Day 6 The Christmas Thief: An Advent Calendar in Prose

 

The Christmas Thief

An Advent Calendar in Prose

Day 6

Barnaby stretched and squinted at his bedside clock. Daylight squeezed through the blinds in the bedroom. 

Time for a few more hours of shut-eye before nightfall, he thought dreamily. Wonder what Reilly’s doing about now? He snorted, rolled over, and pulled a heavy eiderdown quilt up to his chin. A satin pillowcase caressed his stubbled cheek. His plush dressing gown was thrown carelessly over a brocaded chair in the corner. Leather slippers sat waiting beside the cozy bed. Barnaby believed in living well.

Barnaby drowsed in the warm cocoon of his bed sated after his usual breakfast at Maggie’s Country Diner. Maggie had never been within throwing distance of the country but the diner boasted calico curtains and tablecloths and the floor was clean. Buttery pancakes and spicy sausages swam in the good Columbian coffee warming his insides. 

Drifting off, Barnaby found pictures from the last apartment invading his dreams. The shabby woman wore a mantle of blue and shivered in the cold. The two kiddies in ragged jackets trembled beside their mother. The girl with the teddy bear slept uncovered in the manger. Barnaby woke with a tickle of cold and pulled his quilt tighter under his chin. 

A shadow of memory floated into the room where Barnaby shivered. Back twenty years to a cold room in a fourth-floor walk-up, the kind where the privy stood in the yard and the stairways harbored drunks and ladies of the night. Barnaby’s mother was one of the former and his father was a dim echo of angry shouts and slammed doors. Barnaby remembered a drippy-eyed baby sister and a whining little brother. After a few token years in school, just enough to learn to read and cipher, he got his real education in the streets. He survived by his wits, liberating wallets and purses from pockets, and hocking throw-aways he found in the trash on the better side of the tracks. 

A local cop, Lt. Reilly, had tried to keep him straight, but Barnaby leaned toward crooked. For a while, he tried to help his mother with the little brats, bringing home fruit that fell off of produce trucks and day-old bread that bakers had discarded. He even gave his mother a few pennies toward the rent, but sooner, rather than later, he tired of the responsibilities and hopped a boxcar to the big city. After he’d stashed away a small nest egg earned by the nimbleness of his fingers and the swiftness of his feet, he’d sent home a small care package. It was returned to the post office box he rented to keep a low profile marked “Undeliverable.” 

Haunted by the shadows of his family mixing with the one on King’s Ave., Barnaby slipped into a troubled sleep. 

Troubled Sleep: Psalm 25:7 Do not remember the sins of my youth and my rebellious ways; according to your love remember me, for you, Lord, are good. (NIV)

Challenge: Forgiving yourself is hard. Forgive yourself for a sin that is troubling you. Thank God for his loving remembrance.