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Shepherds Abiding

Shepherds Abiding

A Mitford Christmas Novel

Mitford

Jan Karon - Author

Hardcover | $24.95 | add to cart | view cart
ISBN 9780670031207 | 304 pages | 20 Oct 2003 | Viking Adult | 6.37 x 9.33in | 18 - AND UP
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Awards
  • Audie Award: Finalist
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"This Mitford story presented itself to me, quite unexpectedly, and asked to be told. I hope readers will find it a perfect refuge from the holiday frenzy." —Jan Karon

Since he was a boy growing up in Mississippi, Father Tim has lived what he calls "the life of the mind." Except for cooking and gardening and washing his dog, he never learned to savor the work of his hands. And then he finds a derelict nativity scene-twenty figures, including a flock of sheep, that have suffered the indignities of time and neglect.

Could he give the small company new life? Restore the camel's ear, repaint every piece, replace a missing nose on a wise man? "You can't teach an old dog new tricks!" he reminds himself. It's when he imagines the excitement in Cynthia's eyes that he steps up to the plate-and begins a small journey of faith that touches everyone around him.

The eighth novel in the bestselling Mitford Years series is a meditation on the best of all presents-the gift of one's heart. Lovingly written and beautifully illustrated, it seeks to restore the true Christmas spirit and give everyone a seat at Mitford's holiday table.

"This Mitford story presented itself to me, quite unexpectedly, and asked to be told. I hope readers will find it a perfect refuge from the holiday frenzy." -Jan Karon

One

The rain began punctually at five oíclock, though few were awake to hear it. It was a gentle rain, rather like a summer shower that had escaped the grip of time or season and wandered into Mitford several months late.

By six oíclock, when much of the population of 1,074 was leaving for work in Wesley or Holding or across the Tennessee line, the drops had grown large and heavy, as if weighted with mercury, and those running to their cars or trucks without umbrellas could feel the distinct smack of each drop.

Dashing to a truck outfitted with painterís ladders, someone on Lilac Road shouted ìYeehaw!,î an act that precipitated a spree of barking among the neighborhood dogs.

Here and there, as seemingly random as the appearance of stars at twilight, lamps came on in houses throughout the village, and radio and television voices prophesied that the front passing over the East Coast would be firmly lodged there for two days.

More than a few were fortunate to lie in bed and listen to the rain drumming on the roof, relieved to have no reason to get up until they were plenty good and ready.

Others thanked God for the time that remained to lie in a warm, safe place unmolested by worldly cares, while some began at once to fret about what the day might bring.

Father Timothy Kavanagh, one of the earliest risers in Mitford, did not rise so early this morning. Instead, he lay in his bed in the yellow house on Wisteria Lane and listened to the aria of his wifeís whiffling snore, mingled with the sound of rain churning through the gutters.

Had he exchanged wedding vows before the age of sixty-two, he might have taken the marriage bed for granted after these seven years. Instead, he seldom awakened next to the warm sentience of his wife without being mildly astonished by her presence, and boundlessly grateful. Cynthia was his best friend and boon companion, dropped from the very heavens into his life, which, forthwith, she had changed utterly.

He would get up soon enough and go about his day, first hying with his good dog, Barnabas, into the pouring rain, and then, while the coffee brewed, reading the Morning Office, as heíd done for more than four decades as both a working and a now-retired priest.

Feeling a light chill in the room, he scooted over to his sleeping wife and put his arm around her and held her close, comforted, as ever, by the faint and familiar scent of wisteria.

a
Lew Boyd, who liked to rise with the sun every morning, and who always wore his watch to bed, gazed at the luminous face of his Timex and saw that it was the first day of October.

October! He had no idea at all where the time had gone. Yesterday was July, today was October. As a matter of fact, where had his life gone?

He stared at the bedroom ceiling and pondered a question that heíd never been fond of messing with, though now seemed a good time to do it and get it over with.

One day, heíd been a green kid without a care in the world. Then, before you could say Jack Robinson, heíd looked up and found he was an old codger with a new and secret wife living way off in Tennessee with her mama, and him lying here in this cold, lonesome bed just as heíd been doing all those years as a widower.

