The Innkeeper’s Son

By Jane Tyson Clement

IT WAS A BITTER NIGHT, though very clear. Under the sparkling stars a wild north wind drove cold into the veins, into the cracks and crannies of the tightest dwelling, and the tree limbs sighed and creaked. The snow that had fallen yesterday swirled up afresh and made new drifts, and the frozen earth was swept bare in wide swathes. No creature moved abroad, and except for the moan of the wind the world lay silent.

But the inn was warm and cozy in the firelight and in the lamplight flickering from the walls. The smell of roast goose and pudding and spiced wine permeated the air. There was the glitter of holly on the shelf above the hearth, and greens were hung in bunches from the great black rafters. The four men at the table set their flagons down in unison with loud thumps and burst into raucous singing, not for the first time that evening to be sure.

God rest you merry, gentlemen,

Let nothing you dismay,

For Jesus Christ our Savior

Was born upon this day!

Perhaps it was concern for the decorum of his house that brought the innkeeper from the kitchen then –or perhaps concern for a sale of more ale –for he came in bearing a foaming jug and set it before them, and stood with arms akimbo, grinning, as they filled their mugs and drank his health. Then his glance flickered to the settle by the hearth, where his boy sat alone. He was a slender lad, dark, with great blue eyes that stared emptily into space, blinking occasionally. His hands lay upon his knees. The innkeeper’s face shadowed a moment, then his mind came back to his guests.

“So, gentlemen, here is more cheer for you this bitter eve. The good wife sends you greetings, and hopes you won’t tarry too long this night from your own hearths.”

The townsmen laughed and the first one spoke, “More cheer here than on my own hearth. Bickerings and brawling brats! No peace on earth for a man there, Christmas Eve or no.”

But the second chided him. “Come now, what say you, Nat! They are all hale and hearty, just a bit lively and numerous. This is a holy eve, and like as not we should all be home,” and he pushed back his chair as if to rise. But the third laid a hand on his sleeve, saying, “Like as not, but it’s warm and merry here, and cold and bleak without.”

And in a low voice the last one spoke, “But a night of mystery all the same. We should be home by our own hearths, for this is the night the Christ Child walks, by the old legends.”

Then the innkeeper leaned upon the table with his hands and shook his head. “A likely tale, a likely tale!”

"Nay, but 'tis true," broke in the secondly. "You know the kindly woodcarver from Terminaison beyond the mountain who said a heavenly visitor carved him a most marvelous chest when he was an awkward and mistreated lad?”

And the third spoke, remembering, “And that woman of the same town whose long‑lost husband was led home by a fair-haired angel child one Christmas Eve, after years of wandering?”

“And that lame girl,” said the fourth man. “Do you recall that lame girl in the next village –the village of La‑Croche –she who gave her last crust to a little lost boy –and next morning awoke with legs as strong and straight as yours or mine?”

Then the innkeeper glanced again at his son on the settle by the hearth, and he eased himself onto a stool and put his head close to his guests. “There was a time,” he said in a low voice, “when I prayed for him, yonder, that his affliction would be lifted. Aye, and my wife and I laid many pence before the altar, and lit many a candle. But his eyes are still vacant, and scant use a blind lad is to a man like me! He does what he can, but that is little enough.”

But the boy had heard, for he drooped his head and passed one hand across his eyes. Then he sat as before. A little silence fell upon the room, and the fire crackled and hissed. At length the first townsman spoke.

“Such tales are told to give us comfort. Not one of us has seen such with our own eyes. ’Tis true that now Terminaison has a name for good works that is unsurpassed in all the province, and the girl in La‑Croche is said to be a veritable saint, giving of her own to the poor till there is nothing left for herself. But who can say the world itself has changed?”

Still the uneasy silence lay upon the room. The boy sat with bowed head, the innkeeper poked at the fire, and the men slouched in their chairs, all merriment quenched. Then the third townsman slapped his thigh and spoke in a loud voice.

“The priests sometimes, to get our pence and our candles, spread these miracles. I do right as I see it, and look for no sudden and unearned ending to my troubles. But why be sad, for the world is full of sorrows and disappointment, if we dwell upon it.” And he rose with the jug, to lean across the table and fill all their mugs, until the last drop was drained.

So they all broke into song again, and as they sang they did not hear the soft knock, nor see the latch move and the door slowly open. The stranger stood against the night unnoticed, watching them; then he quietly shut the door behind him. He was dark and thin, and wore a threadbare cloak, and clutched a gnarled staff with one brown hand. He waited for a moment while their song rang out.

