, though, and to keep me in their prayers. I assure them that they are loved and remembered by me in prayers for them, and they should do the same for each other. Believe in Jesus and act according to His will so that we shall all meet again in eternal joy."

~ Reverend Monsignor Francis J. Pointek

September 23, 1913 - January 15, 2014

Ordained May 26, 1940

In Bleak Midwinter

To my favorite Sarah 

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

                        ~ Christina Rossetti

They had walked many long miles. The boy and his brother were weary, cold, and hungry. The night was a cold and dark one. The stars shone hard and bright in the hard, cold sky, like bits of shattered ice. The ground was cold, covered with a fine layer of frost, and the sky was cold, speckled with shards of broken ice.

“I’m tired.”

Gabriel turned his eyes from the sky to his little brother. Jamie clung to his hand, and his feet were moving, but his eyes were nearly closed. He could not last much longer without sleeping. Gabriel guided his little brother as he peered into the darkness for some place in which they could take shelter for the night. The countryside stretched out before him, bleak and bare. It seemed there was not one single barn or even a haystack anywhere near. It was as if the two boys were all alone in the world. Everything else had dropped off, and they were left there with only the cold, hard stars for company.

“Just a little farther, Jamie,” he told his little brother. “We’ll be there soon.”

“Where’s ‘there’?” Jamie asked sleepily.

“It’s a surprise,” Gabriel said. “You’ll see.” He did not know where “there” was himself. He just had to get Jamie somewhere where he would be a bit warmer, where he could sleep without any fear. He didn’t think he himself could go much longer. “Just a little farther,” he whispered to himself. He lifted Jamie onto his back and trudged on.

It started to snow quite suddenly. One minute the ice stars were shining in the frozen sky, and the next moment they were obscured by the falling snowflakes. Gabriel hurried on. He could not keep Jamie out in this snow for much longer. His own feet were cold. His hands were numb. He held onto Jamie as hard as he could and kept on. He could not stop. If he stopped, he could not start again. He could not leave Jamie in the cold.

Something rose mistily before them. It was a bank, and in the dim light Gabriel could see that it led up to a forest. He held onto Jamie with one hand, and with the other groped along the bank. Perhaps there was some sort of overhang or something under which they could take shelter. His groping hands found emptiness. “Here, Jamie, I’ve found something,” he said.

“Is it a nice house?” Jamie asked sleepily.

“Better,” Gabriel replied. He gently let Jamie slide off his back and settled him against the bank. He reached into his pocket and took out a stub of a candle and a small matchbox. There were two matches left in it. He lit the candle with one of the matches, and protected it with his hand as he peered into the emptiness.

It was a small cave. The floor was strewn with dead leaves, and it had a faint musty smell as if it had not been disturbed for a long time. Gabriel peered at the ground outside the cave. Even though the snow was quickly starting to cover it, he could see that there were no animal prints. He took Jamie’s hand and led him into the cave.

Jamie was a little more awake now. He looked around him with interest. “Is this a cave?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gabriel answered. He was busy gathering the leaves into a pile.

“This is even better than a house,” Jamie decided. “Can we live here?”

Gabriel stopped to smile at him. “I don’t think so. We’ll just spend the night here and move on in the morning. Now you stay here, Jamie. I’m going to step out and see if there is any wood we can use for a fire. I won’t go far.”

When he came back with an armful of branches, he placed half of them on top of the pile of leaves. He lit what was left of the match he’d used to light the candle and held it to the leaves. They burst into flame, and he coaxed it to catch hold of the branches. It was not long before he had a small fire. “Come warm yourself,” he told Jamie.

Jamie came close to the fire and held his hands out as his brother was doing. “Do we have anything to eat?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

“Me too, Jamie, but no, we don’t have anything. We ate the last yesterday, remember?”

Jamie sighed but did not say anything. Gabriel went to sit beside him, and Jamie snuggled up next to him. “Gabriel,” he asked, “do you think we’ll ever find daddy?”

Gabriel put his arm around him. “I don’t know. I hope we do. But we don’t even know if he’s alive. Remember, his letters just stopped coming two months ago.”

“Before mummy died,” Jamie said.

“Before mummy died.”

“Daddy doesn’t know, does he?” Jamie asked.

Gabriel shook his head. “No. Unless he went back home. Then he would know. But I don’t think he did. He didn’t know mummy was sick, because his letters had stopped coming by then.”

Jamie snuggled closer. “I wish we could find daddy. I wish mummy were still alive. I wish that mean old Mr. Blescoe hadn’t put us out.”

“Me too,” Gabriel said. “But we can’t go back, so we’ll just have to find daddy.”

