Free Engaging Father Christmas by Robin Jones Gunn Page A

proud of you.”
    “Thank you, Aunt Miranda.” He seemed to emphasize the “Aunt” just enough for me to catch his meaning.
    I smiled, and he smiled back. The lump in my throat didn’t go down easily.
    “Mark and I will bring the car round to the front,” Ian said.
    “Okay. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes.” I returned to pick up my coat from among the few left hanging in the coatroom and then stepped out into the chilly night air.
    A jolly sight greeted me. Father Christmas was behind the wheel of his convertible sports car with the top down. Mark was perched on the top like a celebrity in a parade, ready to wave to loyal fans as he passed by at two miles per hour. Both men were once again receiving the accolades due after such memorable debuts.
    I slipped in on the passenger’s side only after excusing my way through the final circle of adoring fans. This gathering of merry-eyed girls in the preteen bracket gazed at Mark with unalterable admiration. His life in this small village would never be the same.
    “Will you sign my program?” one of the girls asked.
    I pulled a pen from my purse and watched Mark enjoy his moment in the moonlight.
    Once the giggling flock scattered, Ian started the engine. As soon as it began to rumble, Ian waved his hand so that the wide sleeve of his brocaded robe flapped like a great bird.
    “Good night, Father Christmas!” one of the preteens called out, igniting another round of giggles from her chums.
    “Happy Christmas to you all,” he called, as we drove out of sight.
    The cool, rushing breeze chilled me instantly even though Ian had the car’s heater going. Mark was full of glee over his newly acquired fame and found happiness in scrunching into the narrow storage space behind the seats, lifting both hands in the air, and shouting, “Whoo-hoo!” for the first two blocks.
    Ian and I exchanged smiles. Watching Mark was too fun to tell him to stop. Every child should feel that happy, that free.
    Ian leaned over. “I’ll take a dozen. Just like him.”
    With a cunning grin I replied, “I think you’ll need a bigger car.”
    Ian laughed his deep-hearted laugh, and our merry mobile headed over a ridge. We turned on the cutoff road that led toward the old church.
    From behind a stately rise of the unaltered medieval forest, we saw it, all at the same moment. The golden moon. That eternal orb, broken in half, teetering in the velvet night like a crown cast at the foot of a throne.
    Ian stopped the car. The engine purred. The three of us stared without speaking.
    Mark sat up straight in his seat of honor and quietly sang in Latin. I have never heard anything so piercingly beautiful.
    His boys’ choir voice wasn’t cooperative on the high notes, but it didn’t matter. Mark wasn’t performing now. It was just us — Ian, me, Father God, and all the hosts of heaven bending down to listen to a song that rose from a true heart.
    Ian took my hand, and a line from a Christmas carol rode over the top of Mark’s canticle, blending perfectly.
Let heaven and nature sing. . . .
    At that moment, I felt as if I were experiencing a snapshot of heaven. The glorious beauty and sense of perfection and wonder felt like a glimpse of that which is true and lasting. It was as if I were viewing a wallet-sized photo of eternity.
    For so many years I had gazed at the snapshot of my father. The photo, in all its curious wonder, was still only a flat, frozen image of a real person I had never met. The photo carried with it a clue about a place called “Carlton Heath.”
    Now here I was, experiencing the immenseness of Carlton Heath in all of its beauty. It was far beyond the sketchy speculations that had risen in my imagination from the one simple photo.
    As Mark’s voice rose into the night air, I wondered, was everything around us more or less a fixed snapshot that alluded to a greater beauty? A deeper mystery? A hint of what was to come? How many unknown layers were there to life —