Gideon's Gift
Authors: Karen Kingsbury
Copyright © 2002 by Karen Kingsbury
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First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56713-8
Contents
To my parents, Anne and Ted Kingsbury, on the celebration of their fortieth wedding anniversary. Thank you for defining that
elusive, “forever” kind of love the world needs so badly. You have been and continue to be an inspiration to each of us five
kids, and to our families.
And a special thanks to Dad for creating a rich and poignant memory for me when I was a little girl, something I have never
forgotten—something that inspired the writing of
Gideon’s Gift.
The memory goes something like this:
It is Thanksgiving and after the meal you heap leftovers on a sturdy paper plate. We pile into the van and drive around until
you find one of the local street people. With tears in your eyes, you step out of the car and hand over the food. “Happy Thanksgiving,”
you say, your voice choked.
When you climb back behind the wheel, you look at Mom and shrug, your chin quivering. And then you say it, the thing you say
still today:
“There, but for the grace of God, go I.”
T
he gift that changed them all had led to this: a Christmas wedding.
Nothing could have been more appropriate. Gideon was an angel, after all. Not the haloed, holy kind. But the type that once
in a while—when the chance presented itself—made you stare a little harder at her upper back. In case she was sprouting wings.
From his seat in the back of the church, Earl Badgett’s tired old eyes grew moist. A Christmas wedding was the only kind for
Gideon. Because if ever angels shone it was in December. This was the season when Gideon’s gift had mattered most.
Gideon’s gift.
A million memories called to him. Had it been thirteen years? Earl stared at the vision she made, surrounded by white satin
and lace. The greatest miracle was that Gideon had survived.
He brushed the back of his hand over his damp cheeks.
She actually survived.
But that wasn’t the only miracle.
Earl watched Gideon smile at her father—the glowing, unforgettable smile of a young woman on the brink of becoming. The two
of them linked arms and began a graceful walk down the aisle. It was a simple wedding, really. A church full of family and
friends, there to witness a most tender moment for a girl who deserved it more than any other. A girl whose love, whose very
presence, lit the room and caused people to feel grateful for one reason alone: They had been given the privilege of knowing
Gideon Mercer. God had lent her a little while longer to the mere mortals who made up her world. And in that they were all
blessed.
Gideon and her father were halfway down the aisle when it happened. Gideon hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and found
Earl. Her eyes had that haunting look that spoke straight to his soul, the same as they always had. They shared the briefest
smile, a smile that told him he wasn’t the only one. She, too, was remembering the miracle of that Christmas.
The corners of Earl’s mouth worked their way up his worn face.
You did it, angel. You got your dream.
His heart danced with joy. It was all he could do to stay seated, when everything in him wanted to stand and cheer.
Go get ’em, Gideon!
As they rarely did anymore, the memories came like long lost friends. Filling Earl’s mind, flooding his senses, linking hands
with his heart and leading him back. Back thirteen years to that wondrous time when heaven orchestrated an event no less miraculous
than Christmas itself. An event that changed both their lives.
An event that saved them.
Time flew… back to the winter when Earl first met Gideon Mercer.
T
he red gloves were all that mattered.
If living on the streets of Portland was a prison, the red gloves were the key. The key that—for a few brief hours—set him
free from the lingering stench and hopeless isolation, free from the relentless rain and the tarp-covered shanty.
The key that freed him to relive the life he’d once had. A life he could never have again.
Something about the red gloves took him back and made it all real—their voices, their touch, their warmth as they sat with
him around the dinner table each night. Their love. It was as though he’d never lost a bit of it.
As long as he wore the gloves.
Otherwise, the prison would have been unbearable. Because the truth was Earl had lost everything. His life, his hope, his
will to live. But when he slipped on the gloves… Ah, when he felt the finely knit wool surround his fingers, Earl still had
the one thing that mattered. He still had a family. If only for a few dark hours.
It was the first of November, and the gloves were put away, hidden in the lining of his damp parka. Earl never wore them until
after dinner, when he was tucked beneath his plastic roof, anxious to rid himself of another day. He would’ve loved to wear
them all the time, but he didn’t dare. They were nice gloves. Hand-made. The kind most street people would snatch from a corpse.
Dead or alive, Earl had no intention of losing them.