They were silent. Jamie yawned. Gabriel looked at the fire and counted in his head. “Jamie,” he said, “do you know what tomorrow is?”

“What?” Jamie asked sleepily.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Christmas,” Jamie murmured. “We’ll find daddy, and we’ll have a lovely Christmas tree and presents and a big, big roast, and all sorts of lovely cakes and things, won’t we, Gabriel? Because it’s Jesus’ birthday, and he likes people to have nice things on his birthday.”

Gabriel smiled at him and stroked his head. “Yes, we will, Jamie. Because Jesus likes us to have nice things.”

“And we’ll have a big, big pudding, and it will have fire on it, just like mummy used to make it…and…we’ll have…” Jamie’s voice grew softer until he had fallen asleep.

Gabriel put his arm around Jamie more securely, and with the other hand put another stick on the fire. If he was careful, he might be able to make the fire last all night. He could not go to sleep. He blinked his eyes hard to keep from falling asleep. His eyes felt gritty, and his whole body longed to sleep. He could not sleep. He must stay awake. They must stay alive.

He awoke suddenly as a gust of cold wind blew into the cave. He shivered, and realized with a sinking start that the fire had gone out. He had gone to sleep and let the fire go out. He cursed himself silently as he reached into his pocket for the matchbox. He took the last match out and struck it. The flame spurted up, but he had not taken care to protect it from the wind, and it died as suddenly as it had come to life. He threw the dead match into the dead fire and pulled Jamie into his arms. The little boy was awake and shivering. Gabriel took off his worn jacket and wrapped Jamie in it, and held him close. “Jamie,” he said, “we have to stay awake. If we don’t we might freeze to death. Can you stay awake?”

Jamie yawned. “I don’t want to. I want to go to sleep.”

Gabriel shook him. “You can’t go to sleep, Jamie. Let’s sing a song.”

“Can we sing a Christmas song?” Jamie asked.

“Of course. It must be after midnight by now. Happy Christmas, Jamie.”

“Happy Christmas, Gabriel,” Jamie answered. “Can we sing mummy’s favorite song?”

They sang “In the Bleak Midwinter,” and it was very fitting. The frosty wind made moan, and snow was falling, snow on snow. They sang all of the Christmas carols they knew, and all the other songs they knew, and started all over again. Their voices became hoarse, and their bodies grew colder.

As they were singing, they snow stopped. They could tell because it stopped blowing into the entrance of the cave. Then it seemed as if the whole world was silent and listening, and a great hush lay over the world. Gabriel held Jamie close and looked out into the darkness. As he watched, a light appeared. It grew slowly, flickering over the fallen snow. Gabriel had a strange feeling inside of him, as if he were both frightened and comforted at the same time.

The light came closer, and stopped. A man’s voice called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“We’re here,” Gabriel called. “In the cave.”

An instant later a man appeared in the entrance to the cave. He was tall and burly, and he was dressed in a thick coat and a hat with ear flaps. He looked at the boys in surprise. “Hello,” he said. “What are you two doing here?”

“We were walking, and it started snowing, so we came here for shelter,” Gabriel explained. “Please, can you help us? My little brother’s very cold and hungry.”

The man looked them over with his shrewd black eyes. “And no doubt you are as well. Come, I will bring you to my cottage. It is not far.” He lifted Jamie out of Gabriel’s arms and helped Gabriel stand on his numb legs. “I had a feeling that I ought to go check on my sheep, as it was so cold,” the man explained as he led them out of the cave. “Then I heard you singing, and I followed the sound. I am very glad I thought to check on my sheep.” He took off his thick coat and put it around Gabriel’s shoulders. It was lined with fur, and it was very warm.

“Thank you, we are too,” Gabriel murmured as he snuggled into the warm coat.

The man led them to his cottage. He deposited Jamie in a chair by the fireplace and set to work bringing the embers to life. That finished, he told the boys to warm themselves while he got them something to eat.

Gabriel and Jamie sat side by side in front of the fire and looked around them. The man’s cottage was small, but it was sturdily built and tidy. Wooden cabinets lined the walls, and there were animal skins on the floor.

The man called them to come and eat. He had set the table with bread, cheese, sausage, and three mugs of something hot. Jamie took a cautious sip from his mug, and his face lighted up. “Chocolate!” he cried.

The man smiled. “Yes, it is a favorite of mine. I don’t have it often, but since it is Christmas I thought we ought to have some.” He sat back and watched them over his cup of chocolate as they ate and drank hungrily.

“Perhaps we ought to acquaint ourselves,” he said at last, when nearly all the food was gone. “My name is Thomas Marsh, but people round here call me Young Thomas. My father shepherded the town flock before me, and he was Old Thomas. You probably don’t know that; I’ve never seen you around here before. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, sir, we’re not. Our mother died two months ago, and we were put out of our house because we couldn’t pay rent. We’ve been looking for our father. Oh, and I’m Gabriel Owen, and my little brother is Jamie.”

