It was seven o’clock. The wind was whipping tiny flakes of snow into a frenzy beneath the street light outside the window of the study. A single desk lamp dimly illuminated the inside, revealing two chairs, their cushions showing signs of wear, a gray file cabinet, an old manual typewriter, a wastebasket, and a large wooden desk. On the desk were various papers, envelopes, and books scattered about; in the very center a Bible lay open with several bookmarks hanging from its sides. Henry, a dignified middle-aged man whose peppered hair had long ago begun to thin but whose firm features suggested strong definite lines, was sitting behind the desk, alternately writing, thinking, glancing up at the snow, and tossing sheets of paper into the wastebasket.

“We must come to realize that our Lord,” Henry started to say, almost inaudibly. Then, clearing his throat and standing up, he began again forcefully, as though speaking to an audience, “We must come to realize that our Lord--” He paused once again. “Oh that's still not right,” he muttered to himself, tossing the paper into the wastebasket and sinking back down into his chair. Henry stared through the half-curtained window at the snow. The wind was becoming more fierce. As it rattled the tall window of the study, never all that secure in the old house, it seemed to rattle at the same time a somewhat agitated Henry, who was trying with little success to finish the sermon he was writing for tomorrow’s service.

The phone in the hallway broke the silence. Henry looked up and started writing again, trying to ignore it. But the caller was persistent.

“Martha,” he called. The phone continued to ring. “Martha,” he called quite loudly. The phone still continued to ring. Frustrated but resolute, Henry rose from his chair, still calling to his wife to answer, walked to the phone and picked it up. “Hello?” he said virtually unemotionally. “Oh, good evening Walter, how are--- Well, yes, I know we're several months behind, but you know sometimes it's difficult for a church. After all, it's the Christmas season and everyone's buying--- Yes, Walter, I'll be happy to meet with you Monday,” although his face displayed an expression not generally construed as happy. “I'm sure we can work out a payment arrangement. Ten o'clock, then. Yes, I'll be there. Good-bye.”

Henry slowly walked back to his desk, sat down, and began writing once more. He had barely penned three words, when the phone rang again. This time he rushed to the hallway and picked it up before the third ring.

“Hello!” he barked, his tone not intending to disguise his frustration. “Oh it's you, Jonathan,” he rejoined in an instantly more congenial manner. “Yes, I know the roof leaks in the left vestibule, but there's nothing I can do about it. There just isn't enough money to fix it this month.” He paused to hear the objection on the other end. “Yes, I know we're supposed to get a storm tomorrow.” Henry offered a mildly satirical impression of a TV announcer, “‘snow changing to rain, heavy at times.’ I heard the weather report too,” he said more somberly. “I'll tell Martha to find some more buckets for Sunday's service.” Another pause. “O.K., see you tomorrow, Jonathan.”

Once again, Henry slowly walked back to his desk, sat down, and began writing. This time, he had almost gotten through the very first sentence when he heard someone knocking at the front door.

“How in the world can I even begin to write a sermon for tomorrow with all these interruptions!” he cried out in exasperation. “Martha!” he shouted, more from habit than from hope that she would respond. “Now, where in the world has my wife gone?” he muttered as he walked toward the front door. “She couldn't have gone shopping,” he thought, suddenly raising his furrowed brow upward and voicing his appeal, “Oh, God, please not shopping. We don't have the money to buy eggs and milk, let alone---”

Henry left his sentence unfinished, as he opened the door to a group of children and youths clad in coats, hats, and gloves, holding small booklets. The small ensemble sang a Christmas carol as Henry quietly listened. When they had finished, Henry applauded.

“Good Evening, Reverend Williams. Merry Christmas,” chanted a little 10 year old with rosy cheeks and bright sparkling eyes.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Cecilia, “ Henry replied, with a slight bow.

“Merry Christmas,” intoned a chorus of young people.

“Merry Christmas to you, Bobby, David, Becky---” he peered through his glasses at the last child, a tall brown-haired boy with a ruddy complexion. “I don't believe I know your name. Are you new here in the city?”

“Yes, I am,” the young man replied with all politeness. “In fact, I’ve just arrived. My name is Angelo, Reverend Williams, Angelo Domingo.” He held out his hand to shake Henry’s. “Good evening and Merry Christmas to you, Sir.”

“Good evening to you too, young man,” Henry replied, surprised at the teenager’s unusual sense of propriety.

“Angelo tells the greatest stories,” Cecilia exclaimed, breaking the formality. “He's a writer, Reverend Williams, and a very good one.”

“Is he now?” Henry observed, curiously eyeing Angelo. Then upon reflection, half jokingly, he added, ”I could use a good writer about now.”

Angelo grinned.

Henry looked at him intently, “it’s good to meet you, Angelo. Will I perhaps be seeing you in church tomorrow?

