Free Engaging Father Christmas by Robin Jones Gunn Page B

to the eternal life that was hidden in Christ? What glorious surprises awaited us in the real land of which this earth was only a snapshot?
    Let heaven and nature sing. . . .
    Mark’s song ended on a note that he sustained much longer than I would have thought possible. Then all was silent except for the low rumble of the car’s engine.
    Without any of us trying to define what had just taken place, Ian edged the car back on the road and continued our short journey to the hospital.
    I watched the moon as we drove down the lane and thought of how the upturned golden curve of light resembled a smile. I liked the imagery that Father God was pleased with our spontaneous worship and was smiling down on us.
    Keep smiling, Father God. Keep smiling on us, I pray.
    Mark scooted down into the narrow space behind the bucket seats and bundled up in a plaid wool blanket Ian earlier had pulled from the trunk. My guess was that Ian made the blanket available just in case Mark came down from his high and needed more than his fame to warm him.
    The blanket was the MacGregor tartan, of course. I remembered the blanket fondly from a picnic Ian and I had last summer. We took off with plans to spend the day on the coast of southern England. I wanted to picnic beneath the fabulous White Cliffs of Dover. However, we only made it as far as Windsor before the car began to sputter. Ian found a repair service, and we spent the day strolling around the castle grounds, waiting for the fuel line to be replaced.
    Ellie had packed us a picnic lunch, which we carried along with the MacGregor plaid blanket to a grassy knoll on the public grounds of Windsor Castle. There, within view of the British guards with their tall fur hats strapped under their chins, I learned about the MacGregor crest and the clan motto, “Royal is my race.”
    As Ian turned the steering wheel and headed for the hospital on this cold winter night, it did indeed seem as if he was part of a “royal race.” His white hair and beard shone in the moonlight. All the gold and silver trimming on his robe stood out with regal shimmers. His jaw was set. His face directed straight ahead. The Scottish warrior was on his way to see his father.
    All was calm. All was bright.
    Oh, how I wanted to believe this was how life was going to be. Once I had a few significant pieces of the plans for my future lined up, I could nestle into this place of beauty and hope. Carlton Heath was not yet fully my home, but I wanted it to be — soon.

Chapter Thirteen
    T he hospital staff at the front desk had big smiles and hellos for us when we entered and they saw Ian in full costume.
    “What did you bring us, Father Christmas?” the admitting nurse asked.
    “Good cheer and merry greetings,” he said in a robust voice. Some of the faithful employees seemed to be looking behind Ian for his sack of gifts. A childlike shadow of disappointment crossed their faces when they didn’t see a bag slung over his shoulder filled with goodies.
    “We do have biscuits left over from the play tonight,” Mark said. “My mum is bringing them.”
    A few minutes after Mark announced the biscuits, Ellie, Edward, and Julia entered the hospital carrying the promised goodies.
    The lobby suddenly became cheerier. Night staff appeared from behind swinging doors and file cabinets.
    “We’re going to visit my father,” Ian said to the head nurse. “You won’t mind if we’re above the limit for visitors, will you?”
    Ellie held out the bag of cookies as potential bribe material.
    “We’ll look the other way this time.” She reached for one of the shortbread stars. “Katharine is already in there.”
    Ian led the way down the hall of the quiet hospital. Mark looked up at the sign that read Children’s Ward over the doorway of the first wing we passed. As we kept walking, Mark asked Ian, “Are children staying in there, in the children’s ward, tonight?”
    “I would imagine so.”
    “Will they be going home for