Free Shepherds Abiding by Jan Karon Page A

foxglove . . .
     . . . and she would call Scott and ask if he would come for spaghetti and meatballs this evening—it was the only dish she knew how to make for company. . . .
    Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of cooking for Scott and setting the table for the two of them. With everything else before her, it was almost too much even to consider, but she remembered how shewould feel in his company—she would feel happy and unafraid.
    She stopped for a moment, leaning against the newel-post at the foot of the stairs; Margaret Ann’s rhythmic purr resonated upon her heart. Though she and Helen hadn’t discussed it, they both knew that Margaret Ann would find a new home with Hope.
    Whatever happens, she thought, I must continue to believe in a glad outcome—but I must also prepare for whatever else may lie ahead.
    She suddenly felt purposeful, and relieved, as if a great weight had flown from her shoulders.

    “I’m makin’ a list and checkin’ it twice,” said Fred.
    Fred had volunteered to give him a hand today, an offer that might not be valid any other Sunday this month.
    “You’ve got your five sheep, you’ve got your donkey, and you’ve got your first shepherd knocked out,” said Fred. “That’s seven down an’ a dozen or so to go.”
    All sanding and priming was done, and the seven finished pieces stood lined up on a shelf above the sink.
    “Hallelujah!” said Father Tim, slipping into a green bib apron. “Ol’ time, it is a-flyin’!” He hadn’t made the deadline to put the shepherds and all the sheep on the sideboard today. Now the plan was to set out the complete scene on Christmas Eve.
    Freshly ground coffee dripped into the pot; two slices of pumpkin pie, as frozen as bricks since Thanksgiving dinner at the yellow house, sat thawing on the drain board of the sink.
    “You got four ewes an’ a ram to go. You want me to keep doin’ sheep?”
    “Keep doing sheep!” said Father Tim. “And God bless you for it!” He rolled up his sleeves and sat down at his worktable across from Fred. “For several years, it seemed that every Christmas season, the Lord would send me a Christmas angel, somebody who came along at just the right time, to give me a hand or help me over a hurdle. I believe you’re my Christmas angel this year, and I thank you.”
    Fred ducked his head, shy. “An’ I thank you, Father, for lettin’ me sit in on this. My wife’s glad to get me out of th’ house. She’s got two quilts to get done.”
    “Would you call me Tim?”
    “Nossir, I can’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “I never call a preacher by a first name.”
    “Does this mean I have to call you Mr. Addison?”
    Fred laughed. “Nossir, that’s what the IRS called me last spring, an’ I’ve had a dislike for th’ sound of it ever since.”
    “What would I do if I had to stipple this whole flock?” Father Tim threw up his hands. “I’d be here ’til lambing time!”
    “I like stipplin,’ but I wouldn’t want to fool with wings or robes— and ’specially wouldn’t want to fool with skin; nossir, you’re th’ Skin Man. Look at that shepherd on th’ shelf! Real as life!”
    And, by heaven, it was. Father Tim was amazed that the shepherd had started out with a horrific case of jaundice and now looked merely well tanned, which would certainly be expected in his line of work.
    The damaged hand, however, had been another matter. He and Fred and Andrew had all had a go at it, and the effort-by-committee showed. But there was no looking back. The hand was done, they were not Michelangelos around here.
    Father Tim took the second shepherd from the shelf and examined it, turning it in his hands. “I think I’ll start with the robe—any ideas?”
    Fred scratched his head. “Seems like shepherds would’ve stayed pretty ragged-lookin.’ I reckon they slept under bushes or rocks or like that.”
    “Actually, shepherds around Bethlehem lived in caves. Caves made safe places for their