Enjoy this short historical fiction Christmas tale for free for the next week!
To Make a Merry Christmas
Erika Mathews
(C) 2020 Erika Mathews. All rights reserved. Do not copy without written permission
“Christmas in Whitstead has to be the most glorious time of year, if I do say so myself.” Eleven-year-old Evelyn Weston clasped her hands together dramatically for a moment before spinning back to the old wood stove to peek at the rising loaves under their warm cover.
“It is cozy; thank the Lord for that.” Her mother smiled as her needle whisked over a cuff hem and disappeared underneath again.
“I cannot wait for Christmas Day! Won’t it be gloriousness and delight, all pine and mistletoe and candles everywhere—and snow and moonlight and gifts together before the roaring fire!”
“—and puddings, and meat, and cake with raisins!” put in nine-year-old Ellis, poking his head up from the reader he labored over, prone before the wide hearth.
“I want to go sing for the neighbors, like we did last year,” little Edith added as she turned her own small lump of bread dough round and round on the table.
“And I want to give us a roaring fire worthy of a Christmas Day.” Eldon, the oldest, kicked off his boots at the door and dumped a load of logs into the wood box.
Their mother dropped her sewing in her lap to smile upon each of her four children. “My dears! I hope Christmas shall be all you wish! Nothing brings me greater happiness than having us all together, especially while celebrating the birth of our Savior.”
Evelyn glanced keenly at her mother. The purse-strings were drawn tighter than ever this year, she knew—but surely there would be enough for a festive Christmas. So many times during the summer months her heart had turned eagerly to the anticipation of the first snow, sledding, decorating their small cottage, planning the modest feast that they might be able to afford, preparing surprises for each member of the family, crunching in the snow to the Christmas Eve service at St. Nicholas—and oh! perhaps finally having the crowning delight of carrying a glorious Christmas pudding to grace the Christmas dinner table!
The bread baking, she tackled the rest of her daily tasks with zeal, her mind busily and happily occupied in planning pleasures. Eldon could cut a tree just as easily as not from the forest when he chopped wood. Grandpapa’s candle supply would do nicely for the decorating. Paper couldn’t be spared; it must be saved to light the fire. Perhaps they would be able to get fruit to hang on the tree and then enjoy for a special Christmas breakfast.
Once the cottage lay in its usual neat order, Evelyn skipped downstairs to the cellar and then upstairs to the loft to search for extra supplies, odds and ends, and bits of things that could be turned into Christmas cheer.
“What are you doing, Evelyn?” Ellis leaped to his feet and clattered up the stairs behind her.
“I’m finding things for Christmas.”
Edith’s humming rendition of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel ended in an abrupt squeal. “Can I find some too?”
“Of course! Get anything you can. Any little scraps, anything! We’ll make a merry Christmas!”
“Is it tomorrow?” Edith asked, jumping up and down.
“No, it’s more than a week away still.” Evelyn knelt by the trunk in the loft and rummaged through the treasures collected therein.
A happy hour later, a pile of short yarn ends, twisted nails, three shredded rags that couldn’t be patched again, wick ends too tiny for Grandpapa to use in a candle, a pheasant feather, and various other items lay collected in a bucket on the floor, and a second happy hour followed as all three younger children engrossed themselves in cobbling together a variety of decorative items.
“Mumsi, can we have some of your yarn for the tree? We’ll be sure to wind it up nicely and put it back in your basket after Christmas.”
“Yes, you may, Evelyn.” Her mother glanced up from another long seam.
“I’ll go collect some sticks to make things with.” Ellis raced to the door, shoving feet into boots almost midstride. “Eldon can always burn them afterwards.”
“Excellent plan! You just wait and see! The Christmas of 1844 will be the most beautiful Christmas the Weston family has ever known!” Evelyn spun, her dress puffing out around her. Surely it would be! It had to be!
~~~
“Dear Father up above in Heaven, please send us a Christmas pudding for Christmas dinner.” The slender form knelt by the old brass-knobbed bedstead, her brown head bowed low over her tightly-clasped hands. “Thank You for answering my prayer. Thank You for Grandpapa, and Mumsi, and Eldon and Ellis and Edith, and please bless us all and help us all to love You with all our hearts. And thank You for sending Jesus to us. Amen.”
The prayer finished, Evelyn snuggled into bed next to her little sister, her old stuffed dog tucked neatly under her arm. Christmas Eve—tomorrow night—floated into her visions under her tightly-closed eyelids. For the whole week, she’d done her best to set the stage for a merry Christmas: helping Eldon cut and bring in a little pine from the forest, trimming it with Grandpapa’s newly-made beeswax candles and bits of odds and ends around the house that anyone else would term as “trash” with no hesitation, trying to piece together something—anything—for a surprise gift, and tiring her poor little brain in a vain attempt to find something for a special Christmas dinner.
