The stack of old books toppled to the floor. “Drat,” Betsy muttered to herself, bending to pick them up. A cloud of dust billowed up to greet her, and she sneezed, hard.
It was nearing midnight on Christmas Eve, 1915, and the streets of London were eerily quiet. With most men away on the western front, a somber silence had settled over the city. Betsy’s family had always kept the bookshop open until midnight on Christmas Eve, a last-minute grace for those who waited until the eleventh hour to buy their loved ones a Christmas gift. But business had been slow today, and her heart just wasn’t in it this year.
Setting the books on an empty shelf, Betsy propped her elbows on the counter and stared through the frosty windowpanes. The street outside danced with snow flurries, a whisper in the wind that a snowstorm was on its way. It would be a white Christmas in the morning. Betsy didn’t much care if it was any kind of Christmas. She would just as soon skip a day, going to bed tonight and waking up on Boxing Day. Christmas all alone was a thought she could hardly bear.
Betsy was an orphan. Her mother had died when she was young, but last Christmas and every year before, she’d had her father and brother. Both had gone to France, both were now laid to rest in some far-off field. The news had almost killed her, at first, but the human heart is more resilient than we know. By the end of summer, she was back in the bookstore, determined to keep her family’s business and legacy alive.
What had seemed a noble goal in the golden, windswept days of September was a pale and lightless reality on Christmas Eve. For the first time in her life, she would be alone on Christmas Day.
Dashing tears from her eyes, she determinedly began to count the money in her till. She would not give in to despair. Not yet. Not till she closed up the shop and could shut out the ache of the world.
The bell above the door jingled, and frustration tinged Betsy’s mood as she looked up. It was a young woman about her own age, with a baby. The woman cast a furtive glance Betsy’s way, and turned to peruse the bookshelves.
“We’re closing in five minutes,” Betsy said, trying hard to keep the weariness out of her voice.
The girl turned and smiled softly. “Alright.”
The silence could be felt for the next few minutes. The baby didn’t make a sound. It must be asleep, Betsy thought. Despite her better intentions, she couldn’t keep from watching the woman. Her clothes were patched, her fingers and cheeks reddened with the cold. The coat she was wearing didn’t look warm enough for the snow outside. The five minutes came and passed, and Betsy didn’t say a word. Another few minutes went by, and the woman turned to go.
“Merry Christmas,” she said softly, reaching for the doorknob, and Betsy’s heart lurched.
“Wait!” she gasped. The woman turned to look at her, the baby rousing and opening big blue eyes to blink at Betsy.
“Don’t go back out there,” Betsy said. “It’s freezing, and your coat isn’t thick enough to walk home.”
The woman shifted her baby’s weight. “To tell the truth, miss, we have no home to go to.”
“No home?” Betsy whispered, thinking of her own cozy rooms above the shop.
“None. My husband was killed on the Western Front a few months ago. Without his pay coming, I haven’t been able to make enough to cover our rooms. Our landlord kicked us out this morning.” She said the words hesitantly, as if she couldn’t believe they were true.
“Then you must stay here,” Betsy said, coming around the counter with outstretched hands, “For I am all alone, as well.”
“Could we?” the woman asked, her eyes wide with disbelief, and the baby suddenly laughed, as if he understood every word.
“Come,” Betsy said, opening the staircase door to her home above, and the smell of cinnamon and sugar wafted down the stairs in the glow of candlelight. They went up together hand in hand, smiling through their tears, the baby cooing gladly.
And so it was that when faced with someone who truly had nothing, Betsy realized just how much she had to give. Christmas has a way of doing this to even the most hurting and lost of us, because of the greatest Gift ever given, who tilted the world on its axis, makes all crooked paths straight, and guides us back to the Father. This Hope can pierce through even the blackest of our nights, hold back the darkness, and lead us home.
The End
Of Words and Wonder 
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