In Bethlehem in Jewry

This blessed babe was born

And laid within a manger

Upon this blessed morn.

But the boy had turned his head with the opening of the door, and rose now, his hand against his heart and his head following the stranger as he slowly crossed to the fire, laid down his staff, and stretched out his hands to the warming flames. And suddenly the song died out as the innkeeper saw the newcomer by the hearth and got to his feet, with a troubled face.

“What now, a wayfarer, on such a night! What do you seek, stranger?”

But the man simply looked up, smiling, and held his brown hands to the flames. The innkeeper, a bit nettled, said grudgingly, “Well, warm yourself, and later I’ll fetch you a bite. ’Tis no night to turn a man out.” Then to the four silenced townsmen, “So now, lads, ’tis going on twelve o’clock, and like it or not, soon out ye go!”

And they all chimed in:

“One more toast, that this blessed eve is a bright one the world around!”

“Riches, and a long life!”

“Health, and an obedient wife!”

“An end to all domestic strife!”

They drained their tankards and banged them down with loud laughing and crowded to the door, flinging sheepskin jackets over their shoulders, slapping one another upon the back. The innkeeper followed them, herding them out like noisy and unruly cattle. He shut the door upon them, calling cheerily, “God bless you one and all, and until next year!” and they were heard going off into the night with shouts and singing.

In the silence that fell, the innkeeper stood a moment, his face blank and tired. Then he came wearily back to the table, gathering up the empty tankards and the soiled cloth. On his way to the kitchen door he stopped a moment, looking to the fire where the man still stood, and to his son, who waited in the shadow.

“Son, fetch this stranger the ends of bread from the pantry, and see that he is well warmed before he goes forth. I’m off to bed. Tomorrow bids fair to be a busy one, and my bones ache.” Then he went across the room, kicking the door open with his toe and letting it fall to behind him.

After a long moment, when the fire whispered and glowed more golden and peace seemed to come gathering down from the shadowing corners, the man gave a vast and weary sigh. He sank upon a low stool by the fire and laid aside his cloak. He felt his worn shoes, now thawing and wet, and slipped them off to set them nearer the flames to dry. The boy still stood with his face toward the man, but now he turned and went to the hutch. He felt carefully around till he found the snowy cloth covering six loaves of fresh, white bread. One of these he drew forth and laid it on the board, cutting it in generous slices. These he put on a wooden trencher, and then fetched a wedge of yellow cheese from the shelf. Slowly he crossed the room and set the supper on a bench beside the stranger. For a long moment the man looked up into the boy’s face, glowing in the firelight; then he began to eat. Again the boy turned and crossed the room, and this time he brought back a slender green bottle of mead, and a blue mug. These he set down beside the bread and cheese. He stood for a moment, as if listening to be sure the man was indeed eating, then he went to the great chest in the corner of the room. Opening this, he lifted from it a fur rug. He carried the rug back to the fire and kneeling, spread it carefully before the hearth. Then he rose and backed off and spoke softly, “Master, when thou art done, rest awhile.”

He slipped away then into the shadows and sat on a stool, waiting. When the man had finished, he stretched out on the rug in the warmth of the flickering fire and sighed again, and after a bit there came the sound of peaceful breathing. Then the boy arose and felt his way carefully across the room. He stooped over the man, and with his hands hunted for the shoes laid out to dry. With his delicate fingers he felt the soles and found the holes in them; then he laid them against his own foot, to try to size. The match was perfect. He slipped off his own shoes and put them where the man’s had been. Then he went back across the room and set the old shoes beside the great chest. From a peg on the wall he took down a cloak, his own, heavy and serviceable. He crept back across the room and felt again on the floor near the man, until he found his cloak. He ran his fingers over the worn spots, the patches, and the holes. Then he laid his own cloak down in its place, and took the old one back across the room, putting it on the peg where his had been. Then he went softly across to the settle near the hearth and sank upon it, and he whispered to himself, “I will watch by his side tonight, lest he lack for anything.”

The clock struck the hour of one, and the man slept on. The boy sat unwavering, his face peaceful and full of joy. The quiet room was bright with the steady glow of firelight, for the wood seemed not to be consumed, though no seen hand replenished it. The sound of the wind faded, and the hiss of blown snow against the pane. The flicker of starlight came beyond the window.

The clock struck the hour of two, then three, then four, and still the man slept, and the boy, smiling faintly, watched on. But then the peace, the utter quiet and content, settled over his heart and little by little his head nodded, till his cheek rested against the side of the settle and his blind eyes closed.