Only potatoes and carrots filled the cellar, and only flour for plain bread or porridge rested in the old gray cupboard. How could one possibly create a special meal from the same ingredients she cooked with every day?
But God could send the Christmas pudding. Of that she was certain. All her life, it seemed, her chief dream had been to crown the Christmas dinner with a pudding, and every year she’d waited in vain. But surely this would be the year . . . despite the leaky roof and leaky stove that had eaten into every bit of Mumsi’s meager savings only a few weeks ago. Celebrating the birthday of the Savior of the world in a grand and homey way was worth all the trouble.
The next thing she knew, early sunlight streamed into her attic window and it was Christmas Eve morning. The fire must be built, porridge must be stirred up, and Edith, trailing downstairs with one sock on while humming Joy to the World, must have her dress buttoned.
Yet heaviness weighed on her heart as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. Mumsi hadn’t been able to finish her last dressmaking project, so no money would be coming before Christmas. The Christmas pudding seemed further off than ever. At this rate, she’d be faced with serving stew and plain bread for Christmas dinner.
Not a very festive dish with which to celebrate the Savior of the world.
The bits of thread and rusty nails on the tree looked shabby and sad, and even the prospect of twinkling candles didn’t raise her spirits. As hard as she’d worked, as much as she’d planned, and as faithfully as she’d prayed, it didn’t seem that there would be much of a Christmas at all.
“May I go for a walk outside when Eldon does?” she asked Mumsi, putting the broom neatly in its corner.
“You may.” Her mother smiled.
“May I come? Please?” Ellis jumped up, his prized accordion—a blessing from Grandpapa—in hand.
“Me too?” Edith stopped humming long enough to ask.
Permission granted, the four headed outdoors. Eldon disappeared in search of more firewood, and the three younger children wandered away from the road—even from the tantalizing aromas drifting from the bakery next door—towards the seclusion of the trees behind their small cottage.
Ellis softly played on the accordion as they walked, and Edith joined his tune here and there. Evelyn, in silence, listened to the pensive notes and words:
Come, Thou long-expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free;
From our fears and sins release us. Let us find our rest in Thee.
Christmas isn’t about making everything perfect, Evelyn reminded herself. It is about what matters. Forever, not just for today. How could she and her family find their true rest in Jesus in this season of difficulty?
Suddenly inspired, she made a decision. She’d take this question upon herself as a personal challenge.
Back at the house, she pulled back the curtains, letting in the sunlight that reflected dazzlingly off the snow. She set the tea kettle on, and she kneaded the bread, shaping it into festive and exciting angels, mangers, and crosses rather than just plain rolls.
“Can I help?” Edith crowded against her elbow.
Evelyn wanted to say she could finish faster herself, but instead she agreed. “Of course you can. Here’s dough. Shape it into whatever you want.”
A merry hour followed. Project after project leaped to Evelyn’s ready brain and was carried out as best as possible under the circumstances by her eager fingers, aided by her brothers and sister. After a cold lunch, the family settled into the main room, delighted with the rare opportunity of a chance to sit together in the middle of the day without pressing work clamoring. Cheerful chatter followed, and gradually the conversation became more serious as Evelyn attempted to express a few of her conflicted feelings and efforts.
“It’s not whether we end up with enough for a merry Christmas or not. We are together, and Christmas really isn’t about decorations, or delicious things to eat, or presents, or anything at all that we have.” Mumsi’s soft voice reminded Evelyn.
“I know—but I do want to celebrate Jesus properly. I want to make it special for us to remember Him.”
“But, Evelyn, don’t you see? He doesn’t need any of these things, so why should we?”
“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. Then suddenly a light burst across her face, illuminating it with a divine glow. “Oh! I see it now! Of course! Why, it’s just that He is the gift. He is the feast. He is the decor. He’s everything Himself—the Bible says all this—so that means if we have Him, we have everything with which to make a merry Christmas.”
“Let’s name everything He is.” Eldon turned from tossing another log on a roaring fire. “I’ll start. He is joy—the joy of the season and joy in us, no matter what.”
“He is our peace,” Evelyn added, quoting a favorite Scripture.
“He is our Christmas present,” Ellis put in.
“He is the bread of life that satisfies us forever,” Mumsi contributed.
“He is the Shepherd who takes care of his smallest and weakest sheep.” Grandpapa’s eyes twinkled.
“He is the Baby in the manger!” Edith exclaimed. Then she burst into song. “‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come!’”
“He is our provider,” Eldon said, his voice low.
