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I stared at the stained glass starburst dove I had been infatuated with. Tonight, it was particularly beautiful in the glow of all the candles burning throughout the church. The effect made the dove look as if she were soaring, free of the chains that had been holding her to the ground. Or maybe it was only a reflection of how I felt. It was the first time in months I had felt at home in this chapel. The pavilion that had kept me from God had finally shattered because I’d remembered who I was and that I had worth even though I made mistakes, big and small. The pastor’s words spoke reassurance to my soul that God would take me in too. That he had the power to heal and to forgive. And if he could forgive, I should certainly forgive myself.
“Because of his son, a babe born in Bethlehem, we have all we need to come home.”
I snuggled closer to Brock. Thoughts of home and babies swirled in my mind. I thought about how much I wanted a baby with him, but also of all the babies who needed good homes. I reflected on the day we’d had before we made it to church. Brock and I had spent most of our day and into the night delivering gifts to many kinds of homes. Some of them were filled with several children anxious for Santa Claus to visit them while they slept. Smiles were plenty and feelings of joy abounded. In other homes there was a stark difference—the atmosphere was sterile, and hope was squashed. One little three-year-old girl kept coming to my mind—Gemma. Her deep-brown eyes, begging to be loved, had been haunting me all day.
When Brock and I entered the unkept home where Gemma lived, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter weather. Her foster parents didn’t seem like cruel people, yet they didn’t seem to offer any sort of comfort either. Gemma had immediately run to me and wrapped her tiny arms around my legs. I’d smoothed her dark tangled hair, and, without asking her foster parents, I’d picked her up. When I had held her, it was as if I could see the baby I’d dreamed of, only a few years older, right down to her olive skin. I hadn’t wanted to let her go. And she’d clung to me to the very last second, even crying when we had to leave.
“Brock,” I whispered in his ear. “I want to find out more about Gemma.”
He smiled. “I had a feeling you would.”
I rested my head on his shoulder. It gave me a glimpse of Sheridan, sitting on Brock’s other side between her two sons. She was closing her eyes as if making a wish. I wished I could grant whatever it was she was asking for. Regrettably, only one man had that power, and he wasn’t here. The rumors had begun that there was trouble for the Hollands. They were added to the rumors about the breakup of Brant and Jill. Infidelity was the loudest rumor in both cases. Neither Sheridan nor Brant did anything to quash them. They both had kept their heads held high and their mouths shut, at least publicly.
Privately, they were reeling. Shattered dreams and families are hard to repair. I had warned John. Perhaps, though, he took comfort in Holland Industries’ banner year. Profits were high and shareholders happy, according to the local news. I hoped the trade-off was worth it for John. But how could it be?
I admired Sheridan and Brant’s grace in how they handled it all. I, for one, probably wouldn’t have come to church knowing there would be those there who whispered behind my back—people I thought to be friends but who loved a juicy story, especially when it involved the great ones falling. But Sheridan and Brant weren’t going to let the naysayers and gossipers keep them from worshipping and celebrating one of the greatest events in the history of mankind. They reminded me of the dove, bursting forth amid great difficulty. Though wasn’t that how we learned we could soar higher?
When the service was over, we said good night to Brant and Mom. We would celebrate with them and my grandparents tomorrow. Kinsley was in London, and Ariana and her family were in Chicago spending Christmas with her parents and brothers, so it would be a quieter affair.
Brock was ever anxious to get home and sped as fast as he could on the clear, cold night. When we entered the garage, he threw the car in park and raced to pull me from the car. By the time we made it through the mudroom door, he already had me in his arms and half-undressed. He carried me so swiftly up the stairs I hardly had time to admire our very own Christmas tree twinkling in the dark, decorated with the angels Ariana had made for me to remind me of the angel we had lost.
