Evans - The Christmas Box Miracle: My Spiritual Journey of Destiny, Healing and Hope

Richard Paul Evans

The Christmas Box

"Whatever The Reason, I Find That With Each Passing Christmas the story of the Christmas Box is told less and needed more. So I record it now for all future generations to accept or dismiss as seems them good. As for me, I believe. And it is, after all, my story."

So begins The Christmas Box, the touching story of a widow and th e y oung family who moves in with her. Together they discover the first gift of Christmas and learn what Christmas is really all about. The Christmas Box is a Christmas story unlike any other.

Merry Christmas

Chapter I THE WIDOW'S MANSION

It may be that I am growing old in this world and have used up more than my share of allotted words and eager audiences. Or maybe I am just growing weary of a skeptical age that pokes and prods at my story much the same as a middle-school biology student pokes and prods through an anesthetized frog to determine what makes it live, leaving the poor creature dead in the end. Whatever the reason, I find that with each passing Christmas the story of the Christmas Box is told less and needed more. So I record it now for all future generations to accept or dismiss as seems them good. As for me , I believe. And it is, after all, my story.

My romantic friends, those wh o b elieve in Santa Claus in particular , have speculated that the ornamente d b rown Christmas Box was fashione d b y Saint Nick himself from the trunk o f t he very first Christmas tree, brough t i n from the cold December snows s o m any seasons ago. Others believ e t hat it was skillfully carved and polished from the hard and splintere d w ood from whose rough surface the Lord of Christmas had demonstrate d t he ultimate love for mankind. My wife , Keri, maintains that the magic of th e b ox had nothing to do with its physica l e lements, but all to do with the contents that were hidden beneath it s b rass, holly-shaped hinges and silve r c lasps. Whatever the truth about th e o rigin of the box's magic, it is th e e mptiness of the box that I will treasure most, and the memory of the Christmas season when the Christmas Box found me.

I was born and raised in the shadow of the snow-clad Wasatch range on the east bench of the Salt Lake Valley. Just two months before my fourteenth birthday my father lost his job, and with promise of employment, we sold our home and migrated to the warmer, and more prosperous, climate of Southern California. There, with great disappointment, I came to expect a green Christmas almost as religiously as the local retailers. With the exception of one fleeting moment of glory as the lead in the school musical, my teenage years were uneventful and significant only to myself. Upon graduation from hig h s chool, I enrolled in college to lear n t he ways of business, and in the process learned the ways of life; met , courted, and married a fully matriculated, brown-eyed design studen t n amed Keri, who, not fifteen, month s f rom the ceremony, gave birth to a s even-pound-two-ounce daughter whom we named Jenna.

Neither Keri nor I ever cared muc h f or the crowds of the big city, so whe n a few weeks before graduation w e w ere informed of a business opportunity in my hometown, we jumped a t t he chance to return to the thin ai r a nd white winters of home. We ha d e xpended all but a small portion o f o ur savings in the new venture and , as the new business's initial returns , albeit promising, were far from abundant, we learned the ways of thrif t a nd frugality. In matters financial, Keri became expert at making much fro m l ittle, so we rarely felt the extent of our deprivation. Except in the realm of lodging. The three of us needed more space than our cramped, one-bedroom apartment afforded. The baby's crib, which economics necessitated the use of in spite of the fact that our baby was now nearly four, barely fit in our bedroom, leaving less than an inch between it and our bed, which was already pushed up tightly against the far wall. The kitchen was no better, cluttered with Jenna's toy box, Keri's sewing hutch, and stacked cardboard boxes containing cases of canned foods. We joked that Keri could make clothing and dinner at the same time without ever leaving her seat. The topic of overcrowding had reached fever pitch in our household just seven weeks before Christmas and such was the frenzied state of our minds when the tale of the Christmas Box really began, at the breakfast table in our little apartment, ove r e ggs over-easy, toast, and orang e j uice.

"Look at this," Keri said, handin g m e the classifieds: Elderly lady with large Avenues home seeks live-in couple for meal preparation, light housekeeping, and yard care. Private quarters. Holidays off. Children/ infants welcome. 445-3989. Mrs. Parkin I looked up from the paper.

"What do you think?" she asked. "It's in the Avenues, so it has to be large. It's close to the shop and it really wouldn't be that much extra trouble for me. What's one extra person to cook and wash for?" she asked rhetorically. She reached over and took a bite of my toast. "You're usually gone in the evenings anyhow."

I leaned back in contemplation.

"It sounds all right," I said cautiously. "Of course, you never know what you might be getting into. My brother Mark lived in this old man's basement apartment. He used to wake Mark up in the middle of the night screaming at a wife who had been dead for nearly twenty years. Scared Mark to death. In the end he practically fled the place."

A look of disbelief spread across Keri's face.

"Well, it does say private quarters," I conceded.

"Anyway, with winter coming on, our heating bill is going to go through the roof in this drafty place and I don't know where the extra money will come from. This way we might actually put some money aside," Keri reasoned.

It was pointless to argue with such logic, not that I cared to. I, like Keri , would gladly welcome any chang e t hat would afford us relief from th e c ramped and cold quarters wher e w e were presently residing. A fe w m oments later Keri called to see if th e a partment was still vacant and upo n l earning that it was, set up an appointment to meet with the owner tha t e vening. I managed to leave wor k e arly and, following the direction s g iven to Keri by a man at the house , we made our way through the gaily li t d owntown business district and to th e t ree-lined streets leading up th e f oothills of the Avenues.

The Parkin home was a resplendent, red-block Victorian mansion wit h o rnate cream-and-raspberry woo d t rim and dark green shingles. On th e w est side of the home, a rounded ba y w indow supported a second-stor y v eranda balcony that overlooked th e f ront yard. The balcony, like the main floor porch, ran the length of the exterior upheld by large, ornately lathed beams and a decorative, gold-leafed frieze. The wood was freshly painted and well kept. A sturdy brick chimney rose from the center of the home amid wood and wrought-iron spires that shot up decorously. Intricate latticework gingerbreaded the base of the house, hidden here and there by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs. A cobblestone driveway wound up the front of the home, encircling a black marble fountain that lay iced over and surrounded by a snow-covered retaining wall.

I parked the car near the front steps, and we climbed the porch to the home's double door entryway. The doors were beautifully carved and inlaid with panes of glass etched with intricate floral patterns. I rang the bell and a man answered.

"Hello, you must be the Evanses."

"We are," I confirmed.

"MaryAnne is expecting you.

Please come in."

We passed in through the entry , then through a second set of doors o f e qual magnificence leading into th e h ome's marbled foyer. I have foun d t hat old homes usually have an olfactory presence to them, and though no t o ften pleasant, unmistakenly distinct.