A Golden Christmas Morning

Alistair had stayed for a time at the church after everyone else had left, mostly in pairs, for their homes.
He let the candles burn down as low as he dared without the flames getting too close to the arrangements
that surrounded them, then he quietly went from candle to candle, blowing them out. Standing a while at
the front end of the central aisle he...waited. Everything was dark around him, the night truly silent. Then
the full moon sailed out from behind a bank of clouds and silvery light poured in through the tall side
windows.

"Thank You," he murmured. For him there was always some moment, some how, on Christmas Eve when
the Door opened. So many people thought of it as a star, so many scholars tried to track it down, give it
a name, explain which conjunction of what had caused a brighter light. No, for him it was not Venus close
to Jupiter, it was something much deeper than that, something hands could never be laid upon. He didn't
consider it a thing that hands should be laid upon. On Christmas Eve, on THE Christmas Eve, there had
been some rift between realms created and uncreated and it was through that that the Light had shone.

He didn't really need the sudden burst of moonlight to feel that in his spirit on this night, but that such a
moment happened as he stood alone in the darkened church, was received by his open heart as a gift.
So, limned in silver, he knelt again at the step and poured out his heart to his God. Then, leaving the
church unlocked, he walked alone back to the mill.

Sitting for a while on the stump Michael had used for a seat, he watched the moon's reflection on the surface
of the pond, lost in thought of life in Tunbridge Wells, of the mill itself and the people he'd met in the short
time he'd been in the Glen. When he finally looked at his watch, it was two minutes after midnight. "Merry
Christmas, Jenny," he whispered, then went inside the mill.

Christmas morning he sat at his kitchen table, a cup of hot tea in one hand as he read the book by Watchman
Nee that lay open in front of him. Since the community was so small and everything was still so new, there
was only the Christmas Eve service he'd needed to attend to. There would be a carol sing at the church later
in the day, but this morning was simply quiet and restful. He had no one to give presents to nor anyone to receive
a present from, so he'd made his tea, burnt his toast but put peanutbutter and honey on it anyway, and sat there
immersed in his book. When his cup was empty, he walked to the stove and poured himself another cup, standing
there, looking out the window.

Hearing an odd sound at his door, he opened it, finding a lidded picnic basket on his stoop. The basket was rocking
back and forth a bit and when he lifted the lid, a pale golden head popped up. "What have we here?" he said, lifting
the basket's occupant up with both hands.

The very wet tongue of a golden retriever pup swept across the tip of his nose. He laughed. "Where did you come from, young...," he turned the pup slightly, "...lady?"  The puppy wriggled and Alistair changed the way he was holding it, cradling it in his arms against his chest. He looked around, even walking down the path a bit to see if someone might be there, but could find no trace of anyone. Then from around a bend where he couldn't see, he heard the engine of a car start up and
drive away.

"Have you been left on my doorstep, little girl?" He stroked a fingertip over the top of the puppy's head and down between its eyes. The pup looked about four months old and was a coiled ball of energy. He set her down and she practically ran around in little circles, so excited she was to be out of the basket and loose. Watching her, he chuckled, until she started to bite the stalk of one of his newly-planted iris. He scooped her up, with a bit of a reprimand, but the golden retriever was just so darling- looking he chuckled again. He had no idea who might have left her for him. Someone, though, obviously thought the young pastor living alone in the old mill needed companionship.

Studying her face, Alistair pondered names. "Eve?" he tried. No, she was a Christmas morning dog, not an Eve. A broad grin spread over his face. "Merry! That's it! That's your name, girl."  Merry licked his nose again and he laughed and carried her inside.