Bless Us All

Reverend Crabtree hoped his seasonal message would touch the parishioners' hearts . . .

 

THE Reverend Michael Crabtree sighed one too many times. His wife Annie put down her stirring spoon and looked at him.

"I swear you've sighed more times than I've stirred this broth for dinner. What on earth is the matter?" Michael looked up from his armchair.

It was a draughty house, but as long as you didn't stray too far from the fire it was cosy enough.

"Did I sigh?" "Many times, Michael.

What is it?" "I didn't realise I was sighing, my dear.

"I was thinking about my sermon for next Sunday.

Nothing is coming to me." Annie's shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug.

"But it's Christmas! Everyone knows what Christmas is about." Michael sat back and removed his spectacles.

He rubbed his eyes.

"Do you know, Annie, sometimes I look round the congregation and I wonder if anyone is listening to me.

"The back row are usually whispering to each other, and Mr Cruickshank falls asleep without fail -" "He is very old." "Most of them look half asleep. I do wonder why they come sometimes." "That's a terrible thing to say,

Michael." Michael sighed again and put his spectacles back on.

"Is it? I suppose it is.

After all, if my sermon were memorable, they would all be wide awake and ready to take my words to everyone they meet.

"I fear it has to be my fault." "Oh, nonsense,” Annie said, not unkindly.

"You just need to stop trying so hard and leave it to God.

"And I have to say, Michael, I'm surprised I have to tell you that.

"Now, come and have some dinner and you'll feel better, I'm sure.

"We'll light another candle, shall we? The Christmas tree looks so pretty in the candlelight."

"Very well, my dear." Michael climbed to his feet to fetch another candle.