When the clock struck five, the man stirred. He stretched, and then sat up, and in the faint, warm light he took in the sleeping boy, the new shoes, the sturdy cloak. He rose then, and in the old room he seemed very tall and fair, a king and not a beggar from the road. He swung the cloak about his shoulders and slipped his feet into the shoes, and knelt to fasten them. Then he crossed the room and stood for a long moment looking into the face of the boy. He reached out his hand and with one finger he softly touched the eyelids of the boy, and then with gentleness he stroked his hair. The boy smiled in his sleep but did not waken. Then the man turned and went across the room to the door. The latch clicked as the door swung wide, a gust of morning air, cool and fresh, blew in, and then without a sound the door closed. On the hearth the fire suddenly winked down, only a few coals glowing still, and the room grew chill.

Perhaps it was the chill that woke the boy, or in his heart the knowledge that a presence was gone. For he suddenly jerked awake, and with wide eyes looked into the dim room, where dawn was already striking at the windows. He stared, leaped to his feet, and rushed to the hearth.

“Master!” he cried. “Thou art gone. I slept. I did not watch by thee!” And he bent his head upon his knees, and wept. But then his sobs suddenly ceased. He raised his head and took his hands from his eyes and looked around.

“But I see!” he gasped. “I see!” He seized the crust of bread left upon the trencher and the crumbs of cheese. “Look, where he ate!” And he felt the fur robe with wondering fingers. “And see where he has lain.” Then he saw the staff. “And this, this he leaned upon.” He leaped up then, holding the old staff, and ran to the chest in the corner. “And these are his shoes, and this his cloak. Here are the rents I felt last night…but now I see…I see!” He stood dumbstruck, panting, and stared around the room, the tears upon his cheeks. “But oh where, where has he gone?” Then he rushed to the door and flung it wide and looked out upon the world. He stood thus, clutching the frame, while the blue and rose and gold of the first dawn grew and blossomed in the east.

“Hast lost thy wits, stupid boy!” thundered his father, in the dark, cold room behind him. “Shut the door! Put wood upon the fire and hasten. This day ye know full well the draper and all his clan feasts here. ’Tis Christmas and more to do than we have hands to manage. Shut the door, thou fool!” He pulled the boy back and slammed the door to in a fury. “Now the room is icy. We must start the fire afresh before we set up the trestles and lay the cloth. Look lively! Nay, I wonder at thee.”

He went to the bin behind the settle and brought out a log, lugging it to the hearth. In the shadows he stumbled over the fur rug and with a tinkle of glass the bottle of mead toppled over and smashed. The innkeeper dropped the log and stared about him in dismay, and with an oath turned to face his son. The boy stood staring at him with wide, dark eyes, his face stricken.

“Is this the way ye served that beggar last night? Mead!” He nudged the trencher with his foot. “White bread! The best robe! Are ye bewitched, crazed?”

The boy stood, wordless. Then the father went up and seized him by the shoulder. “Fool, blind fool,” he shouted into his face. “Without sight and without wit also. What have I done to deserve such misfortune!” He gave him a shove, then, in a calmer voice –“Fetch kindling from the bin and stir the fire. And don’t cut thy stupid knees on that glass. I’ll get the broom to sweep it up. The next stranger that comes I’ll deal with myself, and give him short shrift!” And he went out muttering into the kitchen.

The boy looked after him, his face pale, the tears welling out of his eyes. For a long moment he stood, trembling, the silence of the empty room pounding in his ears. He raised his hands and pressed them over his eyes, and whispered: “Oh, Master, who has given me sight, now I must serve thee, and follow thee, even to the ends of the earth. But where, where has he gone?”

Then he lifted his head, listening. Words came back to him, spoken half in disbelief, yet with a core of truth. “La‑Croche,” he whispered. “Terminaison…perhaps there. At least I would find others who have seen him also, and believed.”

He went across the room. With sure and steady hand he took the stranger’s shoes and put them on his own feet. He flung the man’s cloak across his shoulders, and he held the old staff in his hands. Then without a backward glance he strode to the door, opened it, and disappeared into the morning, and the door swung shut behind him.

Copyright © 2011 by Plough Publishing House Rifton,

NY 12471 USA. Used with permission.”

