A Carol for Christmas (10 page)

Carol sank onto the couch, blinded by tears.

“God,” she whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I’m so unhappy. I can’t believe Johnny’s acting this way. How could he not want me to go to Nashville? Why can’t he see that You gave me the ability to sing and that I should do it? It’s the desire of my heart, and You’re delivering it into my hands. How could Johnny be so selfish?”

And what about your own selfishness?

“I’m not being selfish. He’ll inherit the stores eventu- ally. His life won’t change a bit.”

The tears slipped from her eyes and streaked her cheeks.

Of course going to Nashville would change his life. It would change both of their lives. For better or worse, it would change them.

“It couldn’t get much worse than it is now.”

Sniffing, she reached for a tissue and wiped her cheeks, then blew her nose.

“It’s unfair,” she muttered.
I love him
,
but I’m so angry

with him. He’s being unreasonable. I’m in the right here.

“Would you rather be right or right with God?” her mother would have asked.

Carol leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes, wishing she could talk to her mom about this. What would her father tell her to do? What would her mother say if Carol told her everything?

Oh, how she missed their counsel.

At home in Ohio, the family would soon be sitting down to a supper of ham and turkey, mashed potatoes, yams, and all the other fixings. Her brothers would jostle each other and brag about which one could pile the most food on his plate. The house would be filled with the scent of the new pine wreath her dad had hung over the fire- place, as he did every Christmas Eve. Her mother’s favorite Christmas albums would be playing on the stereo — Bing Crosby, Mel Tormé, Barbra Streisand, Frank Sinatra.

Despite her sorrowful mood, Carol smiled as she imag- ined her brothers asking — as usual — if they could open one gift before the family bundled up, got into the car, and drove to church for the Christmas Eve service. And she could hear her mother giving the answer she always gave: “No. You’ll have to wait.”

Life was simpler back home on the farm. Things rarely changed there.

Opening her eyes, Carol straightened and picked up the agent’s card, staring at the black print on its face as she’d done so many times in the five days since the benefit.

What should I do? Oh
,
God
,
what should I do?

The phone rang, and she looked toward the kitchen, tempted to ignore the jangling summons. It was probably Jonathan, calling to say he would be late getting home. And what would it matter? The Burkes didn’t do anything on Christmas Eve except attend the church’s candlelight ser- vice, and that wasn’t until eleven thirty. They waited until Christmas Day for their dinner and gift giving.

What would she and Jonathan do to fill up the empty hours tonight?

With a sigh, she rose, shoved the business card into her pocket, and went to the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Happy Christmas Eve, darling.” “Mom?”

“We couldn’t wait until morning to call you. Are you surprised?”

“Of course.”

She pictured her mother, wearing her red-and-green Christmas apron, a bit of flour on her cheek.

“Hey, sis!” her brothers shouted in the background. “Remember. No presents until after church.”

Carol laughed as tears pooled in her eyes. “Tell those goofballs I miss them. I miss all of you.”

“We miss you too.”

“Have you got lots of snow?”

“Indeed we do. The youth group from church took a sleigh ride last weekend. You remember how much fun those are.”

“Fun and cold.”

“True enough. Before I forget, Ruth called last Sunday and told us how wonderful you were at the concert. I wish we could have heard you.”

“Me too.” She rested her forehead against the wall next to the phone.

“Your father wants to talk to you now. I love you, darling.

Merry Christmas to you and Jonathan and his parents.” “I love you too. Bye, Mom.”

A shuffling sound came across the wire as the phone exchanged hands.

“Merry Christmas, Carol.” “Same to you, Dad.”

“Your mom’s got the place all decorated and a great supper about to go on the table, but it doesn’t feel right without you. Wish you and Jonathan could’ve come to see us this year.”

“Me too.”

“Did you get the gifts we sent?”

“Yes. The packages are all under the tree.”

“Good. Good. Never can tell about the mail service this time of year.”

“Did you get ours?”

“Sure did. Wasn’t necessary, of course. I know what it’s like to be young and broke.” He laughed. “Come to think of it, I know what it’s like to be older and broke.”

“But somehow you always managed, Dad.”

“True enough. With God’s help, we always have. Jona- than home yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you tell him Merry Christmas from all of us.” “I will, Dad.” She knew the call was drawing to a close.

Long distance was expensive. She should tell him about the agent and Nashville before it was too late. She should ask his advice, quick, while she had the chance.

“We’ll say a prayer for you and Jonathan at the church service tonight.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. “We’ll do the same for all of you.”

“We love you, hon.” “Love you too, Dad.”

“Boys, say good-bye to your sister.”

More shuffling of the phone, followed by a shout. “Bye, sis. Merry Christmas.”

“Bye,” she whispered. “Merry Christmas.”

After she heard the disconnect on the other end, she hung up the telephone, sniffing noisily as she reached for another Kleenex.

Q

It hurt Jonathan to see Carol cry. She missed her family a lot, but he knew homesickness wasn’t the real reason for her tears. He was the cause. Him and that agent in Nash- ville and the possibility of a future different from the one he’d planned.

An hour ago, he’d realized what he had to do. If Car- ol’s happiness depended upon singing, then that’s what he wanted her to do. They might starve to death while she tried to make it in show business, but they would starve together.

Husbands
,
love your wives
, the apostle Paul had written

to the Ephesians,
just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.

Jonathan loved Carol that much. He needed her to know it.

“Was that your folks on the phone?” he asked.

She turned, eyes wide with surprise. “I . . . I didn’t expect you home yet.”

He stepped toward her. “The store will have to close without me tonight.”

She gave him an uncertain smile.

“I love you, Carol.” He took another step forward. She drew a shaky breath. “I love you too, Johnny.”

