A Family Christmas Miracle

December 2002

Dear Friends:

Christmas greetings from the Rocky Mountains! As is my tradition each December, I'd like to share a heartwarming holiday story with you. The following was written by Joe Wheeler, a good friend of this ministry. While space limitations require that I summarize and edit some of the narrative, I hope that the beauty of the tale, titled "Evensong," will shine through. You can find the full text in Dr. Wheeler's Christmas in My Heart Vol. 11.

The story is introduced as an account of "a lonely woman, a troubled author, a father-hungry little girl, a lost journal, God . . .and 'Evensong.'" It opens in a London hotel room, where Constance, a single mother, and her seven-year-old daughter, Beth, are staying. They have traveled to England from Santa Fe, so that Beth can spend time with her father, Robert (who is Constance's ex-husband).

Robert and Constance's relationship had begun like a fairy tale: Robert was a British Lord who met Constance while touring the States. He was quite taken with her beauty, and she with his European sophistication. Before they knew it they were back in England and married — swept up in a glamorous lifestyle of aristocratic luxury. The fairy tale rapidly disintegrated, however . . .

Then a child was born to them — a girl, much to Robert's disgust. In fact, he didn't seem to even want the baby around him. When Constance refused to turn her over to a nanny, that was the last straw. Robert stormed out of their bedchamber and, for all practical purposes, out of her life . . . More and more Robert stayed at the club, or in his London bachelor's apartments. She rarely knew where he was. It might be Monte Carlo (his crowd loved to gamble), he might be away on business, he might be at a polo match, horseracing, or chasing foxes. He might be anywhere in the world but home with her . . . All that was bad enough, but then came the tabloid photos of Robert with one woman after another — but never with her.

Finally, when she could handle no more of his public mockery of their marriage, she applied for divorce. Instead of its bringing him to his senses, he encouraged it. Once final, he gave her a generous settlement and suggested she move back to America . . . Within six months he was married again, this time to an old-time family friend, one who reveled in high society. And, not coincidentally, daughter of a Lord . . . As for his daughter, he condescended to see her only once a year. And his new wife made it clear that the little girl was to come and go quickly . . .

It should come as no surprise, then, that when Constance and Beth arrive in London at the beginning of the story, something has "come up" on Robert's schedule, taking him away to Switzerland and leaving them stranded in room 507 of the Thistle Tower Hotel. Constance has no answers for Beth when she tearfully asks her mother to explain why her father has no apparent interest in his little girl. As night falls and Beth drifts off to sleep, Constance prays:

"Oh God, You see what a mess I've made of my life. But You also know how sorry I am! I know I don't deserve it, but I'm so lonely, Lord. Is there somewhere my soul's other half? Is there someone out there who'd be my soul mate, and who loves You as much as I do? Who would unconditionally love Beth too? I know You've got far more important things to do than bail out a foolish woman, but, oh Lord, please find him for me."

After finishing her prayer, Constance walks toward the window to look at the majestic Tower Bridge looming just outside, with the glittering lights of London behind. As she makes her way across the room, she accidentally knocks her passport behind the dresser. In retrieving it, she also finds something else — a leather-bound journal. Beth, who has awakened in the commotion, convinces her hesitant mother to open the diary and read it aloud. "How else will we find out who it belongs to?" Beth reasons.

Constance and Beth discover that the journal belongs to William Harrison, an American author. The first entry reads:

Day 1, On Board British Air, Denver to London: I don't really know what it is that I'm fleeing from, or what I'm expecting to find in Old England. I only know that a Higher Power willed it.

Nights have been long in recent days, weeks, and months. I've had such a hard time getting to sleep. It has been almost six years since that terrible July night when a truck driver veered across the median and smashed into our Lexus, killing my lovely Julia almost instantly . . . At first, the pain of losing her was so intense it blotted out time and reality. Time after time, I'd reach for her in the night, only to find once more that she was not there, would never be there again. That I was alone in the midst of my life journey. Alone at 33.