Young Thomas looked hard at them. “Gabriel and Jamie Owen,” he murmured, almost as if he had never heard such names before. He finished his chocolate, and stood up and stretched. “Well, I suppose you two are quite tired,” he said. “I know I could do with a little more sleep. Why don’t we turn in for the rest of the night? I’ve got a pile of furs and some blankets, and I’ll make you a bed by the fire.”

The bed was made quickly. Gabriel and Jamie took off their shoes – or rather, Gabriel took off both his and Jamie’s, for Jamie could hardly keep his eyes open any longer – and climbed into the pile of furs and blankets. Jamie immediately curled up next to Gabriel and went to sleep with a little sigh. Gabriel was not long in following. The furs were so soft and warm, and he was so tired. Just as he was drifting off, he thought he saw Young Thomas leave the cottage again. His last thought was, “He’s probably going to check on the sheep again.”

 Gabriel woke in the morning with a feeling of contentment. He knew exactly where he was. He never had that strange feeling of not knowing where he was when he woke. Perhaps it was because he had spent so long taking care of Jamie and his mother, making sure they were always safe. He lay still with his eyes closed, feeling the softness and warmth of the furs over and under him. Jamie lay sprawled beside him, one arm flung across Gabriel’s chest and one leg draped over Gabriel’s leg. Jamie never could sleep tidily.

Last night, in fact the last few days, hardly seemed real, yet Gabriel knew they had happened. He could not dream up the long, endless walking, the way people looked at them, their sheer weariness and hunger. He could not conjure up that gripping, freezing cold, that feeling of despair, though the images and memories flashed through his mind. He did not mind that Jamie was sprawled over half the bed, because Jamie was warm, and alive. He was not cold and shivering in his arms. Most of all, Gabriel felt a great relief. He was not fighting any more, fighting to keep them both alive. He would never have given up, but all the same, he was glad he did not have to fight anymore. He did not have to worry any more.

But he did, he realized as Jamie stirred in his sleep. He still had to worry because they couldn’t stay at the shepherd’s cottage forever. They still had to find their father, if he was even still alive. He opened his eyes and looked up. The fire had burned low, but it was still warm. There were some fir branches on the mantle above the fireplace. It was Christmas. A strange Christmas, to be sure.

The door of the cottage opened, and Young Thomas came in, carrying an armful of wood in one arm, and a bucket in the other. He smiled as he caught Gabriel watching him. “Good morning, and a happy Christmas,” he said. “Though I suppose I’m a little late in my wishing a happy Christmas, since it was already the day when I found you.”

Gabriel smiled back, and wished Young Thomas a happy Christmas. Jamie stirred, yawned, and woke up. He looked around him, bewildered. “Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re at Mr. Thomas’ cottage,” Gabriel told him. “He found us last night, remember?”

Jamie nodded. “Yes, and we were freezing,” he said quite calmly. He was only six; it was just an adventure to him. It did not fill him with fear to think about it, the way it filled Gabriel with fear.

“How about some breakfast?” Young Thomas asked. “Can you build a fire, Gabriel?”

Jamie sat cross-legged on the pile of furs, watching as Gabriel made a fire, and Young Thomas began taking things out of a cupboard. “Are we going to have more chocolate?” he asked.

“Jamie!” Gabriel scolded.

Young Thomas laughed. He had a very nice laugh, the boys thought. “But of course we are. It is Christmas, after all. Perhaps you would like to help me make it, young Jamie?”

Jamie was only too delighted. He climbed on a stool and mixed the chocolate as Young Thomas measured it out into a saucepan. “We haven’t had chocolate since Daddy went away,” he told Young Thomas.

Just as the chocolate was finished, there was a knock on the door. Young Thomas looked up from the bread he was slicing and said, “Will you see who that is, Gabriel? I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

Gabriel put down the poker and opened the door. A man stood there, bundled in warm garments to keep out the cold. Only his nose and eyes were showing, but there was something about those eyes that made Gabriel catch his breath.

“Gabriel,” the man said hoarsely, and held out his arms. Gabriel threw himself into the man’s arms. “Daddy!” he cried. “Oh, we’ve found you. Jamie! Jamie! Daddy’s here; we found him!”

Jamie gave a shriek, and fell off the stool in his hurry. His father hurried to him and swooped him up. “Is this really my little Jamie?” he asked. “You were so little when I left, no more than a baby.”

“But I remember you,” Jamie assured him. “I really do. You’re my daddy.”