“As a matter of fact, Reverend Williams, you will.”

“Good, then,” Henry said with obvious satisfaction. “I'll be looking forward to it. Good-night, everyone.” As they were leaving; Henry called to his daughter, “Uh, Becky, don't you think it's time to get ready for bed? Church tomorrow, you know.”

“But, dad, we have a few more houses to go to.”

Henry was unmoved.

“Just a few minutes more - pleeease.” Despite her thirteen years, Becky’s big brown eyes implored her father with a childlike innocence that mere words could not.

Henry confessed a weakness toward his younger daughter. “Be home by eight thirty, then. OK?”

Becky nodded. They all bid Henry goodnight. Henry closed the door and trudged slowly back to his study. Before he had so much as passed under the transom, the front door burst open, his wife leading the charge, the children following like so many sheep.

“Martha,” Henry exclaimed in both delight and annoyance, “Where have you---”

“Why, decorating the church for tomorrow with the other ladies - or have you forgotten?” she said matter-of-factly. Then, changing the subject, she admonished him lightly as a middle aged matron might, “Henry, these lovely children stand at your door on a cold December night, sing a beautiful Christmas carol for you, and you don't even invite them in for some hot tea or cocoa. Henry, Oh, Henry, where are your manners?” Martha, who had just turned thirty-seven for the twelfth time, was a woman whose stately form and youthful figure demonstrated that time sometimes does stand still. Her golden eyes smiled with warmth and compassion, her fair skin betrayed not a line or wrinkle, and her countenance emanated a sweet serenity that had not been diminished by the years of struggle as a minister’s wife. Turning toward the children, she announced, “Now if you'll follow me to the kitchen, I'm sure we can dig up something.” Martha and the carolers hurried into the kitchen, leaving Henry, his hands on his hips, an incredulous look on his face, standing in the doorway to the study.

Some moments later, amid the spirited sounds of youthful conversation, Martha returned to find Henry still standing there. “Henry,” Martha said cheerfully, “I hear you've met Angelo.”

“Yes, dear,” Henry replied, “we had a nice talk,” trying to contrast his wife’s enthusiasm with his own seriousness.

“Then, Angelo told you that he has no mother and father and no place to live, that he's been doing whatever odd jobs he could?”

“Why, no,” Henry replied with genuine surprise, “He didn't mention---”

“I think it's just terrible - terrible! Such a fine young man.”

“Well, yes, certainly. We could give him---”

“Exactly, dear. We could give him a place to stay right here.”

“Here? A young man staying here?” Henry protested, all at once aware of the direction his wife’s discourse was taking.

“Henry,” Martha continued, undaunted by her husband’s reluctance, “where is your spirit of compassion?”

Henry, always the practical one, responded with tempered assurance, “Just where it always has been, my Dear - right alongside my spirit of reason.” Then, noting a rather stern glance from his unconvinced wife, Henry softened his tone slightly. “I mean... we could put him up for the night of course, but after that---”

Martha was not giving in and peered at Henry from above the rims of her glasses.

“Martha, we're not the local boarding house - or the town orphanage.”

Martha knew her husband too well. That gruff exterior had a soft center and Martha knew that she had reached it. She proceeded, more in earnest now than before, “But, Dear... Angelo doesn't want a handout. He says he wants to help you. You've been saying that you needed help around the church. Angelo could help with church details on Sundays, or maybe with the children. He's very good with children, you know. It would be exciting, Dear.”

Martha was making it more difficult than ever for Henry to say no and he was becoming increasingly frustrated by it. “Martha,” he sighed in exasperation, “I can't even find the peace and quiet to write a sermon for tomorrow and now you want me to take in a teenage boy from who knows where? I mean,” he was pacing now; he always paced when he was losing an argument, “I mean, we can barely make ends meet ourselves. Besides, this is not the right time. This house is falling apart, the church roof leaks with every heavy rain, Walter at the bank wants to---”

“But, Henry dear,” Martha interrupted with sweet innocence, “isn’t Walter a member of your congregation?”

“Yes - he is - sort of,” Henry stammered, adding more agitatedly, “But he’s still a banker and he wants to---” Henry stopped abruptly, put his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath and sighed, “I wonder if Paul or Timothy ever had problems like this.”

Martha didn’t miss a beat, “Oh, no, Dear,” she replied, “I doubt they did. I mean, all they had to worry about were the Roman troops ready at any moment to drag them out of their homes and feed them to the lions or kill them in the town square. I doubt Paul or Timothy ever considered something as important as a leaky roof - or taking in a homeless boy.” She smiled at Henry.

Martha could be rather persuasive when she needed to be, and Henry knew she would have her way in this matter. He took a deep breath, started to speak, then took another deep breath, exhaling with a “Harumph,” and quietly watched his wife walk back to the kitchen.

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