Warring Christmas

Meadowcreek Church of Christ in downtown Nashville had been Helen's home since she had been born across the street thirty-three years ago that New Year's Eve. She'd known Reverend Thompson, who had been the minister there until his death just last year, and she missed him dearly—almost as much as she missed Dale and Frank. His replacement, Reverend Harland, had been much less sensitive and kind than the elderly man who had preached about the "here-but-not-yet" Kingdom of God and called for brotherly love. No, Reverend Harland was much harsher—very vocal on any matter he saw fit to comment on, no matter who was in his audience. It did not matter that it was the Sunday before Christmas; his views would be heard.

It was a rather small church with no foyer and only five pews on either side of its interior. The wooden floor creaked at the slightest movement—it hadn't been replaced since Helen's grandmother had been a child there—but it held firm nonetheless. It smelled like old mothballs, though the candles around the altar were helping somewhat—cranberry scented, just in time for Christmas. A newcomer might expect the Reverend to be a kindly man, given that his wife Yvette had decorated the church and that he was rather portly, but Helen knew better than that.

"What is wrong with the world?" he demanded, brown eyes wide with fury, just moments after they had sung God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen; the irony did not escape her. "What is wrong with humanity in the world today? The race problem is a symptom. Crime is a symptom. Sociological problems are symptoms, hysteria is a symptom, and homosexuality is a symptom."

Helen began to grind her teeth together as the Reverend spoke.

"There is something deeply wrong with our world, brothers and sisters. And that thing is cowardice. If you will, please, open the good book to the sixth and seventh chapters of Judges. Let us examine cowardice, shall we? We shall not read them all, but a fair few nonetheless, for the Lord has been gracious and there is no lack of Biblical material on this subject that is all too relevant today…"

Helen read along with the Reverend. She knew why he was doing this. At least, she thought she did. She started to turn her head to glance around but stopped herself upon seeing the Reverend's eyes upon her as he read. His piercing brown gaze was hawk-like, a stark contrast to her dovish green eyes. She clutched at the pages of the worn Bible, taking in every word as though that would be the one that would kill her in front of the entire church. She snuck a brief glance to her left at her daughter, Frances, a vacant expression plastered across her pimply face.

"Cowardice," the Reverend began after reading the verses, "is an illness. Like all illnesses, it must be rooted out. These days, our cowardice is rooted in the belief that there is no such thing as a righteous war." The Reverend slammed his fist down on the podium before him, voice snarling like a lion. "All wars are righteous if they are in the name of God, and the eternal war against communism is just one such war."

Mr. Clayton, one of the deacons, uttered a deep-throated Amen. It was despicable, to say the least.

"Gideon started out as a coward, opposed to war, being among the least of these—the Bible tells us that he was from the smallest family in the smallest clan in the smallest tribe in all of Israel. Many of us are in that position today, with husbands, sons fighting against the communist terror in Vietnam, against the atheists that would see the thousand-year kingdom crumble in favor of a malicious, totalitarian conquest across the globe."

Helen felt her jaw clench—the Reverend had been thinking about her. She alone, barring Frances, had expressed opposition to Mr. Johnson's War as she had called it, though now it was Mr. Nixon's, wasn't it? She reached out for Frances's hand; her daughter quickly took it, and they squeezed the other's hand as tensely as they could.

This was the third time the Reverend had done this—preached about Vietnam with his eyes directed at Helen, knowing about her opposition, knowing her family was serving, knowing how much she loathed the very concept of war—and the last two times, it had been all she could do to stay silent and pray it would end. If Dale were here, it might be bearable—but he wasn't there. He'd wanted to serve, and they sent him as an advisor to Saigon. Frank would've made it easier, but he reenlisted; he wanted to go back—after talking with Reverend during a two-month leave.

"We fight because we must—because it is what our Lord commands of us," the Reverend continued. "We fight because it is holy, it is just, it is what God wishes for us to do. To fight is to be cruciform…"

To the best of her ability, Helen drowned out the rest, jaw clenched, eyes teary, and heart pained. It brought to her mind the words that Mark Twain had written in "The War Prayer": God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword. She could hardly stop herself from trembling, almost teary-eyed, at the end of service as they sang the Doxology and prepared to leave. Frances stuck close to Helen, almost as if she was a shield for her mother, daring anyone to say something.

The Reverend offered a quiet blessing at the door over them both, placing a hand on their shoulders. "The Lord bless you and keep you," he had said. "The Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace."

Helen wanted to die as soon as he had touched her; she had felt her back tighten, and there was yet another urge to flee altogether. His eyes betrayed him, even if his voice or movements wouldn't—his hatred of her, what she believed, what she wanted. Was it really such a sin to want her family home for Christmas? To want more butter in the world instead of more guns?

Reverend Thompson was surely rolling in his grave, but his wife, Widow Thompson, followed after Helen as she and Frances made their way to their car, a lovely blue 1963 Hudson Hornet. Widow Thompson placed a wrinkled hand on Helen's shoulder just as the car door started to open. Helen shuddered and whipped around, feeling frenzied. The old woman withdrew her hand almost as though she'd been bit. "I'm praying for you," she said quietly. "Differently than the others are praying for you." Widow Thompson didn't notice the glares of several others, namely Mr. and Mrs. Walker, parked next to Helen. "I love you. I want you to know that. I always have, and I always will."