“Yes, I am,” said his daddy.

“Breakfast is served,” Young Thomas said. “You will join us, won’t you, Sam?”

“I will,” Sam Owen said. “Especially considering that you came in the middle of the night to leave me a note inviting me to come to breakfast on Christmas morning. I thought you were crazy. I know for a fact that you are crazy, but I am most grateful to you.”

“Why are you here?” Gabriel asked when they had all settled to breakfast.

“I might ask you the same thing,” his father responded. “And since yours is the greater mystery, you must answer the question first.”

“Did you get our letter?” Gabriel asked. “The one about mummy?”

Sam nodded. “I did,” he said quietly. “It was forwarded to me from my last address. I am sorry I was not there. If I had known, I would have come back.”

“Mummy wouldn’t let us tell you she was sick,” Gabriel said. “She said it would only worry you, and you had so much to worry you already. But she died so suddenly. We didn’t think she would. And then we had to leave our house, because we couldn’t pay the rent, and we hadn’t heard from you in a while, and we didn’t have any money. We told the landlord that we would give him the money as soon as you sent it, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to put us in an orphanage, so we ran away to find you. Everyone thought you were dead, but we knew you weren’t, and we had to find you.”

“And we were so cold, and hungry, and we didn’t have any money, and we almost froze,” Jamie put in. “Until Mr. Thomas found us, and he gave us chocolate. I thought he was an angel. You know, like the ones in the Christmas story in the Bible.”

Young Thomas smiled. “I certainly am no angel, but it must have been some angel that made me want to look in on my sheep.”

Sam nodded. “I shall be ever grateful to you, Thomas. I should scold you,” he said to his sons, “especially you, Gabriel, for doing such a foolish thing as to set out alone to find me.”

“You oughtn’t to scold him,” Jamie protested. “He was very good to me, and he took such good care of me. He gave me all the food; I saw him. He only ate a little bit, and he sang me songs at night when I was scared.”

Sam smiled at his youngest son. “I was going to say, little chatterbox, that though I ought to scold Gabriel, I find I cannot. You were brave, my boy, and I am proud of you for taking such good care of your little brother. I am most glad that you are both here now, and I do not have to worry about you any longer. And now, I’ll tell you what I am doing here. I was traveling around looking for work, as you know, until I became ill. That was here, and Thomas here cared for me until I was well enough to find work. That is why you did not hear from me for a while. When I was better I found work, good, steady work. Young Thomas and I have been friends ever since I came, and it was he who helped me to find work.”

Jamie surveyed their host with a critical eye. “I do think you are an angel,” he said. “In the Bible, angels always dress up as men and do nice things for people. Are you sure you’re not an angel?”

Young Thomas laughed. “That I am quite sure of.”

Jamie sighed. “Oh well. It would be rather nice to known an angel. Can I have some more chocolate?”

“May I have some more chocolate,” Gabriel and his father both absently corrected, and laughed at each other as Young Thomas served more chocolate all around.

“Are we going to live here?” Gabriel asked.

 “That we are,” his father said. “I have bought a house. I was going to send for you all when I had enough money saved up. I sent you a letter, but I suppose you did not get it, since you have been trying to find me. The house is not far from here, and there is a garden, and a pond, and a stable.”

“I’m glad,” said Jamie, “because then we can come and see Mr. Thomas whenever we want.”

“You are always welcome,” Young Thomas assured him.

“Don’t be too quick to welcome him,” Gabriel warned. “He will be here at all hours of the day. I think he just wants to find out if you have wings hidden away somewhere.”

“Daddy, are we going to have a real Christmas?” Jamie asked. “You know, with a tree, and presents, and all sorts of good things to eat?”

“Well, I do have a tree waiting to be trimmed at our house, and I was able to get a small ham several weeks ago. I think we might have a real Christmas. And I do have some small things for you boys. I was going to send them, but I haven’t had the chance.”

Jamie cheered and leapt about the room in delight. Gabriel just sat still and smiled. He already had a real Christmas. He had his little brother safe and warm, his father beside him, and the prospect of a real house where they might live forever and ever if they wanted to. He was warm and full and happy, and outside the snow fell on a cold Christmas morning.

The Deepest Winter - A Poem for Christmas

Poem by Clotilde Zehnder

Calligraphy by Katherine Zehnder

Evening Hymn

When day has breathed his last gold ray

And light has faded into dark,

The moon in radiance reaches down

Upon the sleeping, slumbering world,

And gently touches as it falls

Each lost and wandering bark.

And while the world is sleeping still,

The lonely traveler lifts his eyes

And on the moon his heart attends.

For in her light his soul is free,

And in her kindly radiance, now,

He finds his home at last.