Toward the end of the second year, the anguish began to diminish . . . I just realized that my life is not over. That it will go on . . . and that there's still beauty all around me. And joy. And that I've wasted far too much time already.

As Constance and Beth read on, they discover a great deal about Mr. Harrison. He writes extensively about the grieving process, about his desire to have children (a desire that he and his late wife had not yet fulfilled), and his uncertainties about the prospect of becoming a husband again. He also writes about God's healing touch in the midst of his sorrow:

In time, much healing has come. And happiness. I've found both in hard work, in getting my mind off of self, and focusing on others instead. God has been good — has respected my space. Has picked up His end of the phone when I've called. For a long time I called Him only once in a while; then it was oftener and oftener. Now, we never hang up at all.

The subsequent entries in Mr. Harrison's journal provide Constance and Beth with a fascinating glimpse of the owner's own travels in Great Britain. On the entry for "Day Two," Mr. Harrison notes his arrival at the Thistle Tower Hotel, and writes:

I still don't know why God sent me on this trip, but I'm convinced it was for a reason. My part, as I see it, is to follow my itinerary and chronicle my reactions . . .

I wish that space permitted me to include all of the insights that Mr. Harrison's character shares in his diary. Many pages of "Evensong" are filled with his ruminations about God's role in human history, set against some of the most famous landmarks in England, including the Tower of London, Kensington Palace, and Westminster Abbey. Their hotel room is reserved for almost two full weeks, and Constance is so enthralled with the journal that she makes a proposal:

"Apparently Mr. Harrison went to see an interesting place in London each day he was here. What do you say that each morning we read about his experiences there, and then go follow him and see if we agree with what he wrote. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Beth enthusiastically agrees, and so mother and daughter strike off on several days' worth of sightseeing excursions in and around London, their experience enhanced by the insights and observations recorded in Mr. Harrison's diary. A short selection of those observations, along with a few reactions from Constance and Beth, are recorded below:

Day 4, Kensington Palace: I wonder if the Prince of Wales is really capable of love. Never will I forget the story of the little boy who ran towards his mother, after she and his father had been on a round-the-world cruise on the royal ship, "Britannia" — been gone half a year. Half a year to a child is forever! So he ran into her arms. Well, not quite. She stopped his rush by sticking out her right hand for a handshake! How could a child who was treated so coldly by his own mother be capable of real love with wife and children?

"That's the way Father is with me," mused Beth. "Sort of cold. It hurts. He doesn't even smile at me most of the time. Makes me afraid of him. Doesn't act like he loves me at all."

It's one o'clock in the morning, and I can't sleep. So I look out the window at that glorious Tower Bridge, all lit up like a Christmas tree. I see the deep purple streaked with silver and gold of the river, the people still walking under umbrellas on the banks and on the bridge, the ghostly headlights of cars, trucks, and buses. Where are they all going?

I'm lonely. Oh how I wish I had someone to share all this beauty with. Someone to talk with, commune with, to be my other half, to love.

Day 6, The British Museum: What was the most significant [aspect of the museum] to me? Undoubtedly that it reaffirms one's faith in the Bible. For centuries skeptics discounted the Bible, maintaining that much of it was but myth, that many of the nations appearing in its pages never existed at all. The Hittites for instance — no record of such a people! Yet here in this museum is archeological proof of the Hittite Empire.

Day 8, Westminster Abbey: God was preeminent in the lives of Europeans then . . . Life expectancy was low, disease wiped out most of those who became ill, chances were that most women would die of childbirth complications, and wars were frequent. In such a world of uncertainty, God was the only constant, thus the yearnings of the people were reflected in their Gothic cathedrals, each a community effort. Westminster is a queen among them.

All my life I'd heard of "Evensong," and now I was going to experience it. Outside the great Abbey the cacophony created by 7,000,000 people forever on the move; inside, the serenity of a church built for the ages. Only those wishing to worship were permitted inside the gates during the services . . .