He tried to recall what, exactly, had happened between his youth and old age, but without a cup of coffee at the very least, he was drawing a blank.

Though heíd worked hard and saved his money and honored his dead wifeís memory by looking at her picture on Sunday and paying to have her grave weed-eated, he didnít know whether heíd made a go of it with the Good Lord or not.

For the few times heíd cheated somebody down at his Exxon station, heíd asked forgiveness, even though heíd cheated them only a few bucks. Heíd also asked forgiveness for the times heíd bitten Juanitaís head off without good reason, and for a few other things he didnít want to think about ever again.

To top that off, heíd quit smoking twelve years ago, cut out the peach brandy heíd fooled with after Juanita passed, and increased what he put in the plate on the occasional Sundays he showed up at First Baptist.

But the thing was, it seemed like all of itógood and bad, up and down, sweet and souróhad blown by him like Dale Earnhardt Jr. at Talladega.

He sighed deeply, hauled himself out of bed, and slid his cold feet into the unlaced, brown and white spectators he wore around the house. If Juanita was alive, or if Earlene was here, heíd probably turn on the furnace out of common decency. But as long as he was boss of the thermostat, heíd operate on the fact that an oil furnace was money down the drain and wait ítil the first hard freeze to make himself toasty.

Sitting on the side of the bed and covering his bare legs with the blanket, he scratched his head and yawned, then reached for the cordless and punched redial.

When his wife, living with her dying mama in a frame house on the southern edge of Knoxville, answered the phone, he said, ìGood morniní, dumplin.íî

ìGood morniní yourself, baby. Howíre you feeliní this morniní?î
ìGreat!î he said. ìJust great!î

He thought for a split second he was telling a bald-faced lie, then realized he was telling the lawful truth. It was the sound of Earleneís cheerful voice that had changed him from an old man waking up in a cold bed to a young buck who just remembered he was driving to Tennessee in his new Dodge truck, tonight.

a
At six-thirty, Hope Winchester dashed along Main Street under a red umbrella. Rain gurgled from the downspouts of the buildings she fled past and flowed along the curb in a bold and lively stream.

To the driver of a station wagon heading down the mountain, the figure hurrying past the Main Street Grill was but a splash of red on the canvas of a sullen, gray morning. Nonetheless, it was a splash that momentarily cheered the driver.

Hope dodged a billow of water from the wheels of the station wagon and clutched even tighter the pocketbook containing three envelopes whose contents could change her life forever. She would line them up on her desk in the back room of the bookstore and prayerfully examine each of these wonders again and again. Then she would put them in her purse at the end of the day and take them home and line them up on her kitchen table so she might do the same thing once more.

UPS had come hours late yesterday with the books to be used in this monthís promotion, which meant sheíd lost precious time finishing the front window and must get at it this morning before the bookstore opened at ten. It was, after all, October firstótime for a whole new window display, and the annual Big O sale.

All titles beginning with the letter O would be twenty percent off, which would get Wesleyís students and faculty hopping! Indeed, Septemberís Big S sale had increased their bottom line by twelve percent over last year, and all because she, the usually reticent Hope Winchester, had urged the owner to give a percentage off that really ìcounted for something.î It was a Books-A-Million, B&N, Samís Club kind of world, Hope insisted, and a five-percent dribble here and there wouldnít work anymore, not even in Mitford, which wasnít as sleepy and innocuous as some people liked to think.

She dashed under the awning, set her streaming umbrella down, and jiggled the key in the door of Willard Porterís old pharmacy, now known as Happy Endings Books.

The lock had the cunning possessed only by a lock manufactured in 1927. Helen, the owner, had refused to replace it, insisting that a burglar couldnít possibly outwit its boundless vagaries.

Jiggling diligently, Hope realized that her feet were cold and soaking wet. She supposed thatís what she deserved by wearing sandals past Labor Day, something her mother had often scolded her for doing.

