~ ~ 1 ~ ~

Blessings.

Not so long ago, they seemed plentiful. And now . . .

If ever I took them for granted, Lord, I ask for forgiveness.

Many struggles are greater than mine; lives void of the simplest of comforts, souls graced with little or no respect, hearts aching for the tiniest measure of love. I can't imagine living life that way; each day without promise, each future without hope. I know I have no right to complain . . . yet I'm burdened by doubts.

Not so long ago, in one glorious, horrific moment, my life and my dreams transformed.

In the months that passed, I was guilty of questioning your wisdom—even denying it, and for that, I have remorse . . . But now, years later, I'm ashamed to admit there are times I still harbor anger and more.

Today, although in my mind, my blessings seem few, they're so very dear to my heart. But it's because of my most precious blessing that I allow the anger and doubts to enter my mind.

He's the reason for my every breath, the promise that wills me to put one front in front of the other. Am I doing right by him?

He's my son, my Adam . . .

Shadows swept in hurried strokes along the shops' porches. As Ben trudged along Hanson's storefront walkways, he gathered his collar about his neck and smoothed his hair. The burgeoning wind held no more consideration for Ben's hair than it did the sky's ample clouds.

His left shoulder ached—the weekly hay supply had arrived at the livery and Ben was given the task of stacking the bales in the livery's loft. As he made his way from the stables to the mercantile, Ben's thoughts traveled to the coins in his pocket. Soon, dusk would blanket the small town, ushering Christmas Eve into the homes of those celebrating, and he had yet to select a present—albeit a meager one—for his young son.

Christmas.

Ben continued on his way, hugging his coat closer to his chest.

Maybe . . . a slate and a single length of chalk.

It was all Ben could afford, and although Adam would soon need a warmer coat, the slate and chalk would have to be enough. Adam was four-years-old, having spent his entire life in their small covered wagon and on occasion, in tiny rented rooms under the care of virtual strangers. Earning for their passage west was inevitable, and stopping in villages and towns was a necessity. Although it pained him to trust Adam's care to kindly widows and shopkeepers' wives, Ben knew it was his only choice. His dream lived on, even in the face of hardship.

The slate and chalk would bring a smile to his young son's face and a sparkle to his dark eyes. Adam, with Ben's help and the attention of Reverend Miller's wife, Nancy, excelled at writing his letters, and the Christmas gifts would encourage Adam's desire for constant learning.

Before entering the mercantile, Ben brushed strands of hay and patches of dust from his trousers. The small bell at the shop door's frame tinkled as he entered, and the elderly shopkeeper, Mr. Arnold Canton, looked up from his ledger.

"Evenin' Ben. I expect you're here for your package."

"Yes, indeed I am, Mr. Canton."

Ben's humble nod touched the shopkeeper's heart.

"And I thank you, again, for agreeing to stay open until I could get here."

Canton smiled. "My pleasure." He reached beneath the counter and felt for the sacks. "You aren't the only one in town bein' paid on this Holy day.

"Why," he continued as he brought the first sack into sight and set it on the counter, "I've done quite a bit of business today."

Ben waited, expecting Canton to retrieve the small package he was anticipating. When the shopkeeper simply smiled and reached for a second large sack, Ben's face reddened.

"There must be a mistake," Ben said, reaching into his pocket for his coins—a full week's pay minus the meager sum he paid the Reverend's wife for Adam's care. "I'm here for the slate and chalk."

Canton grinned. "Oh, they're both in there, Mr. Cartwright." He nodded as he took the coins from Ben. "And a loaf of bread, a side of cured bacon, a bunch of fresh-picked carrots, a few potatoes, a new coat that should fit Adam for the next two years, and on top, a boxed chocolate cake."

Ben's mouth hung open.

"Now," Canton continued as he walked around to the front of the counter, "you take care not to jostle the sack on the way to your wagon." He lifted the sack and offered it to Ben. "Wouldn't want little Adam to have to scrape the icing from the inside of the box, now would we?"

Canton's grin grew wider.

"But . . . I don't under . . . I can't pay . . . I-"

"No need to pay for more than the slate and chalk, Ben. The food is a gift. You have friends here in Hanson, and what's Christmas if not a time for friends to share and show their fondness for those who've shown kindness in turn?"

"But-"

"The bread is from me. You've helped with unloading a few times and expected nothing more than a thanks in return. The bacon's from your boss—a bonus, he called it, for your good work ethics. The carrots and potatoes are from the Reverend. He so enjoys spending time with little Adam, and he knows the boy likes them both. The coat was made by the Reverend's wife. She loves to sew, and she made it from a coat that was donated to the church last season. And the cake, well, that's from my wife. We haven't been blessed with children as of yet, and she says no child should go without something especially sweet on Christmas."

Ben couldn't find words. His eyes glistened with emotion. "Thank you, Arnold. I'll be sure to thanks the others at church tomorrow morning. I . . . I . . ."

"Go, Ben. Go to your boy."

Ben smiled. "Yes, I'll fetch Adam from the Millers' and-"

"He's not there, Ben."

"What?" Where-"

"Nancy and Adam stopped by a few hours ago. She took him to your wagon to help . . . That's all I can say. They're at the wagon."

Confused, Ben nodded and left for home—the covered wagon he and Adam had been traveling in for the past four years.

Exhilaration was something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. Practically giddy with wonder, he hurried down Hanson's main road, turning sharply to the left as the road became a trail.

Up ahead, his wagon sat in a small clearing and, eager to see his son, Ben's stride lengthened and his steps quickened. When his camp came into view, his gait slowed abruptly.

"What? The fire's lit and . . . Is that Nancy's ham and potato soup I smell?"

He moved closer, clinging to the sacks against his chest. His lungs filled with the savory aroma.

"Well, I'll be."

"Surprise!" Adam shouted as he poked his head through the bonnet flap. "Are you surprised, Pa? Are you?"

Ben's eyes twinkled, and he winked at Nancy as she moved into view.

"Son, I am quite surprised."

While Adam beamed, Ben placed the sacks beneath the wagon.

"Pa," Adam said, "come inside. You've got to come inside."

Ben climbed into the wagon. Hanging from a makeshift wire hanger was a lush evergreen branch adorned with three bunches of red berries, each tied together with red yarn.

"My goodness," Ben said, "what a beautiful-"

"It's not a Christmas tree, Pa, it's a Christmas branch. Just the right size for a wagon. It looks real nice, doesn't it, Pa?"

"It does, Adam. It looks beautiful."

Nancy moved to the bonnet opening. "The soup is ready whenever you're hungry. Adam helped with the campfire." She winked at Adam. "He's quite a handy young man, especially when he's set on doing something for his father."

Ben's heart welled with pride.

"We'll see you and Adam tomorrow in church, won't we?" she asked as she climbed down from the wagon.

"Yes," Ben replied. "We wouldn't miss attending Christmas Day service with our wonderful friends."