Then we heard it, the Choir of Westminster, solemnly led by beautifully attired Vergers holding aloft the symbolic Verges; the Choir (composed of both boys and men) singing all the while, accompanied by the great Westminster organ. I shivered. So it must have been in Solomon's Temple — how could one not be reverent in such a setting?

Timothy Dudley-Smith's nativity hymn . . . deeply moved me, perhaps due to the fact that so many young voices were singing words such as these:

"Child of the stable's secret birth,
the Lord by right of the lords of earth,
let angels sing of a king new—born
the world's weaving a crown of thorn:
a crown of thorn for that infant head
cradled soft in the manger bed.

"Oh Mommy, this was the best day yet! He was right in all he said about the Abbey . . . of everything I've ever seen in my life, I think I like Evensong best . . . Can't tell you why. It's just that it was so-o-o beautiful!"

Days 9-11, Canterbury: Since Evensong has got into my blood, when the bells began to ring late in the afternoon I wended my way towards the Cathedral. Inside, the worshippers being rather few that day, they motioned me to sit in the majestic Quire (Choir) itself. After the bells, the Canterbury Choir came in, led by the Vergers and speakers. Again I was overcome by the synthesis of the visual and the aural . . . the radiance of the windows of the Corona, the intricacy of the vaulting, the great columns soaring heavenward, the ancient hand-carved quire, the boys' and men's voices rising and falling, the speakers' voices, the organ's full-throated vox, and those who participated like me, in order to experience the presence of God once again.

Day 12, Evensong: Am back in my old room at the Tower Thistle. And the bridge is still there. This afternoon, one last time, I attended Evensong in Westminster Abbey. It was raining, but inside I felt protected, warmed, and nearer my Creator than I did on sunny days. The Abbey felt more like a refuge.

As always, I scanned the faces of those who were sharing Evensong with me . . . searching for her. Who she will be, I don't really know. I only know that I've been praying for her ever since my first Evensong. Asked God to bring her into my life so that I won't be so lonely any more. And perhaps she's just as lonely as I.

I've been more deeply moved by the Evensongs I've attended than by any other service I can remember. Not just by the service itself, but by the commitment made by the Church of England: that day in, day out, one of the verities of British life is that one can depend on meeting God every morning at Matins and every evening at Evensong . . . what if we all had the opportunity to escape the world twice a day — or at least at Evensong— and for a few blessed moments seek out God, asking for strength and divine peace? Might we not be a different civilization?

As Mr. Harrison's travels come to an end — and Constance's and Beth's guided tour, by extension — the author concludes his journal with a few more heartfelt expressions of hope for a woman who will walk life's road with him:

Will she revel in walks along the beach, hikes in the mountains, getting lost in old bookstores? Will she love both the familiar and the far-away places? Will she cry at sad movies, sad music, sad books?

"He's talking about you, Mommy."

"Hush! You romantic child!"

Will she consider each day to be an adventure, a gift from God, an opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others? Will she be intelligent and enjoy the deep things of life? Most of all, will she have a deep and abiding faith in God? If she should not, not all these other wonderful qualities could possibly compensate.

But — you, Tower Bridge out there in the falling rain, do you see me? You know, Bridge, I feel I know you well enough to confide in you. Tell you what: I'd like to come back to this very city this Christmas season. Come back to London to see Dickens' Christmas Carol performed, to see St. Nicholas ride in on his gray horse, to see all the Christmas decorations.

Most of all — is this dream truly impossible? — I'd like to have her with me. I'd like to hold her hand during Evensong, and make her blush by whispering to her how lovely I think she is, and how much I love her.

And . . . sooner or later, I want a little girl that looks just like her.

Please, dear God?

Upon finishing reading the journal, Constance resolves to return the volume to its rightful owner. A business card tucked away inside the back cover reveals a Jackson Hole, Wyoming, address. Although she is inclined to mail the diary with a short anonymous note, her eager daughter convinces her to include a letter from each of them in the parcel.

