Macy’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you think Mom had something to do with the ornament breaking?”
Noel smiled. “I’m sure of it.”
Macy suddenly stood and walked over to the Christmas tree, where her own ornament hung. She carefully lifted the hook from its bough and delicately held up the bauble, her face reflecting in its crimson sheen. “My mother was with me all along.” She turned and looked back at us. “I’ve protected this my whole life.”
“Maybe it’s finally time to break it,” I said.
Noel looked over at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask. Are you Macy’s husband?”
Macy looked at me and for a moment neither of us spoke. Then she said softly, “If he’ll still have me.”
A broad smile crossed my face. “You have great timing, Noel. You arrived just in time to see your big sister get engaged.”
EPILOGUE
I’ve come to know that our families are a canvas on which we paint our greatest hopes—imperfect and sloppy, for we are all amateurs at life, but if we do not focus too much on our mistakes, a miraculous picture emerges. And we learn that it’s not the beauty of the image that warrants our gratitude—it’s the chance to paint.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
Macy and I were married the next year on November 3, the anniversary of when we first met. Instead of a wedding cake, we served a tower of death-by-chocolate brownies from the Hut. It just seemed right somehow.
My father flew out for the wedding. It was his first time on an airplane. The flight wasn’t as bad as he feared, and he even enjoyed the in-flight meal. My father has simple tastes.
Macy’s father also attended the ceremony, but he didn’t give her away. Macy didn’t like the idea of him doing that again. He died just three months later of cirrhosis of the liver. Macy and Noel were both at his side when he passed. I’m not really sure how much his death affected Macy, but it was nothing like Joette’s. Law of the harvest, I guess; you reap what you sow.
Noel was Macy’s maid of honor. Even now I’m amazed at how similar the two women are—not just in looks but in mannerisms and thought. You’d think they’d never been apart. They’re inseparable now, and I joke that if I’d known how much time they’d be spending with each other I never would have helped facilitate their reunion. I guess they’re just making up for lost time.
Tennys got married just three months after I left, to a young medical resident in Birmingham. She finally got her doctor. I’m sure she has pretty babies.
It’s been fifteen Christmases since I met Macy, and I love her more now than I ever knew was possible. That’s not to say we don’t have our problems. Everyone brings baggage into a relationship and the two of us have more than our share. But that’s just life. I once read that love is like a rose: we fixate on the blossom, but it’s the thorny stem that keeps it alive and aloft. I think marriage is like that. Like my father said, the things of greatest value are the things we fight for. And in the end, if we do it right, we value the stem far more than the blossom.
Shortly after we were married, I used my school money to open my first guitar shop and school: Smart Guitars. Since then we’ve opened three more stores. We currently have more than two hundred students. I’ve never heard a song I wrote played on the radio, but it’s just as well. I only write them for Macy and she likes to keep them for herself.
Macy and I have three children of our own. A boy and two girls. Sam, Alice and Jo. I wonder what kind of parent I am. I do my best. Sometimes I suppose I even get it right. Kids don’t come with owner’s manuals. You have to figure each of them out, and by the time you do, they’re gone. I pray that I didn’t do them too much harm, and hope, for their sakes, that they will forgive me someday as well.
My father is getting old now and men get soft and sentimental with age. He sold the garage a few years back, and now spends his time puttering around the house. He discovered the Internet and keeps a Web site posted with pictures of his grandchildren. I see him at least once a year; with each visit he seems less able and less well. I don’t know how much longer he’ll be around, but I’m grateful that he still is. We invited him to live with us, but he declined. It’s not home.
I was afraid of how Macy would view Christmas after losing Joette on that day, but my fear was unjustified. The day only became more holy to her, as it was the day Joette was reunited with her little angel. Every Christmas Eve we light two candles, one for Joette and one for Angela. Macy places them close together so their flames become one.
There are stories, Christmas stories that are stored away like boxes of garlands and frosted glass ornaments, to be brought out and cherished each year. I’ve come to believe that my story is a Christmas story. For it has forever changed the way I see Christmas.
That season I learned perspective, for Joseph the carpenter and Stuart the auto mechanic both raised someone else’s son. We don’t know much about Joseph; the Bible tells us little. But I’ve gained a new respect for the man.
Just like our story, the original Christmas tales were stories of searching, not so much for the lost, as for the familiar. Mary and Joseph sought in Bethlehem—the home of their familial ancestry—a place to start their own family; the three kings from the East journeyed beneath that sentinel star to find the King of Kings; and the shepherds sought a child in a place most familiar to them: a manger.
And perhaps after all the songs and poems and stories of the season, Christmas is really no more than that—humanity’s search for the familiar. Every year we bring out the same songs, partake of the same foods and traditions, and share the things that make us feel that there’s someplace we belong. And in the end all any of us are looking for is home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Paul Evans is the author of ten New York Times bestselling novels and five children’s books. He has won the American Mothers’ Book Award, the Romantic Times 2005 Best Women’s Fiction award and two first-place Storytelling World Awards for his children’s books. His books have been translated into more than eighteen languages. More than 13 million copies of his books are in print worldwide. Evans is also the founder of the Christmas Box House International, an organization dedicated to helping abused and neglected children. More than 13,000 children have been housed in Christmas Box Houses. He is the recipient of the Washington Times Humanitarian of the Century Award and the Volunteers of America Empathy Award. He lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife and five children.
Visit Richard Paul Evan’s Web site and join his e-mail list for free reading group discussion guides, book and tour updates, and special offers:
www.richardpaulevans.com
Please send written correspondence to
Richard Paul Evans
P.O. Box 1416
Salt Lake City, Utah 84110
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Richard Paul Evans, Finding Noel
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