A Short Christmas Story:

Willibald’s Trip to Heaven

By Reimmichl 

WILLIBALD KRAUTMANN and Christmas – these two things belonged together like a door and its hinges, like a clock and its face, like a bell and its tower. The whole year round he dreamed of and prepared for Christmas. In his lifetime he had carved more than a thousand figurines; he had built sixty manger scenes, and never once had he missed the annual crèche-makers’ conference in Innsbruck.

Willibald had a round, stocky figure that was much too small for his ambitious soul. Often his ego would inflate itself, rise up, and whisper in his ear, “Willibald, don’t forget that you are the greatest artist in the land; there is no other worthy of comparison. And this is common knowledge in heaven too: there is hardly another craftsman there as highly esteemed as you. When you die, the gates of Paradise shall be flung wide in welcome, and you shall enter in triumph. And just wait till you see the mansion that has been prepared for you!” Such little murmurings fell often into Willibald’s ear, and he was always a ready listener.

Now it happened that just on the night before Christmas Eve, Willibald passed away peacefully, and found himself trotting up a steep road toward heaven, and talking to himself.

“Do you see, my dear old Willibald, how the Christ Child honors those whom he loves? He has fetched you home on Christmas Eve, just in time for the most beautiful feast day in heaven. Perhaps he wants you to set up the heavenly manger scene. But it couldn’t be –it’s such short notice. Indeed, he’s running very late, if that’s the plan! Well, well, we will see…”

As Willibald thought about setting up a manger scene in heaven, excitement came over him like a fever, and his progress seemed to him much too slow. The climb was steep, he wasn’t the youngest, and –being winter –it was bitterly cold. Often he stumbled or slipped backward several steps, which annoyed him, and he soon began to grumble.

“If they really wanted me in heaven, they could at least send a coach. That wouldn’t be asking too much, would it? And it wouldn’t have to be a coach-and-twelve; I’d be just as satisfied with a coach-and-four. And where are all the angels –what are they up to? Won’t even one come out to meet me, Willibald Krautmann? Certainly I didn’t expect a whole legion, but a few dozen archangels would have made a nice escort; indeed, it would only be proper. I'm no mere journeyman, after all; they ought to know that by now.”

But in spite of all his muttering and grumbling, no angelic escort, nor any heavenly coach-and-twelve (or even four) appeared. There was nothing Willibald Krautmann could do but walk wearily onward. And so he continued in silence for a long time.

Darkness fell, the moon rose, and soon his strength began to ebb. He sat down on a large rock. Suddenly he noticed in the distance a wonderful city –the heavenly Jerusalem. It stood on a silver hill, and the walls, houses, and towers gleamed with gold. The city was illuminated with a light that was brighter than the sun, yet not half as blinding –it was mysteriously mild and soft. The windows and facades shimmered with reds and purples. Willibald gaped. Soon, however, the cold got to him, and he began to grumble again.

“Isn’t anyone coming? Perhaps they are not quite finished preparing my reception –or they think I’m still far off. Well, I’ll let them know they are mistaken!”

So Willibald stepped onto a nearby star, raised himself to his full height, waved his big hat and shouted with all his might, “Hey you, up there!”

There was no response. Not even an echo. He waited. Suddenly a little angel in a white gown fluttered up over the city walls, glanced down at him, and disappeared again. “Ah,” he thought. “Now it’s going to begin. Now all the bells are going to ring at once, and they’ll set off the cannons.”

But a quarter of an hour passed, and then half an hour, and still nothing happened. At one point he was sure he heard the ringing of chimes, as sweet as the bells of the cathedral in Salzburg. He heard singing too, but it was far away. Willibald shook his head in disbelief. What did it mean?

Suddenly it dawned on him: they wanted to surprise him. He was supposed to go right up to the gate, and once he was there, the gates would open, and the heavenly hosts would stream out in all their splendor, and the angelic choirs would receive him with singing. “Yes,” he thought, “that’s the only way they would welcome a person like me. To be sure, I’ve never been one for surprises, but if they really take pleasure in such nonsense up here, then in the name of goodness I won’t spoil their joy.”

In good spirits once more, Willibald marched confidently up the last silvery rise, and stood expectantly right before the gate of heaven. Nothing happened. The gate did not spring open, no music broke forth, and no host streamed from within –nor even a single cherub. There were nothing but eerie silence. It was as if heaven were completely abandoned.

But now, Willibald was getting hot under the collar. A surprise is a surprise –that he could understand; and if the Heavenly Father wanted to greet him with a host of little rascals, fine. He’d play hide-and-seek with them, if he had to. After all, he had often carved amusing little cherubs; he had had his fun too. But this was going a little too far –and if it went on, it would no longer be a joke.

