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Holidays
A Christmas short story for you: ‘Pennies From Heaven’
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By Jim DeBrosse,
Staff Writer
3:46 PM Thursday, December 24, 2009
Every year for more than a decade, the Dayton Daily News has published a new work of holiday-themed short fiction by one of our writers as a special Christmas Day gift from us to you. We hope you enjoy this year’s story, once again by staff writer and author Jim DeBrosse.
Inside Mother of God Church, a mountain side was quickly taking shape.An army of volunteers was busy hammering the framework and draping the painted canvas that formed the Alpine backdrop for the church’s renowned Nativity scene. When finished, its handcrafted Bavarian statues and live Christmas trees would fill the entire side altar, from the communion rail up to the gold-domed ceiling.
So many good people to help this year, thought Fay Schmidt as she supervised the work from the front pew. It was too bad they couldn’t fix the leaks in the century-old ceiling as well. Certainly, the spirit among them was strong, but the skills were weak. The church would have to find $100,000 — somehow, somewhere — to hire a contractor for the work.
Fay had been volunteering at the church for more than 40 years, and was now the church treasurer. Having spent so much time inside its cavernous Romanesque space, she felt like it was her second home.
Fay perhaps more than anyone knew its every nook and cranny, from its labyrinth of basement tunnels all the way up the creaky winding staircases to its twin majestic towers high above the city. She could point out its many decorative oddities as well, like the Irish harp the stained-glass maker had sneaked into the rose window of the once German-only church, and the pair of 19th-century lace-up boots carved into the statue of a young Virgin Mary.
“Fay, we need your help a minute.”
A young mother named Stephanie, one of the newer church members from the transitioning neighborhood, came from the main altar with a distressed look on her face.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“We can’t find Melchior.”
“You mean one of our Magi?”
“I think Melchior is his name. The old bearded guy who brings the chest of gold.”
“It’s not behind the main altar?”
“No, and we looked behind the St. Joseph side altar, too.”
For as long as Fay could remember, the statues for the creche had been stored in the large ground-floor cabinets behind the church’s main altar. All except for the Baby Jesus, whose delicate outstretched arms were prone to breaking. He had his own dresser drawer inside the Parish House guest room.
Fay followed Stephanie over to the main altar, where the two dozen or so statues were lined up for cleaning. Stephanie pointed out the other two kings — Kaspar with his offering of myrrh and Balthazar with his frankincense. Behind them was the big one-humped camel with the gentle brown eyes.
“See,” Stephanie said. “Melchior has gone AWOL.”
Incredulous, Fay squeezed behind the right side of the altar and, on bended knee, opened the cabinet door and snapped on the light. Empty.
She bustled to the other side of the altar, remembering to genuflect before the Blessed Sacrament on her way, and inspected there as well. Again empty.
Stephanie stood tapping her toe in irritation.
“I’m sorry,” Fay said. “I had to see for myself.”
Fay spotted Father O’Reilly motioning to her from the sacristy door. He seemed eager to talk about something.
“Do you have a wee minute, Fay?” he said in his thick Irish brogue. Father O’Reilly was on loan from a church in Dublin. His sermons, delivered in a rolling cadence, could challenge the hearing of even the youngest parishioners.
He led Fay to a couple of straight-back chairs in the corner of the sacristy, where they sat alone. Father’s darting green eyes warned her he didn’t have good news.
“I have just now heard from the archbishop’s office. I’m afraid they have decided not to lend us the money for the grand Midnight Mass this year.”
Fay took a deep breath to calm herself. She had feared as much, but now that it was real she feared the worst as well.
“Does that mean they plan to shut down the church, Father?”
“Oh, heavens, no. No one has said that.” He smiled and stared up at the ceiling. “At least not this year.”
“Monsignor Feldmeyer would have never let it come to this.”
“Ah, yes, the sainted Monsignor Feldmeyer. ‘No Indians and buffaloes in the collection basket.’ Isn’t that what he used to say?”
“Yes, meaning no pennies or nickels. He thought people should be more generous. Monsignor was an old curmudgeon, and stubborn as a mule, but he cared deeply for this parish, and he provided well for its future. We always had money in reserve.”
“Until now, I’m afraid.”
“Then we must go ahead with the Midnight Mass — even if we have to borrow from the bank. It’s our biggest source of donations all year.”
“The archbishop would never give it his blessing — not when we have the devil’s own task of paying our utilities.”
“Who’s asking?” Fay folded her arms and stared the priest straight in the eye.
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