Round and round the circle they went, naming more and more elements of who their Savior and Lord had made Himself to be to them. As the declarations flowed, Evelyn found her attention drifting away from the things they didn’t have to gratitude for the things they did. A cheerful, healthy family, all together on Christmas, knowing and welcoming Jesus Christ the Savior of the world—what more could she ask for?
Yet again, the prayer tugged at her heart. “O Father above, please grant us a Christmas pudding.”
In light of the many blessings recounted, it seemed such a trivial thing to request. Yet had not her Father repeatedly assured her that He loved to give good gifts to them that asked Him? “A Christmas pudding for Christmas dinner,” she repeated. “Thank You that You have already arranged it.”
“Now let’s count all the nice things about this Christmas,” Evelyn suggested as the fire burned lower and conversation dwindled. “I’ll start. A nice warm cozy fire.”
“Snow all week!” Ellis rushed to look out the window.
“The party at Whitmore Park!” Edith squealed.
“Being all together,” their mother spoke.
One by one, each shared little blessings, and Evelyn found her spirits soaring.
Sunlight’s shadows lengthened, and it was time to get ready for the grand party at Whitmore Park, the chief estate of the village of Whitstead. Even if she barely knew Lord Fentiman and his family, the prospect of a grand time and a hot supper shone enticingly in the light of their own meager fare.
“Perhaps God will give me a Christmas pudding there,” she sighed to herself. That would be delicious, though it wouldn’t be the same. But no, Jesus was enough. If God gave her anything more, it would simply be extra.
The flurry of preparations, the brisk walk to Whitmore Park, the lights and color and dazzling array of decorations, chatter, and aromas fell like heavenly bliss on Evelyn’s senses. She so thoroughly enjoyed the chats with her good friend Emily Winterhurst—even though she missed Aurinda Button—as well as with various and sundry other Whitstead folks both well-known and little-known. How delicious was the little supper, and how her spirits soared once she left the mansion to tramp to St. Nicholas for the Christmas Eve service!
Inside, the still reverence awed her heart. Notes of carols wafted from somewhere up front, and candles—most of them made by Grandpapa—lit the congregation. She slipped into her place, holding Edith’s hand tightly.
O come, O come, Emmanuel . . . Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
She let the words wash over her. “Thank You, God, that You are with us, and You are enough.” Despite her faded dress, scuffed shoes, and threadbare coat, despite the utter ordinariness of home, despite her own failure to create something special for her family, she had Jesus. And somehow, that knowledge filled her with utter joy and peace. She hugged the familiar words of the service to her heart.
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord…”
Unto her. Just as surely as unto the shepherds, unto Israel, He was born unto Evelyn Weston and her family.
Snowflakes landed gently around her as she crunched back over the roads to the little cottage. The splendor of talking with and being in the presence of God filled her heart on this most holy night, and a determination seized her.
Back in the warm kitchen, she scooped the fancy-shaped bread she’d made into a basket and plunged back into the night. Two doors down, the Griffith family cabin stood, even smaller and more dilapidated than their own. Surely they too would have little hope of a happy Christmas, but perhaps she, in her own small way, could help.
Leaving the basket on the doorstep, she knocked loudly, then retreated out of sight. Hiding behind a birch trunk, she watched the littlest Griffith boy pull the basket inside, and she heard the echoes of the shouts of his many brothers and sisters as they discovered the contents.
With a smile dancing on her face and a lump resting in her throat, Evelyn skipped back to her own front door. As she paused just before reaching the doorstep, she turned her face to the night sky. Stars shone out from between wispy and fleeting clouds. The full moon hung halfway up, shedding its brightness over the entire street. The snowfall had stopped. A single shooting star streaked across the dark expanse, clearly visible even in the moonlight.
All was right with the world. God had provided again. Even if there was nothing special to look forward to in the morning.
~~~
Christmas Day dawned as usual, bringing the normal daily work of staying alive and keeping warm, fed, and clean. The children played before the fireplace; Eldon tackled little repairs around the house he’d put off while he was out doing odd jobs around town; Mumsi sewed; Grandpapa studied Scripture and polished candlesticks. Evelyn put the house in order, started bread and stew for lunch, and kept Edith occupied.
Heaviness threatened her heart at the meager fare, but she resolutely put it aside. “Jesus will give us Christmas pudding,” she thought. “He laid it on my heart to ask. He will not fail me. He said, ‘Whatever you ask in my name, that I will do. If you shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.’”
But hadn’t He also said, “If two or three of you agree on anything in my name, I will do it”? She hadn’t thought to share her request with the rest of the family. After all, it was only a silly little desire of hers . . . it wasn’t earth-shattering. But He’d said . . .
