The Gingerbread Angel

A story of goodwill, cherished memories and what Christmas is all about. Please feel free to share it with your family, but please DO NOT PUBLISH.

I won a short story contest in 1993 with this story! Enjoy and MERRY CHRISTMAS!

[I tried to enlarge the font, but it wouldn't work. If it's too small to read, just press Ctrl +]

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THE GINGERBREAD ANGEL

1993 - © Deborah Pero

The old man picked up his cane from beside his chair. He grasped the handle and gently placed the cane's tip on the wooden floor. Before rising completely from the squeaky rocker, he paused briefly for balance and winced with pain as his knees quickly reminded him of his arthritis. Brutus was insistently scratching on the outside of the cottage door as the old man slipped his feet into his moccasins before going to let the small pug in.

"I must have fallen asleep," said the gentleman to himself as he glanced at the clock on the wall. "Poor 'ol Brutus has been out all this time. I'm comin' Brute!", he yelled from the hallway.

The old-timer propped his cane in the corner and gave his long grey beard a gentle massage before opening the wooden door. Standing before the outer screen door, he called for Brutus. The chubby pug wagged his curlicue tail vigorously when he saw his master through the screen. Frigid gusts of wind licked at the man's feet. He pulled his sweater tighter around himself and shivered. A fluffy layer of snowflakes was stuck to the canine's sandy coloured fur - from the tip of his tail to his little blacked pushed-in snout. The mutt gave himself a mighty shake to rid himself of the snowy burden. As the pup was about to climb the stoop to the warmth of the bungalow, a large mushy snowball whizzed through the crisp air and landed with a 'splat' just inches from the pooch's backside. The senior was just about unleash his pet when from the street he heard a chant.

"Adams has an ugly dog. It looks and sounds just like a hog. They both have faces black as shine. They must be sons of Frankenstein!"

Mr. Adams was used to the jeers and taunting now. Most of the neighbourhood children had ridiculed him at least once these past few weeks.

Unleashing Brutus, he led him into the protection of his home and closed the door to the coldness outside. It was December 18, the last day of school before Christmas holidays.

- - - - -

Jeremiah Adams thought he would never get over his wife's death. Just a few months earlier, Heather Adams was a lively, gentle woman full of zest and vitality.

Heather became a teacher when she and Jeremiah found out they could have no children of their own. For 30 years she taught kindergarten at the elementary school at the end of the street. She taught at that same school until the day she died.

Heather was walking home from classes one crisp autumn day when she was suddenly struck by a car, whose driver had lost control of the vehicle. Jeremiah was at his job as a carpenter when he received the call that his wife had been involved in a serious automobile accident. She never regained consciousness. Jeremiah's heart was broken. He would never smile again.

Things got even worse for the widower. The couple had not a great deal of money, so after funeral costs and endless debts, Jeremiah had barely enough to live on. He found it harder and harder every day to be able to work. His arthritis worsened.

Weeks passed slowly by as Jeremiah became more and more depressed. He neglected his household chores, inside and out. The leaves piled up beneath the trees that fall and remained there until the snow gently blanketed the ground. Not only was Jeremiah lax in the upkeep of his home, but his personal appearance suffered as well. Even though he rarely went outdoors, the children began to tease him as his beard grew longer, his clothes more ragged and his face more sullen.

Things went from bad to worse when the children that Heather loved so dearly, began to mock and tease him and throw rocks and snowballs at his home.

Jeremiah might have resorted to suicide that cold winder day in December had it not been for Marcy.

- - - -

It was love at first sight for Marcy on her very first day of Kindergarten that September. Ever since she was three years old, she had been looking forward to starting school. That first morning, she eagerly hopped into the bus, her green eyes full of excitement. Her naturally curly auburn tresses bobbed ever so gently as the bus took her to school. When she stepped into the large classroom full of toys and books and pictures and wonderful bright colours, she just knew she was going to love her teacher too. And sure enough, standing in the middle of the room, was a plump little woman with the warmest smile Marcy had ever seen.

"Hello Marcy. I'm Mrs. Adams. I sure hope you'll enjoy being in my class. Come with me and I'll show you around." At that moment, as Marcy clasped her tiny little hand in Heather's, they instantly became friends.

Each day was a wondrous joy for both teacher and student. Heather had never taught anyone quite so bubbly and sweet as Marcy. She was intelligent too. She sometimes forgot that the little girl was only five years old.

Mrs. Adams made learning fun for her students, but Marcy was like a sponge soaking up every little bit of knowledge with wonderment and amazement.

Their fondness for each other grew and blossomed every single day. The last thing Marcy saw when her school bus pulled away from the school on that fateful autumn day was the glowing smile on the best teacher in the whole world.

For a few days after the woman died, Marcy would remain in her room for several hours at a time. She would look at the books that Mrs. Adams liked to read. She would sing to herself the songs her class would sing everyday. And sometimes she would cry. When her mom and dad first told her that her teacher had died, Marcy did not cry right away. She began to sob only when she realized that Mrs. Adams would never again be her teacher.

Weeks passed. Marcy still liked school, and her new teacher was OK, but she didn't quite have the same enthusiasm as she once had.

On Christmas Eve, Marcy reluctantly pushed aside her sad thoughts to let in the magic of the day. She gleefully sang carols with her parents while helping decorate the tree. She secretly assisted her dad in wrapping a few gifts for her mom. Later, as Marcy's mother was removing a batch of gingerbread angel cookies from the oven, Marcy asked her, "Do you think Mrs. Adams is a Christmas angel up in Heaven?" Mother and daughter decided that a person so kind and wonderful as Mrs. Adams was, she just had to be an angel. In fact, they were positive that right at that very minute, she was gazing down at her loved ones from Heaven.

For just a brief instant, they though they could actually feel the feathery touch of the angel's great wings on their shoulders. "Mommy, Now that I know Mrs. Adams is a Christmas angel, she can be with me all of the time. I don't have to be sad anymore," the little girl exclaimed.

Later that afternoon, just before dusk, Marcy knocked loudly on Mr. Adams' door, as her mother waited for her near the street. As soon as the old man opened his door, the young girl began, "My nave is Marcy. I brought you a present."

The old man was puzzled. Who was this child? She continues, "Mrs. Adams was my teacher, and I miss her very much. I know I'll never see her again, but she'll always be with me!" With her mittened hands she thrust forward a delicate gingerbread angel. The angel's gown, painted with a frosty pink icing was adorned with gold and silver candy dragees. Its sugar crystal wings sparkled like snowflakes in the moonlight.

"This is for you," the tiny one said. "Now Mrs. Adams can always be with you too. Merry Christmas, sir."

The old man didn't know what to say. With a lump in his throat and a cold shiver in his veins, he reached for the wondrous gift. A soft sudden breath of air caressed the old man's face like a kiss as he held the Christmas Angel in the palm of his hand. An odd glow warmed his heart like a shining star within his breast. He turned his gaze to the skies and a moistness momentarily blurred his sight. A glorious beam of moonlight seemed to fill the world with light. Jeremiah heard a choir softly singing in the distance. He was sure he heard his wife's dear sweet voice echoing in the twilight. And he smiled.