Page 23 of A Texas Christmas Carol

Small gifts that cost you little. I want all of you.

Evan jerked. His cane fell to the floor with a great clatter. People turned. Stared.

Felicity reached for his arm, concern etching her face. “Evan?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, not sure if he meant the apology for her or the Lord himself. “I-I need some air.”

Taking up his fallen cane, he rushed out of the sanctuary as fast as his weak knee would allow.

ten

EVAN RUSHED FROM THE BUILDING, desperate for privacy. Turning away from the road, from town, from anyplace that might bring him into contact with people, he chose a thin trail that led away from the rear of the church and scurried down it.

But the trail didn’t lead to freedom. It led to death. A cemetery.

Taking refuge in the knowledge that at least the dead could not harangue him, Evan plodded forward, his steps slower. His mind seeking distraction from the preacher’s recriminations, he started reading the tombstones as he passed. Some might call it morbid, but he found a measure of comfort in it. No troubles or worries touched the souls laid here. They did not bear the weight of responsibility or expectation. No one pressured them to change their ways. They were at peace.

“Peace is for the living, not the dead.”

Evan nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find Tom a few steps behind him, regarding him with unfathomable eyes. The sight of a friend should have soothed Evan’s alarm, but it didn’t. On the contrary, a tightness gripped his chest and paralyzed his feet. Dread poured into him. It was not a dread born from fear but from truth. A truth he could not escape, no matter how many justifications and rationalizations he barricaded himself behind.

Tom lifted an arm and pointed a skeletal finger toward a tombstone standing ten yards off the main path. Evan moved toward it, a will not his own propelling him forward. Cracks traversed the stone’s face like scars. It stood lopsided and alone, uncrowded by the resting places of relatives. Had they moved on to a different town, or did the poor soul have none?

A cold breeze slid inside Evan’s collar like an icy snake, slithering down the length of his spine, around his torso, and along each arm and leg, leaving an eerie chill in its wake. He wrapped his arms around himself, but the action did little to warm him.

The etching on the stone rose to greet him as he neared, the writing slowly coming into focus. Evan stumbled. His heart lurched. How could it be? His own name upon the stone?

But no. Not his name. The epitaph read E. Brazer not E. Beazer. Yet the similarity unsettled him. For not only did the name resemble his, but the dates inscribed beneath mimicked his own thirty-two years, though they’d begun several decades before. A man cut down in his prime, with no family to remember him. No sentiment adorned the stone, just a stark scripture reference. 1 Peter 1:24.

Even tucked his cane beneath his arm and reached inside his coat pocket for the Bible he carried to services. He thumbed through the pages, the wind crinkling the thin paper.

For all flesh is as grass,

and all the glory of man as the flower of grass.

The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away:

But the Word of the Lord endureth for ever.

Such a depressing selection to mark a man’s final resting place. As if the sum of his life amounted to nothing more than withered grass. It angered Evan that some unfeeling relation or undertaker would choose such an epitaph. What about verses that promised heavenly glory? Could they not even bother to add an RIP blessing?

A shadow appeared beside him. Tom had joined him at the grave.

“Such a verse seems wrong,” Evan muttered.

“That don’t make it any less true,” Tom said. “A man’s legacy ain’t worth nothin’ unless it carries the substance of the eternal. All else withers and fades into dust.”

He fell silent for a long moment, his words hanging heavy in the air, mixing with the preacher’s admonitions about where a man laid up his treasure and, with it, his heart.

“Read the verse again, Evan. And the ones before it. Seek the eternal and build your legacy there.”

The sounds of movement and voices drew Evan’s attention to the emptying church building. He stuffed his Bible back in his pocket and grabbed his cane, knowing he couldn’t speak to anyone. Especially Felicity. Not yet. Not with his soul cracking open.

“Sorry, Tom. I need to . . .”

His companion was nowhere to be seen. Why did that not surprise him?

Guilt. Confusion. Indignation. Fear. Wonder. Humiliation. They and about a dozen other conflicting emotions surrounded him like a gang of schoolyard bullies, yelling and throwing punches, each demanding their own pound of flesh. Helpless against their assault, Evan fled, running on a knee that barely supported his weight. Running until he reached his home. His room. His bed.