“Ellis,” she whispered. “Come here. I have something to tell you. And Edith, you come too.”
Together, the three of them scampered upstairs to Eldon, who was nailing a board onto the window frame. Evelyn gathered them around her. “I have something important to say. I’ve—I’ve been asking God to send us a pudding for Christmas dinner. I know it sounds silly, but I think He wants me to ask. He says, ‘Ask, and you shall receive.’ So, if you would, I’d like to request that you also ask Him with me. Together.”
“I will! God will send pudding!” Edith exclaimed at once.
“And I will,” Ellis readily agreed.
Evelyn looked up into Eldon’s eyes. Her older brother was always so cautious . . .
“Are you sure God wants you to ask? It seems . . . maybe . . . presumptuous.”
“He says, ‘Ask whatever.’ Ask in faith. It will be done. I think He means what He says.”
“But . . .” Eldon began.
“In faith,” Evelyn interrupted firmly. “No doubting. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but don’t doubt us.”
“No. I will ask.” Eldon’s eyes still held hesitancy, but he folded his hands together. “Dear Father, we ask for a Christmas pudding, and we believe You will send one.”
“For Christmas dinner,” Ellis added. “Make sure to send it on time, so it won’t be spoiled.”
“That’s today,” Edith put in. “Send the pudding, God, please.”
“Thank You that You hear and answer our prayer,” Evelyn concluded. “And thank You for sending Jesus to earth. We want to celebrate and worship Him. And we want to live in Him every day. Amen.”
“Amen,” her siblings echoed, and then trooped downstairs once more. Dinnertime awaited.
“We must set the table,” Edith piped up. “I will get the pudding spoons.”
“But . . .” Eldon began.
“No, she’s right. God will send it, so we must be ready.” Evelyn handed Edith the six precious spoons that didn’t see daily use in a stew or porridge bowl, and Edith skipped happily to the table.
Evelyn quietly set the bread and stew on the table, poured water, and slipped into her chair. Her family gathered around her. “Grandpapa,” she said, a bit shyly. “I’ve been praying for a pudding. Couldn’t you pray for one too?”
“Why certainly,” he replied. “But why a pudding?”
“Just because . . . I’ve always wanted one to celebrate Jesus’ birth—and we’ve never had one, and God seemed to want me to ask.” A nagging thought lingered in the back of her mind, wondering how God could possibly get them a pudding now, but she pushed it away. Of course God could.
“Our Father in heaven, we thank You for sending Jesus, our Emmanuel, to be with us forever. We thank You for Your provision today and every day. We thank You for our daily bread. We thank You that we are all well and together. We thank You for our kind neighbors and friends, and we pray Your blessing upon them. Bless our home, our table, and this food. If it is Your will, we ask for the Christmas pudding that Evelyn desires—but most of all, we ask for Your glorification and for Your kingdom to come on this earth, today and forever. Amen.”
“Amen,” the family echoed.
Evelyn took a deep breath. Now was the moment she’d hoped to crown the table with cutting a pudding . . . but it would have to be stew. “In everything give thanks,” her heart reminded her. “Thank you, God, for stew.” She heroically lifted the ladle.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
Ellis’s head jerked up, then he ran to the front door. “I’m going to look for the dog,” he exclaimed. “Just a minute.” He flung the door open, then let out a shriek. “Something is on the doorstep. Come see!”
In a twinkling, Evelyn dropped the ladle and flew to the door. A bowl sat on the step—a small bowl, but a beautiful one to her eyes.
With trembling fingers, she carried it to the table and opened it, never doubting a moment, yet with a heart that throbbed in anticipation and awe.
Under the towel lay a gorgeous, magnificent-looking Christmas pudding.
“Thank You, Father. Thank You, Father. Thank You, Father.” Evelyn’s eyes nearly brimmed over in gratitude and joy. Jesus was enough—but look at how He delighted to bless His children! See how He answered the smallest and most trivial of prayers! Evelyn lifted the dish, placing it in the center of the table, and though it was small, it seemed better than the most magnificent feast to her eyes.
For it was the answer to a child’s prayer to her loving Father.
With shaking fingers, Evelyn cut the pudding, each movement a small miracle in her estimation. As delightful as the pudding was, it paled in comparison to her Father’s wondrous love and care—for her. He had personally answered her prayer. He had given her exactly what she’d asked for. Not a roast, not a feast, not a houseful of gifts and decorations . . . but He’d given her Himself.
And the Christmas pudding would forever be a symbol in her mind of just how much that Christmas gift meant to her.
She handed the first plateful to her mother, her heart full. “Merry Christmas, Mumsi. A merry, merry Christmas indeed.”
If you enjoyed this story, check out my other works at restinglife.com/books/shop.