The story's setting now switches to Mr. Harrison's ranch in Jackson Hole. He is musing over his experiences in London a few weeks earlier: "I'm still convinced God sent me there — but for what purpose? As far as I know, she was not there. And all that work I put in on my journal — lost!"

With these thoughts running through his head, Mr. Harrison busies himself with going through a large accumulation of book-related fan mail. He picks up the thickest package and opens it, only to discover his lost journal! Of the two envelopes accompanying the package, one is clearly addressed by a young child, so he opens it first. Beth's letter, complete with an illustration of the Tower Bridge, is inside, and it reads:

"Dear Mr. Harrison,

Thank you for writing your journal. Mommy found it behind the dresser. Please don't be mad at me because I made Mommy snoop. I just couldn't have lived without seeing what was in it!

We. At least I. love it. I don't know about Mommy. She hides how she feels more than I do. We read every word. Weren't we naughty?

I like you very much. Would you write to me? Or are you too busy to write to a girl who is only seven years old?

I have a lot more to say but Mommy is rushing me. Next time I'll say more. If there is a next time. Oh I DO hope so!

Love, Beth"

Mr. Harrison then opened Constance's letter, which read, in part . . .

"[Beth had] been terribly disappointed (upon our arrival in London) when the object of our visit failed to show up. So there we were with lots of time on our hands and nothing to do. Your journal gave us an excuse to play tourist and see England from the perspective of an American visitor.

More significantly, during the reading of it, Beth became more and more fascinated with you. I've never before seen her take to a person as she has you. In fact, had it not been for her, this packet would have included no letters, just an explanatory note. She's absolutely set her heart on hearing back from you. It would mean so much to her if you would — even if it were but a short note . . ."

As "Evensong" moves along, a great deal of correspondence is sent between Jackson Hole and Santa Fe — not only between Mr. Harrison and Beth, but between Mr. Harrison and Constance, as well. One particularly poignant missive from Beth reads:

"Let me tell you about mommy and my father. He didn't love her very much so they divorced. He doesn't love me very much either. I can understand why he wouldn't love me but I can't understand why he wouldn't love her! Cuz she's the most wonderful woman in the world! When I tell her how pretty she is, she just smiles and says, Darling. She calls me that a lot! The only beauty that counts comes from inside you."

Mother and daughter eagerly await each new piece of mail, getting to know Mr. Harrison better with every letter. Meanwhile, Mr. Harrison gets the growing feeling that God is somehow moving through this situation. Letters soon become e-mails, and e-mails become phone calls. Mr. Harrison and Constance begin referring to one another with the more familiar "Bill" and "Connie," respectively. Bill calls from various locations throughout the U.S. as he promotes his latest book. He sends Connie and Beth a music box that plays the song, "To Love Again." The story recounts that, eventually, through their correspondence, William and Constance "fall in love with the very soul of each other."

One day, as [Bill] was looking through his mail, he found a large envelope with the now familiar childish handwriting on it. Smiling, he opened it to see what Beth had to say. Down the page a little were these words:

"Mr. Harrison. Feels funny to still call you that. You mean so much more than that to me. And to Mommy. You make her so happy her eyes dance. She sings all the time. Yet we never really see you. We only imagine you. That's kinda sad. Had my eighth birthday yesterday and you weren't there. I missed you. I'm growing up without you. Do you want me to grow up without you? Do you really love me as much as I love you? Do you really love Mommy? If you do, do something! I cried yesterday when you didn't even call to wish me Happy Birthday. Then Mommy reminded me I'd never told you when my birthday was. But you should have asked! Now Christmas is coming, and if you don't come for that I shall die."

Nothing in Harrison's life had ever moved him more than this letter. This letter from a girl who was already bridging into adolescence. Did he want her to complete that bridge without him? Did he want her and Connie to celebrate Christmas without him?

