If one tradition defined a community, Christmas Eve caroling defined Cherry Log, the mountain village where I was born and raised. And other than those years while serving in uniform for the country I loved, I had never missed one of the festive occasions. Even now as an older man with a family of my own, this special night still triggered excitement. The lone exception was the heartbreaking Christmas Eve of '98.
That evening started well, but while shopping for last-minute gifts, I encountered Miss Cora Mae Brewster. As always we joked for a moment about the starry-eyed kid who had fallen in love with her the moment he walked into her first-grade classroom. That kid, of course, was me.
* * *
"It's just a crush," Mom had said. "You'll outgrow it."
Mom's words proved correct, but until my infatuation ran its course, I wanted nothing more than to please Miss Brewster. I stayed after school aligning desks, emptying trashcans, and cleaning the blackboard because these chores always earned a warm smile, a gentle hug, and a "Thank you, Bobby."
Many afternoons I offered to walk Miss Brewster home, but her answer was always the same: "My angel will escort me home, Bobby, but thank you for your kind offer."
Several times I followed her, darting from bush to bush to stay hidden, but I never saw her angel.
* * *
Now on this cold Christmas Eve it was adult concern not youthful infatuation that again prompted me to ask to escort her home. She smiled and hugged me, but her answer was the same as it had always been.
At dusk I joined the carolers from Mt. Pleasant Church, and after bracing with hot chocolate from Miss Emily Ann's Café, we crisscrossed town with our songs. Snow began falling, which renewed my concern for Miss Brewster. Don't worry, I told myself. She reached home hours ago.
The bell in the tower above city hall pealed the late hour as we turned onto Magnolia Street and paused at Miss Brewster's walk. In the fresh snow I saw footprints leading from her door. This warmed me, knowing she had not been alone on this special night.
Through her window, in the soft glow of the fireplace, I saw Miss Brewster sitting in her favorite chair. We ambled closer, singing "Silent Night," but she did not rise to greet us. When our knock went unanswered, I pushed through the door and rushed to her side.
Her eyes were closed, as if in earthly sleep, and her face was creased with the same loving smile that had captured me as a child. Despite this appearance of serenity my heart raced as I gazed at the worn Bible lying open on her lap. She’d been reading in the second chapter of the Gospel of Luke. Knowing what I’d find didn’t soften the blow when my eyes reached verse 9: “An angel of the Lord appeared….”
* * *
To this day many townsfolk still embraced an earthly explanation for Miss Brewster's visitor that night. I believed otherwise. In my heart I knew the transition from this earthly home to her Heavenly Home was just as she foretold it a half-century before: "My angel will escort me home, Bobby."
