The Christmas Cross by Max Lucado

Author:Max Lucado [Lucado, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2018-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

Joe’s eyes misted and he looked at the floor. I started to say he didn’t have to tell me the rest of the story, but when he lifted his head, he was smiling—a soft, tender smile. “It was around lunchtime when Ottolman had the idea. ‘You want to sleep with your baby, Carmen?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll get you your baby.’

“For the first time in weeks he left the hospital. Out the door and across the street he marched. He walked straight past the courthouse and slowed his pace only when he neared the church. For a long time he stared at the crèche from across the street—the very crèche you saw this afternoon. He was planning something. He took a deep breath and crossed the church lawn.

“He began adjusting the manger scene, like he was inspecting the figures, looking for cracks or marks. Anyone passing by would have thought nothing of Mr. Ottolman examining his handiwork. And no one passing by would have seen that when he left, there was no baby Jesus in the manger.

“Only an hour later, when the reverend was showing the display to his grandchildren, did anyone notice. By then, the baby with the scarlet cross was wrapped in a blanket and nestled under the covers next to Carmen.

“Her final wish was granted. She held a baby on Christmas Eve.”

For a long time neither Joe nor I spoke. He sat leaning forward, hands folded between his knees. He wasn’t there. Nor was I. We were both in the world of Ottolman and Carmen and the sculptured baby in the manger. Though I’d never seen their faces, I could see them in my mind. I could see Ottolman pulling back the hospital sheets and placing the infant Jesus next to his daughter. And I could see him setting a chair next to the bed, taking Carmen’s hand in his . . . and waiting.

I broke the silence with one word: “Carmen?”

“She died two days later.”

“The baby?”

“He came, early. But he came.”

“Mr. Ottolman?”

“He stayed on in Clearwater. Still lives here, as a matter of fact. But he never went back to his house. He couldn’t face the emptiness.”

“So what happened to him?”

Joe cleared his throat. “Well, the church took him in—gave him a job and a little room at the back of the sanctuary.”

Until that moment, until he spoke those words, the possibility had not entered my mind. I leaned forward and looked directly into his face. “Who are you?”

“You have her eyes, you know,” he whispered.

“You mean, Carmen was . . .”

“Yes. Your mother. And I’m, well, I’m . . . your . . .”

“. . . Grandfather?”

His chin began to tremble as he told me, “I’ve made some big mistakes, son. And I pray I’m not making another one right now. I just wanted you to know what happened. And I wanted to see you while I still could.”

As I struggled to understand, he reached into his shirt pocket. He removed an object, placed it in my palm, and folded my hand around it.

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