Once inside, and against the heartfelt wishes of Helen, who lived in Florida and preferred to delay heating the shop until the first snow, Hope squished to the thermostat and looked at the temperature: fifty degrees. Who would read a book, much less buy one, at fifty degrees?

As Margaret Ann, the bookstore cat, wound around her ankles, Hope turned the dial to ìon.î

The worn hardwood floor trembled slightly, and she heard at once the great boiler in the basement give its thunderous annual greeting to autumn in Mitford.

a
Uncle Billy Watson lay with his eyes squeezed shut and listened to the rain pounding the roof of the Mitford town museum, the rear portion of which he and Rose called home.

He was glad it was raining, for two reasons.

One, he figured it would make the ground nice and soft to plant thí three daffodil bulbs Dora Pugh had trotted to íis door. Thí bulbs, if they was like her seeds, wouldnít be fit to plant, but heíd give íer one more chance to do thí honorable thing aní stand by what she sold.

When he was feeliní stronger aní the doc would let him poke around outside, he knowed right where heíd plant to make the finest showóat the bottom of thí back steps, over to thí left where the mailman wouldnít tear up jack when he made íis deliveries.

Feeling the gooseflesh rise along his arms and legs, he pulled the covers to his chin.

Thí other good thing about the rain, if hit lasted, was when Betty Craig come to nurse íim tíday, sheíd be cookiní all manner of rations to make a manís jaws water. If they was anything betterín heariní rain on thí roof aní smelliní good cookiní at the same time, he didnít know what hitíd be.

He lay perfectly still, listening now to the beating of his heart.

His heart wasnít floppiní around thisaway and thataway ní more, he reckoned the pills was workiní.

In a little bit, he rolled over and covered his ears to shut out the sound of his wifeís snoring in the next bed.

He mightíve lost a good deal of eyesight aní some control of íis bladder, donít you know, but by jing, íis heariní could still pick up a cricket in thí grass, thank thí Lord aní hallelujah.

a
ìCheck this out,î said J. C. Hogan, editor of the Mitford Muse and longtime regular of the Main Street Grill. He thrust a copy of the Muse, hot from his pressroom above their heads, under Father Timís nose.

ìPhoto staff?î asked Father Tim.
ìYouíre lookiní at it,î said J.C.
ìI thought you had spellcheck.î
ìI do have spellcheck.î
ìItís not working.î
ìWhere? What?î J.C. grabbed the newspaper.

ìMeteorologist is misspelled.î The former rector of the local Episcopal church had kept his mouth shut for years about the Muse editorís rotten spelling, but since the newspaper had invested in spellcheck, he figured he could criticize without getting personal.

J.C. muttered a word not often used in the rear booth.

ìYou ought to have a photo contest,î said Father Tim, blowing on a mug of steaming coffee. ìAutumn color, grand prize, second prize...like that.î

ìUnless thí rain lets up, thereíll be nothing worth enteriní in a contest. Besides, Iíd have to shell out a couple hundred bucks to make that deal work.î

ìWhereís Mule?î asked Father Tim. The erstwhile town realtor had been meeting them in the rear booth for two decades, seldom missing their eight a.m. breakfast tryst.

ìDown with thí Mitford Crud. Probíly comes from that hot, dry spell changiní into a cold, wet spell.î

Velma Mosely skidded up in a pair of silver Nikes. ìLooks like thí Turkey Clubís missiní a gobbler this morniní. Whatíre yíall haviní?î

This was Percy and Velma Moselyís final year as proprietors of the Grill. After forty years, they were hanging it up at the end of December, and not renewing the lease.

In the spring, they would take a bus to Washington and see the cherry blossoms. Then they planned to settle into retirement in Mitford, where Percy would put in a vegetable garden for the first time in years and Velma would adopt a shorthaired cat from the shelter.

Father Tim nodded to J.C. ìYou order first.î

ìThree eggs scrambled, with grits, bacon, and a couple of biscuits! And give me plenty of butter with that!î

The Muse editor looked at Velma, expectant.

ìYour wife said donít let you have grits and bacon, much less biscuits aní plenty of butter.î J.C.ís wife, Adele, was Mitfordís first and, so far, only policewoman.