“What do they really want me to do?” he wondered. “Stand here like a beggar, and ask for shelter? What do they think I am? A wayward tramp?” No, he really didn’t need that –he, Willibald Krautmann, who had given his very life to Christmas and the Christ Child. “Oh well,” he sighed. “If they can wait, so can I. We’ll see who runs out of patience first!”

And so he sat down on a stone near the gate, his chin in his hands. He began to feel rather sorry for himself. Then it happened: suddenly, from behind the arch of the closed gate, he heard hundreds of jubilant, high-pitched voices growing louder and louder. Then the gates of heaven opened, and a great crowd of cherubs pressed forward and spilled out. And who was standing at the threshold, but St. Peter himself, speaking in a deep voice and directing the multitude. “I knew it!” thought Willibald, overcome with relief.

Strangely, no one noticed him, and after a few moments, his joy turned to bewilderment. He coughed purposefully, and coughed again, trying to draw the angels’ attention to him. It didn’t work. Not a single angel so much as glanced in his direction. By now he was really at a loss.

Was it someone else they had come out to meet? Had they forgotten him altogether? Perhaps God, in all the flurry of holiday activities, had forgotten to announce that he, Willibald Krautmann, was due to arrive. “Well, then,” he decided, “I’ll have to announce the news myself.”

Seeing a bell-pull to one side of the gate, he grasped it and threw his whole weight on the rope. It worked. A gong sounded, and a head popped out from the window above him. It was St. Peter himself.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, yanking on the bell-pull like that?” he asked. “And who are you, anyway?”

“It is I, Willibald Krautmann, well-known Tyrolean artist, carver of manger scenes.”

“Willibald Krautmann,” repeated St. Peter, bemused. “What an odd name! Never heard it before. I suppose you were looking for a place to stay?”

“Well, this is heaven, isn’t it?” Willibald threw back at him. “And I’ve been waiting out here for an hour already. Of course I’d like a place to stay.”

“Of course? It is not a matter of course at all. Let’s see what is written about you in the Book.”

St. Peter disappeared from the window, leaving Willibald open-mouthed. “Well, that was a friendly welcome! They don’t even know me up here? They have to look for my name in some stupid registry? The world pays with ingratitude; everyone knows that. But I wouldn’t have thought it was like that in heaven!”

Now St. Peter was back at the window, thumbing the pages of a large, black book. He took his time. “All right, here we are,” he said evenly, looking up. “But it says that you cannot enter.”

“What? I cannot enter! I’d just like to ask you for one good reason.”

“Of course. Just listen. You have been arrogant and vain, and proud of your own work. You have considered the art of others worthless in comparison to your own; you have acted as if no one else was as gifted as you.”

“Mr. Heavenly Gatekeeper, you’re making mountains out of molehills. You used to be a fisherman, so I’m not surprised – but you just have no idea what an artist feels. And what about all the good I have done? In my lifetime I have carved more than half a hundred nativity scenes. I have awakened many dull hearts with my artistry, and brought much joy into the world; it has even been said that people could take an example from the integrity of my figures.”

“I’m sure that’s all true,” said St. Peter dryly. “But there is more–about your arrogance–that I can’t just scratch out.”

“Read on, then. I know I’m not the humblest. Everyone has his faults, and I’m not so conceited as to think that I’m an exception. But really, you’re making quite a fuss over nothing.”

“My good Mr. Krautmann, I’m only just getting started. There are other things recorded here. You have been impatient and irritable. When a piece of work wasn’t going smoothly, youflaredupin suchanger –”

“That was holy anger,” Willibald interrupted. “The Evil One could not stand my work, and often hid my tools or knocked over a scene, so that all the figures toppled onto the floor, and several broke. And then –why, certainly a righteous indignation would come over me.”

“The things you said were anything but quick prayers.”

“For goodness sake, Mr. Gatekeeper! Who thinks about what he says in the heat of the moment? You can’t weigh that sort of thing on a golden scale. Besides, I never did anything violent in my anger, like…like other people I know. I never struck off anyone’s ear.”

“So we’re trying to start a lawsuit?” asked Peter sharply, “Then you ought to find yourself an advocate.”

“Just let me in, and I’ll find one in a hurry.”

“No one impure can enter. You’ll have to find someone on earth to speak on your behalf.”

“On earth? That’s a fine to-do. It’s unfortunate, I know, but I really don’t know anyone that well down there. I was a busy man in my day; I had very little time for other people.”

