The Christmas Angel

A short story by Brian Reynolds

Where I grew up it always rained on the 16th of December, which older South Africans will remember was Dingaan’s Day — to Afrikaners the Day of the Vow, or the Day of the Covenant. I remember that every year there would be a family discussion round the dinner table as to whether or not there was some kind of symbolism attached to this.

Perhaps the Lord was trying to wash away the events of that day, or maybe because rain was essential for all life, it was sent on that day to ensure the continued growth of the Covenant. The year that I met the Christmas Angel it started to rain the day before and turned into one of those typical Transvaal three-day rains that carried on for five.

Looking through the rain, across the valley one could just see Matt and Sarah’s house. The fairy mistiness of the rain clothed their little farm with a softness which belied the hard austerity of their existence.

They lived exactly the same as Matt’s father and grandfather had. The changes of this century had not touched them. I doubt they ever read a newspaper, I know they did not own a radio.

When Escom brought electricity to the district they did not take power. Matt always said that candles had been good enough since the beginning of time and would continue to give enough light. And water drawn from the well tasted the same as any pumped by an electric motor

The only advancement that had ever taken place on his farm was the borehole and windmill in his cattle camp.

Matt still ploughed and did all his farm work with oxen. He made their shoes out of hides he prepared and cured himself. Sarah made her own soap and candles in moulds I’m certain came across the Vaal river with the Voortrekkers.

When they needed cash to buy those things they could not make or grow, Matt simply took an ox to the trading store. The value would be agreed and written into a little book which Ahmed the storekeeper kept. Then as Matt bought things, it would be written off. Matt kept no record but I never heard him complain that he’d been cheated. He bought only essentials—coffee beans, rice, sugar.

Though the stream in the valley was a shared boundary between our farms, we saw little of Matt and Sarah, but he knew he could always call on us in need, and vice versa. We saw each other five or six times a year. They might ask for a lift into town, trips which were always whole-day affairs—not so much to shop as to see the sights. And when conscience called, one of the other neighbours would take them to Nagmaal.

About one o’clock one morning our dogs started to bark, and there was Matt calling from beyond the fence round our house. A cow was calving, and could I come and help. We were pleased to get into the stable which was warmly lit by a lantern hanging from a rafter. It was light but not yet day when the new calf was drinking from her mother and we were washing up. All had gone well.

As we sat at the kitchen table sipping thick, strong coffee, I looked at the old table, chairs and other furnishings that Matt’s grandfather had when he received the land as a Burger’s Grant from the first government of the first Transvaal Republic, more than a hundred years earlier.

In the kitchen window, which was two panes of glass in a frame that didn’t open, a candle was burning—an odd place to put a candle, I thought, as the light benefit to the room was minimal. As the day was now light enough, I made some remark about saving candles, but no attempt was made to blow this one out. A while later I said something about candles competing with daylight, but still the candle was left burning. It was only when I moved to blow it out that Matt spoke.

“We leave that candle burning day and night.”
“All day?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”

There was no reply or explanation. Maybe because I was tired the “leave-it-alone” tone of Matt’s voice escaped me.

“Why do you want to burn a candle during the day?”

There was a sigh of capitulation:
“That candle is for the Christmas angel.”
“Christmas angel?”
“Yes. She comes every year about this time.”
“So why the candle?”
“It’s for her to see.”
“In the day?”

The atmosphere in the kitchen was filled with privacy; I had already dug too deep. Then for the first time, Sarah spoke:

“Every year between Dingaan’s Day and Christmas, we burn that candle day and night. You see, every year at this time the Christmas Angel passes over all the world and wherever she finds a candle burning she pauses and blesses those in that house for the year ahead.”

I  lifted my mug with both hands, hoping to make it big enough to hide behind. I simply didn’t know what to say. As I had walked across the yard and then again when I came into the kitchen, I had heard the disparaging remarks my pride was making. Now I could see it trying to creep out under the back door.

Here was the reflection of a faith that was as solid and timeless as the old oak table my elbows rested on, and I decided that the only sensible thing I could do was to go home.

As I walked back I wondered where this belief could have come from: certainly not the church, and there weren’t any children who could have brought it home from school or friends. It certainly wasn’t anything new—there was never anything new in their lives. It wasn’t anything Sarah had brought with her when she married Matt, I knew her family, and if they did the same thing, someone would have heard about it. I eliminated the thought that it might have been something they had read about.

As I was nearing home I decided that it must have been a custom that, like the bread pans, had come across the Vaal river with the trekkers. Remembering the existence of the London Missionary Society and the many freelance missionaries who roamed around at that time, I guessed Matt’s grandfather could have brought the custom with him. This made the whole thing even more remarkable.

There was something very humbling in the thought that every year for more than a hundred years a candle had burnt in that window for the Christmas Angel.

During the next few nights I often looked out across the valley. I could see the candle burning in the kitchen window—and I thought a great deal.

I learnt more about Christmas that day than ever before: about material poverty and spiritual wealth; about not judging things as you see them. I learnt that if your neighbour calls, you must go. Had I not gone that night to help my neighbours’ cow, I might never have met the Christmas Angel.