His heart caught. Did she mean those words after the silence, disappointment, and hurt? More, did she believe in his love for her?

He took hold of one of her hands and drew her into the living room. “I don’t think you should wait for your present until morning. I want you to have it now.”

“You do? But — ” “Close your eyes.” “But I — ”

“Go on. Close your eyes.” She obeyed his request.

“Keep them shut tight.” He led her around to the front of the sofa, then had her sit, guiding her with his hands on her upper arms. He glanced over his shoulder at the new guitar resting next to the tree, a red bow tied around its waist. With a quick prayer that she would like it as much as he wanted her to, he said, “Okay, open them.”

If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the expression that crossed her face when she saw that guitar.

“Johnny.” She rose and stepped toward the instru- ment, lifting it from its rest before turning to look at him. “Johnny, it’s a Martin.”

“The guy said it’s one of the best. But we can exchange it if you don’t like it.”

“Of course I like it.” She held it close to her body. “I would be crazy not to. But we can’t afford it. You’ve said so yourself.”

He shrugged. “I sold a few things. Borrowed a little more. And we’ll eat beans if we have to. You need the best if you’re going to Nashville.”

Her eyes widened. “Nashville?”

“Carol, Travis Thompson and Ken Hill are right. You’re amazing. I can’t hold you back from something you want this much. Not ever.” He moved toward her. “You’re more important to me than anything else, and I’ll go to Nash- ville or Timbuktu and find a way to buy you a hundred Martins if that’s what’ll make you happy.”

“Oh, Johnny.” A tiny sob caught in her throat. “I don’t . . .

I don’t know what to say.”

“As long as you love me, Carol, you don’t need to say anything more.”

She stepped into his open arms. “I do love you, Johnny.

I do.”

Q

In the wee hours of Christmas morning, Carol sat in the living room of their apartment, the new guitar rest- ing on her thigh, the agent’s business card once again in her hand. The lights on the Christmas tree provided the only illumination in the room, but it was enough for her purpose.

A tune played in her mind, one she’d toyed with for the past two weeks. She’d tried to find lyrics to fit the simple melody. Tried and failed.

Take delight in the Lord
, the psalmist wrote,
and he will

give you the desires of your heart.

Wasn’t the desire of her heart to sing? Hadn’t it always been?

She looked at Ken Hill’s card again, the black print unreadable in the red and green lights of the tree.

Carol loved music. She loved singing. She loved writing songs. From the time she was a little girl, it had been her dream to perform professionally. Now it could all come true. Everything she’d ever hoped for.

Johnny. . .

Her husband was willing to give up everything for her. He loved her enough to lay down his whole life, to give up the approval of his father, perhaps his future in the family

business, maybe the eventual completion of his college edu- cation. And all for her.

She whispered, “You called me to sing, Lord. And now Johnny agrees. Why am I still so unsettled?”

The answer came in an instant, simple and yet pro- found.
I called you to sing
,
beloved
,
but are you willing to sing only for Me?

The words of the psalmist resounded in her heart:
Take delight in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him and he will do this.

She understood then, as she hadn’t before, what the psalmist was saying. God hadn’t promised to give Carol what she wanted because she delighted in Him. God had promised that when she delighted in Him, the desires of her heart would change and be what He wanted for her.

“What’s Your desire for my heart, Lord?”

As if in answer to her prayer, that melody played in her mind, but this time she heard the lyrics too. She tossed the business card onto the coffee table, closed her eyes, and began to pluck the guitar strings.

“I want to sing you a carol for Christmas . . . One that comes straight from my heart . . .”

Yes, she was willing to sing only for the Lord, if that was His plan, and yes, she knew His desire for her now. It was Jonathan. That’s why God had brought them together. She’d known it . . . and then she’d forgotten it.

“I want to sing you a carol for Christmas . . . But I don’t know where to start . . .”

I’m sorry
,
Lord. I’m sorry for not listening to You
,
for striv- ing against You
,
for wanting my own willful way.

“Carol?”

She looked toward the bedroom doorway where Jona- than stood, clad in pajamas, his hair mussed from sleep. He looked wonderful. Perfect. Her very heart’s desire.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” He rubbed his eyes. “If you’re waiting for Santa, you should know he already brought your present.” He motioned toward the guitar.

“I know.” She smiled. “Now he’s brought one for you.” He raised an eyebrow in question.

Tomorrow she would tell Jonathan everything God revealed to her this night. Tomorrow she would tell him she wasn’t going to Nashville. Tomorrow she would tell him she wouldn’t go until God told them both it was His will,
if
He ever said it was His will. But right now, she had other things to tell Jonathan.

She patted the sofa. “Come sit with me.”

With a smile of curiosity curving his mouth, he joined her.

She began to sing again, louder this time, repeating the first stanza of the love song the Lord had given her. Then she stopped and met his gaze. “Johnny Burke, you’re my heart’s desire. I know I haven’t shown it the way I should lately, but it’s true.”

Before he could reply, she began to sing again.

“I want to sing you a carol for Christmas . . . A melody full of joy from above . . . I want to sing you a carol for Christmas . . . Johnny, it’s always you I will love.”

He didn’t move or speak for several moments after she fell silent. Then he grinned, a teasing glint in his eyes. “It probably won’t make the Top Twenty, but I like it.”

She laughed as she set the guitar aside. “You’d better.” Then she snuggled into her husband’s waiting embrace, placing her head on his shoulder. “It may be the only pres- ent you get this year.”

He kissed her hair. “Sweetheart, you’re the only present that matters to me. For Christmas or any other time of the year.” He pulled her closer. “I’m happy as long as you’ll be
my
Carol for Christmas.”