He shuffled along Martin Luther King Boulevard, staring at the faces that sped past him. He was invisible to them. Completely
invisible. He’d figured that much out his first year on the streets. Oh, once in a while they’d toss him a quarter or shout
at him: “Get a job, old man!” or “Go back to California!”
But mostly they just ignored him.
The people who passed him were still in the race, still making decisions and meeting deadlines, still believing it could never
happen to them. They carried themselves with a sense of self-reliance—a certainty that they were somehow better than him.
For most of them, Earl was little more than a nuisance. An unsightly blemish on the streets of their nice city.
Rain began to fall. Small, icy droplets found their way through his hooded parka and danced across his balding head. He didn’t
mind. He was used to the rain; it fit his mood. The longer he was on the street the more true that became.
He moved along.
“Big Earl!”
The slurred words carried over the traffic. Earl looked up. A black man was weaving along the opposite sidewalk, shouting
and waving a bottle of Crown Royal. He was headed for the same place as Earl: the mission.
Rain or shine, there were meals at the mission. All the street people knew it. Earl had seen the black man there a hundred
times before, but he couldn’t remember his name. Couldn’t remember most of their names. They didn’t matter to him. Nothing
did. Nothing except the red gloves.
The black man waved the bottle again and shot him a toothless grin. “God loves ya, Big Earl!”
Earl looked away. “Leave me alone,” he muttered, and pulled his parka tighter around his neck and face. The mission director
had given him the coat two years ago. It had served its purpose. The dark-green nylon was brown now, putrid-smelling and sticky
with dirt. Earl’s whiskers caught in the fibers and made his face itch.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved.
Across the street the black man gave up. He raised his bottle to a group of three animated women with fancy clothes and new
umbrellas. “Dinner bell’s a callin’ me home, ladies!”
The women stopped chatting and formed a tight, nervous cluster. They squeezed by the man, creating as much distance between
them as they could. After they’d passed, the black man raised his bottle again. “God loves ya!”
The mission was two blocks up on the right. Behind him, Earl could hear the black man singing, his words running together
like gutter water. Earl’s cool response hadn’t bothered him at all.
“Amazing grace, how sweet da sound…”
Earl narrowed his gaze. Street people wore thick skins. Layers, Earl called it—years of living so far deep inside yourself,
nothing could really touch you. Not the weather, not the nervous stares from passersby, not the callous comments from the
occasional motorist.
And certainly not anything another street person might say or do.
The mission doors were open. A hapless stream of people mingled among the regulars. Earl rolled his eyes and stared at his
boots. When temperatures dropped below fifty, indigents flooded the place. The regulars could barely get a table.
He squeezed his way past the milling newcomers, all of them trying to figure out where the line started and the quickest way
to get a hot plate. Up ahead were two empty-eyed drifters—young guys with long hair and years of drug use written on their
faces. Earl slid between them, grabbed a plate of food, and headed for his table, a forgotten two-seater off by itself in
the far corner of the room.
“Hey, Earl.”
He looked up and saw D. J. Grange, mission director for the past decade. The man was bundled in his red-plaid jacket, same
as always. His eyes were blue. Too blue. And piercing. As though he could see things Earl didn’t tell anyone. D. J. was always
talking God this and God that. It was amazing, really. After all these years, D. J. still didn’t get it.
Earl looked back down at his plate. “I don’t come for a sermon. You know that,” he mumbled into his instant mashed potatoes.
“We got people praying, Earl.” D. J. gripped the nearest chair and leaned closer. Earl could feel the man’s smile without
looking. “Any requests? Just between us?”
“Yes.” Earl set his fork down and shot D. J. the hardest look he could muster. “Leave me alone.”
“Fine.” D. J. grinned like a shopping-mall Santa Claus. “Let me know if you change your mind.” Still smiling, he moved on
to the next table.
There was one other chair at Earl’s table, but no one took it. There was an unspoken code among street people—sober ones,
anyway: “Eyes cast down, don’t come around.” Earl kept his eyes on his plate, and on this night the code worked. The others
would rather stand than share a meal with a man who needed his space.
Besides his appearance would easily detract even the most hardened street people. He didn’t look in the mirror often, but
when he did, he understood why they kept their distance. It wasn’t his scraggly, gray hair or the foul-smelling parka. It
was his eyes.