Not on his life! He reached for the phone and called his travel agent, and ordered three tickets to London.

Need I even say that these three characters will meet on a snowy London street at Christmastime, and that they will live happily ever after? Unless you're a genuine Scrooge, any other ending would be unthinkable! Here's how the happy occasion is described in "Evensong":

The great bells of Westminster Abbey were ringing out the news that Christmas Evensong was only minutes away. A beautiful woman stood next to the gate with an almost—carbon—copy child beside her. Both wore an air of extreme expectancy, waiting the arrival of a man they had never seen.

Then, around the corner he came, at a brisk pace. Seeing them, he slowed, recognizing the little girl by the photo she'd sent him. Ostensibly, he saw only the shy child, but, in truth, he never missed a nuance of the vision standing by her side.

As he reached them, he knelt down in front of the child and said, "Merry Christmas, Princess."

Her voice shaking because she cared so much about the man's answer, she asked the question she'd been living with night and day for so many long months:

"Are you going to be my daddy?"

Just as solemnly, he answered, "Would you like me to?"

"Yes. More than anything in all the world!"

"What about her?" He looked up and held the gaze of the woman named Constance. "Does she come with the package?"

A roguish look came into the woman's eyes, and the wisp of a smile. She looked down at the still kneeling man and asked a question of her own (a slight tremor in her voice): "Are you sure you want me in the package too?"

Before answering, he again looked at Beth, and was engulfed by a tidal wave of love for this child who was almost single-;handedly responsible for this moment of decision. Here was the daughter of his dreams — only he'd already missed over seven years of her life. He'd not miss another day! Gathering the still trembling little girl in his arms, he tenderly kissed the tears in her eyes, and stood up. Then he turned to the woman and said, "Beth and I have a question." Even without knowing for sure what he would say, Beth kissed his cheek softly and ran her starved fingers through his hair. "Our question is this," he continued, "Will you marry us, to have and to hold, from this day forth, in sickness and in health, as long as we live, so help you God?"

Now it was the woman's turn to puddle up, smiling at them both through brimming eyes — with so much love and trust in her eyes that the man knew the answer had already been given, regardless of what mere words might say.

"I'll give you my answer after Evensong," was her answer in words.

Beth broke in, "You're silly, Mommy. And a terrible tease."

Turning to the man who held her in his arms, she said, "Daddy" [and her voice shook as for the first time in her life she called a man that precious word], "will you hold me all during Evensong, and hug me and whisper that you love me? Oh Daddy!" Words failing her, she could only convulsively cling to him and weep in relief that the long journey of two was over and the journey of three was about to begin.

The mother drank in every drop of the moving scene. Whatever remaining reservations she might have had were swept aside . . . How her heart sang that he had gone to Beth first!

But to keep up appearances, she tried (unsuccessfully, it's true) to be severe, by asking him, "And what do you have left for me?"

The newly minted daddy mistily smiled at her, but his voice yet teased: "Well, Beth has taken possession of everything but my right arm. If it promises to hold you close to me, will that do?"

"For the moment," she answered demurely. But her twinkling eyes held both promise and a great love the man recognized for what it was: the answer to his heart-felt prayers.

And so a little girl called Beth, a woman Beth called "Mommy," and a man Beth called "Daddy" (a sacred circle of three) walked into Christmas Evensong.

I'm out of space, so I'll simply close this letter by once again wishing each one of you a Merry Christmas from all of your friends here at Focus on the Family. May your hearts be filled with the joy of the Christ child — the One for whom the angels sang and the shepherds bowed down and worshipped. Blessings to you all!

Sincerely,

James C. Dobson, Ph.D.
President

P.S. Be sure to read "the story behind the story" of "Evensong." There you'll find Dr. Wheeler's detailed account of the intense prayer and extensive research (including an excursion to the UK) that were invested in the writing of this tale. His fascinating commentary will undoubtedly make you want to read the complete text of "Evensong," which runs nearly three times as long as the version recorded here.