“There you have it, exactly,” agreed St. Peter. “But now I’m going to read you the heaviest debt on your account: In the course of an entire lifetime you were so self-centered that you were unable to make even one friend through performing a work of mercy –not even one advocate to speak for you in heaven.”

“Now listen here!” Willibald retorted. “I spent my time and my money on the Christmas work I did.”

“No expense is so great as a gift from the heart, especially to someone in need.”

“Of course; but you can’t throw away money unless you’ve got extra. And I always gave something.”

“Always? Last year, on Christmas Eve, you turned away a widow with three hungry children from your door.”

“Well, that’s not hard to explain: I was working overtime on a late order, one that required a new design. And I had an entire nativity scene to re-gild. Such things cost money –and everything is sinfully expensive these days.”

“You still had enough left over to go out for a drink on Christmas Eve –and you did more than just quench your thirst.”

“Goodness, that was just a little celebration, a very small one –and that, because it was Christmas. Besides, the wines they sell nowadays are so cheap that you only have to drink one glass, and it goes to your head.”

“What? You drank two bottles of the most expensive vintage! You won’t get far with lying, Mr. Krautmann; that’s something I really detest.”

“Dear St. Peter, don’t take it ill!” begged Willibald. “Little white lies like that come over the best people. I once read about someone who lied his way out of a tight spot three times in one night.”

“And wept for it the rest of his life, while you cover up and explain away your sins,” thundered St. Peter. “I’ve had it; that’s the end of my patience. Now get out of here!” And he slammed the window shut.

For the first time Willibald realized that he was really in a fix, and he decided to try another tack. Trembling, he reached up to knock on the window, and when he found he wasn’t tall enough, hung his head and begged and whined like a little boy. St. Peter ignored him. Next he tried the bell-pull again, though this time he didn’t yank at the rope, but pulled on it gently. Still no response.

What should he do now, he wondered? Hopeless –and dead tired –he stumbled along the wall, looking for a place to lie down and sleep. He had not gone far when he came to a small window that bathed the ground below it in a golden light. Curious, he peered in, and –dear God! What a celebration was going on inside! It was absolutely heavenly: hundreds of angels were dancing in a sea of light and joy.

Ecstatic, Willibald drank in the scene, and as he did the scales fell from his eyes: he saw that the source of all that light and joy was love, the unending delight of the soul. And to think that he was seeing only a fraction of it all! Perhaps only a thousandth part of it!

Then a rush of heavenly music rose and swept over him –the voices of at least a million angels chanting and singing in praise of God. “No one on earth would believe me if I described this,” thought Willibald to himself. “No one on earth has even imagined such music!”

Ecstatic, he began to sway with the music. Suddenly his chest tightened. He felt hot and breathless. Grasping at his heart, he panicked. His breast burned with such longing to be part of the heavenly scene in front of him that he was sure he was going to die. He wanted to cry out, but couldn’t; he wanted to sing, but his mouth was dry. And so he wept, from the depths of his heart. “Forgive my sins!” he sobbed piteously. “Never again will I be haughty or cruel! Forgive me! Please forgive me!”

Willibald wept softly at first, then louder, and then very loudly, yelling and howling. He pressed his head against the windowpane so hard that the glass shone with his tears.

Crack! Suddenly the window shattered and gave way, and he lost his balance, and found himself falling. Down, down, and farther down he fell, into what seemed a bottomless pit… And now he heard a familiar voice: “For God’s sake, stop your yelling; what on earth is going on?” He opened his eyes. There he was, lying in his warm bed, and beside him his bleary-eyed wife, who was shaking him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter with you, you silly fool?” cried his wife. “You’ve been howling and carrying on like a hog at the butcher’s!”

“Oh –I have been in heaven!” he replied.

“In heaven? A fine heaven, where you have to whimper and yelp like that.”

“Quiet, woman, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Willibald Krautmann did not tell his wife everything; but he did became more thoughtful. During the Christmas holidays he lost a big sum of money –at least his wife believed he had lost it. In fact, he gave it to the widow he had turned away the year before. He softened in other ways, too, and was no longer rude or impatient or unkind.

To his next-door neighbor, who asked why, Willibald explained very simply that this year he had finally begun to understand what Christmas was really about. But he also told this neighbor, who was his best friend, the whole story of his trip to heaven.

Copyright © 2011 by Plough Publishing House Rifton,

NY 12471 USA. Used with permission.”