Helen's eyes watered as she gave Widow Thompson a nod and a hug. "Thank you," she whimpered. "I know—I know it's been hard for you, the last year—"

"No harder than it's been for you," she answered. "My husband's watching over us both from Heaven, I'm sure of that." She gave Helen a toothless smile, face as cheery as a cherubim. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a pocket watch, passing it to Helen. "This was his. I think he'd want you to have it. I think it'll comfort you, at least a bit, let you know that you're in my thoughts."

Helen grasped it, promising not to let go of it. "Thank you. You've meant so much to me, both of you."

"I know, dearie—and you've meant just as much to us, if not more. Have a merry Christmas."

"Have a merry Christmas," Helen echoed.

That evening, Helen sat in her late grandmother's eldritch cedar rocking chair, firm hands gripping its arms. She stared into the dying embers of the nearby fire, both chilled and comforted by it. It was, for now, her only friend besides the framed photos of her husband, Dale, and son, Frank, on the mantelpiece. Four stockings hung there, each full of goodies, but Helen couldn't help but loathe the idea of Christmas coming in just a few days. It had been hard enough with half her family gone two years ago and harder with Reverend Thompson passing away. He'd been a second father to her, a kindly old man who said little and did more. He never would've attacked a congregant so blatantly, so willfully, so—

The chiming of the old grandfather clock in the corner shook her from the thought. It resumed its normal ticking, which seemed to echo the passing moments, a haunting reminder of the time that separated her from Dale and Frank. Frances was perched on the worn-out couch next to her mother, fidgeting with the frayed edges of a letter she had just received from her brother. Frank sent at least one weekly; Dale wrote them less regularly, about every two months. The paper crinkled under her nervous touch, the words carrying the weight of a nation divided by war abroad—relationships were nearly as worn as the letter itself was these days if the news was anything to go by.

Helen hadn't read it yet and almost felt she shouldn't.

"Mama, why won't you say something?" Frances finally broke the silence, her voice a mix of frustration and longing. She glanced at her mother; Helen guessed she was searching for a sign of solidarity in her weary eyes. "You should've said something at church today. The Reverend shouldn't have said that."

Helen sighed, her gaze still fixed on the dying fire. "Baby, you know how it is around here. People don't take kindly to those who speak against the war. It's like walking on eggshells, and I don't want any trouble for us."

"But Mama, it's not right! Dad and Frank are over there, risking their lives, and for what?" Frances's voice quivered. "There's nothing brave about burning up children in North Vietnam, let alone Cambodia or Laos."

Helen nodded, her eyes finally meeting her daughter's. For a twelve-year-old, she already knew too much. Maybe she should keep the television and radio off for a few weeks. "I know, sweetheart. I don't like it any more than you do. But we've got to be careful. Folks in the neighborhood have their opinions, and some might not take kindly to us going against the grain."

Frances slumped back against the couch, frustration etched across her face. Helen had read the letter, too—and kept the one she'd received from Dale to herself. Too private. The weight of the letters pressed on her like a migraine. The flames of the fire flickered and danced, casting shadows on the walls.

"Mama, I don't care what they think." Frances crossed her arms. "We've gotta have Dad and Frank come back—they've missed two Christmases already, this'll make three. I know they wanna be there—I'm so mad that they want to be there. But no one else wants to be there. The news says as much."

Helen shook her head. "The news talks about what the folks up north want, baby. Not what the south wants. Most of us want to be in the war, and we wanna see it through."

"We're not part of most."

"No, but as long as this is our home, we're going to stand with our kin around her, understood?" Helen froze, realizing her tone had been as cold as ice. "I'm sorry, Frances—I wasn't trying to be hard on you."

Frances met her mother's eyes; a mix of frustration and hurt flooded through them. She unfolded her brother's letter, smoothing the creases; Helen wanted to iron it. "Mama, I just wish you'd speak and let folks know how you feel. Maybe if more people stood against this war, Daddy and Frank wouldn't have to be there."

Helen's expression softened. She reached out and gently took the letter from Frances, holding it in her hands as if it contained the answers to all their troubles. "I wish it were that simple, sweetheart. But it's not just about us. It's about the neighbors, the community. We can't risk making outsiders of ourselves anymore than we already have." Any more than she already had, she silently corrected herself. Damn the Reverend. No—that was wrong, just as wrong as what he had done. It wasn't her place to damn anybody for anything. That was up to God to decide when all was said and done at the End.

Frances sighed, the weight of her convictions pressing heavily on her young shoulders. "I understand, Mama, but it's hard to sit here and pretend everything is okay when it's not. I miss them, and I want them home."

Helen nodded, her fingers tracing the words on the letter. "I miss them too, more than you can imagine. But we have to find a way to get through this, together. Maybe, once the war is over, we can speak our minds without fear."

Frances leaned against the couch's armrest, gazing at the family photos. "I just hope they come home soon. I want us all together for Christmas."

Helen's eyes welled up with tears she refused to shed. She couldn't make that happen no matter how hard she tried. No one could. She stood and knelt before Frances, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Me too, baby. Me too."