Several days later Pastor and Mrs. Burke knocked on the apartment door. My mother invited them in and put a pot of coffee on to brew. When she finished her coffee Mrs. Burke opened her purse and pulled out an envelope. She pushed it across the table to my mother. Mom opened it and gasped. “I can’t take this,” she whispered.
“You take it and pay off every single bill,” Pastor Burke said.
“But there’s more here than what we owe.” My mother moved the envelope back across the table but Mrs. Burke stopped her. “I can’t take it.” Mrs. Burke put the envelope in Mom’s hand.
“I can’t go back to all these people and tell them that what God laid on their heart was wrong. God wanted them to help and that’s what they’ve done.”
Mom sat clutching the fat envelope. “But I don’t know who gave this,” she whispered. “How can I ever thank them?”
“They didn’t do it for the thanks, Charlotte,” Mrs. Burke said. “But God knows who they are. He’ll thank them.”
Mom shook her head and used a towel sitting on the table to wipe her face. Mrs. Burke leaned toward Mom and squeezed her hand. “Sometimes we’re not supposed to be in on every single part of God’s plan. Sometimes we just need to take the blessing and run.”
We would never know who gave us the money. When adults would speak to my mother at church I’d listen for some clue they might give to help us clear up the puzzle. But no one ever acted as if they knew anything. Tears ran down my mother’s face as she wrapped her arms around Mrs. Burke’s neck. The Burkes quietly left and I watched from the hallway as my mother cried, clutching the envelope. That was the end of the creditors, the letters, and the threats … and the return of my mother’s smile.
For several Christmases leading up to that one I would, under the guise of “cleaning,” rummage through my mother’s closet or beneath her bed in an attempt to find even the smallest gift. “Patricia, Christmas isn’t all about you,” Mom said one day, ushering me out of her room. “It’s not about what you can get. It’s about what you can give.” At the time that notion seemed crazy to me but after my mother received the envelope full of money from a church full of strangers I knew exactly what she meant.
I poured what coffee there was left in my cup down the sink, cleaned and polished the coffeepot, turned it on an angle so it sat just so on the counter, and opened the garage door. I wanted to beat the traffic that would be traveling across town so I left an hour early for my first appointment. It took me forty minutes and when I pulled into the drive I noticed that the Lymans had decorated the outside of their house and trees with lights. Santa and his sleigh were perched on top of the roof close to the chimney and Frosty or some snowman that looked like him greeted visitors at the front door. I opened my trunk and waited for Justin. Claire Lyman opened the door and waved, placing her hand on Justin’s shoulder as they walked down the front steps. “How are you, Patricia?” Claire asked.
“I’m great,” I said. “How’s everybody in the Lyman family?”
She gave me a big okay sign and I reached for Justin’s suitcase. “How are you, Justin?” He shrugged his shoulders. Justin placed his plain brown suitcase inside the trunk. “The house looks great, Claire.”
Claire put her arm around Justin. “Justin helped us. We couldn’t have done it without him.”
“Wow Justin! This place looks awesome.”
He looked at the ground and Claire caught my eye. She wrapped her arms around Justin’s small shoulders and kissed his face. “Thanks for staying with us, Justin.”
He nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the ground. He didn’t want to leave. “Can I ever come back?” His voice was quiet.
Claire kept her arm around him and looked at me. She turned him toward her and made him look at her. “You and your mother can come by anytime,” she said. It wasn’t what Justin wanted to hear.
“Can I come back to stay?”
“We love you, Justin, but your mom loves you very much and she needs you.”
She opened the door of the car and Justin slunk into the passenger seat.
“Oh, wait!” Claire said, running into the house. She ran back to the car carrying a package wrapped in bright Christmas paper. “You can’t open this until Christmas,” she said, placing the gift on the boy’s lap. “It’s for you and your mom.” She looked at me and smiled, and I got behind the wheel, waving at her. I had worked with Claire and her husband for several years now. They were foster parents I could always depend on and were willing to open their home to any child. I backed out of the driveway and noticed Claire waving at Justin. He wouldn’t look up.