ìMy wife

ìThatís right. Adele dropped in on her way to the station this morniní. She said Doc Harper told you all that stuff is totally off-limits, startiní today.î

ìSince when is it thí business of this place to meddle in what people order?î

ìTake it or leave it,î said Velma. She was sick and tired of J. C. Hogan bossing her around and biting her head off for the last hundred years.

J.C.ís mouth dropped open.

ìIíll order while heís rethinking,î said Father Tim. ìBring me the usual.î

Velma glared at the editor. ìIf youíd order like thí Father here, youíd live longer.î She felt ten feet tall telling this grouchy so-and-so what was what, she should have done it years ago.

ìI wouldnít eat a poached egg if somebody paid me cash money. Give me three eggs, scrambled, with grits, bacon...î J.C. repeated his order loud and clear, as if Velma had suddenly gone deaf. ì...aní two dadgum biscuits. î

Father Tim thought his boothmateís face was a readout of his blood pressure ratingóroughly 300 over 190.

ìIf you want to drop dead on thí street, thatís your business,î said Velma, ìbut I wonít be party to it. Get you some yogurt and fresh fruit with a side of dry toast.î

ìThis is dadblame illegal! You canít tell me what to order.î

ìSuit yourself. I promised Adele, and Iím stickiní to it.î

J.C. looked at Father Tim to confirm whether he was hearing right. Father Tim looked at Velma. Maybe this was a joke....

But Velma was a brick wall, an Army tank. End of discussion.

J.C. drew himself up and played his trump card. ìDo I need to remind you that this is a democracy

Velma glared at the editor over her half-glasses; heads turned in their direction. ìWhereís Percy this morniní?î demanded J.C. He would call in the troops and nip this nonsense in the bud once and for all.

ìDown with thí Mitford Crud!î snapped Velma.

The young man at the grill turned his back on the whole caboodle, lest he be drawn into the altercation.

There was a long moment of silence, the sort that Father Tim never enjoyed.

ìThen Iíll just take my business down thí street!î

J.C. grabbed his briefcase and blew out of the rear booth like a cannon shot. Father Timís coffee sloshed in its mug.

Roaring past the counter, the Muse editor peppered the air with language not fit to print and, arriving at the front door, yanked it open, turned around, and shouted, ìWhich, you may be happy to know, is where I intend to keep it!î

The cold rain blew in, the door slammed, the bell jangled.

ìGood riddance!î said Velma, meaning it.

At the counter, Coot Hendrick dumped sugar into his coffee and stirred. ìI didnít know there was anyplace down thí street to take íis business to

ìI suppose he meant the tea shop,î said Luke Taylor, who hadnít looked up from his newspaper.

Guffaws. Hoots. General hilarity among the regulars. In Mitford, the Chelsea Tea Shop was definitely the province, indeed the stronghold, of the fair sex. Hardly a male had ever set foot in the place, except for a few unsuspecting tourists.

Father Tim cleared his throat. ìI do think itís illegal,î he said to Velma, ìto refuse to...you know...î

Velma adjusted her glasses and glared at him from on high. ìSince when is it illegal to save somebodyís life?î

Clearly, Velma Mosely was ready for retirement.

a

It was one of those rare days when he sensed that all the world lay before him, that it was indeed his oyster.

Upon leaving the Grill, he stood beneath the green awning, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Though the chilling rain continued to fall and the uproar between Velma and J.C. had definitely been unpleasant, he felt light; his feet barely touched the ground. How could someone his age feel so expectant and complete? How indeed? It was the grace of God.

ìLord, make me a blessing to someone today!î

He uttered aloud his grandmotherís prayer, raised his umbrella, and, beneath the sound of rain thudding onto black nylon, turned left and headed to Lordís Chapel to borrow a volume of Jonathan Edwards from the church library.

a

ìFather!î

Andrew Gregoryís head poked from the door of the Oxford Antique Shop. ìStop in for a hot cocoa.î

Hot cocoa!

He hadnít tasted the delights of hot cocoa since the Boer War. In truth, the phrase was seldom heard on anyoneís lipsóthe going thing today was an oversweet and synthetic chocolate powder having nothing to do with the real thing.

ìBless my soul!î said Father Tim. He always felt a tad more eighteenth century when he visited the Oxford. He shunted his umbrella into an iron stand that stood ready at the door and strode into one of his favorite places in all of Mitford.

ìExcuse the disarray,î said Andrew, who, though possibly suffering some jet lag, never looked in disarray himself. In truth, Andrewís signature cashmere jacket appeared freshly pressed if not altogether brand-new.

ìThe shipment from my previous trip arrived yesterday, on the heels of my own arrival. It all looks like a jumble sale at the moment, but weíll put it right, wonít we, Fred?î

Fred Addison looked up from his examination of a walnut chest and grinned. ìYessir, we always do. Good morniní, Father. Wet enough for you?î

ìI donít mind the rain, but my roses do. This year, we exchanged Japanese beetles for powdery mildew. How was your garden this year?î Fred Addisonís annual vegetable garden was legendary for its large size and admirable tomatoes; Father Tim had feasted from that fertile patch on several occasions.

ìHad to plow it under,î said Fred, looking mournful.

ìLetís look for a better go of things next year.î

ìYessir, thatís thí ticket.î

Andrew led the way to the back room, where the Oxford hot plate and coffeepot resided with such amenities as the occasional parcel of fresh scones fetched from London.

ìCareful where you step,î said Andrew. ìIím just unpacking a crËche I found in Stow-on-the-Wold; a bit on the derelict side. Some really odious painting of the figures and some knocking about of the plaster here and there...î

Father Tim peered at a motley assortment of sheep spilling from a box, an angel with a mere stub for a wing, an orange camel, and, lying in a manger of bubble wrap, a lorn Babe ...

ìTwenty-odd pieces, all in plaster, and possibly French. Someone assembled the scene from at least two, maybe three different crËches.î ìAha.î

Andrew poured hot milk from a pot into a mug. ìNot the sort of thing Iíd usually ship across the pond, yet it spoke to me somehow.î

ìYes, well...it has a certain charm.î

ìI thought someone might be willing to have a go at bringing it íround.î Andrew handed him the mug. ìThere you are! Made with scalded milk and guaranteed to carry you forth with good cheer and optimism.î

Coffee and cocoa, all within the span of a couple of hours. Father Tim reckoned that his caffeinated adrenaline would be pumping ítil Christmas; he felt as reckless as a sailor on leave.

Mitfordís capable mayor, restaurateur, and antiques dealer beamed one of his much-lauded smiles. ìCome, Father, Iíll show you a few of the new arrivalsóand perhaps youíll catch me up on the latest scandals in Mitford?î

ìThat shouldnít take long,î said Father Tim.

He felt the warmth of the mug in his hands and saw the rain slanting in sheets against the display windows. Everywhere in this large room that smelled of lemon oil and beeswax was something to be admiredóthe patina of old walnut and mahogany, a tapestry side chair bathed in the glow of lamplight, and, over there, a stack of leather-bound books just uncrated.

He had a moment of deepest gratitude, and the odd and beguiling sense that he was on the brink of something....

But what?

Something...different. Yes, that was it.

EXPECT A SPECTACLE
As Mitfordís mayor, Andrew Gregory, doesnít return until after press time from a buying trip to England, the Muse called on former mayor Esther Cunningham to make the Museís official annual prediction about our fall leaf display.

ìColor out the kazoo!î stated Ms. Cunningham.

Meterologists across western North Carolina agree. They say that color this fall will be ìthe best in years,î due to a hot, dry mountain summer followed by heavy rains, which began September 7 and have continued with some frequency.

So load your cameras and wait for Mitfordís famed sugar maples, planted from First Baptist all the way to Little Mitford Creek, to strut their stuff. Color should be at its height October 10ñ15.

Use ASA 100 film and donít shoot into the sun. Best morning photo op: from the steps of First Baptist, pointing south. Best afternoon op: from the sidewalk in front of the church, pointing east. This advice courtesy the Muse photo staff.


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