Once upon a time there was an old man. His name was Alfred Donovan. He had been an old man for a long time. His wife Flora had died a few years ago, and he missed her greatly: but he had been an old man before that. He still remembered the moment he became an old man. It was just a month after his forty-sixth birthday, the day the Marine captain came to the house to tell him and Flora that his son, Daniel, had been killed in Viet Nam.

Danny was a college graduate, a young officer, filled with life and such great potential. Alfred had himself served in World War II, had fought as an infantryman in Europe. He had been wounded twice. He had seen his friends killed. He understood the terrible cost of war. Even so, he was proud of his service to his country. But never so proud as when his boy Danny received his commission as a lieutenant.

And six months later Danny was dead. Even now, after thirty years had passed, there were days when Alfred felt he would never recover from the grief. He still felt the pang of bitter questions about why America ever got involved in any war in Viet Nam. At the same time, after all these years there were also days when Alfred never thought about Danny at all. That was OK, he told himself: as Flora had always said, the living have to go on living. But telling himself didn’t always work. Often he would feel terribly guilty, as if he had been disloyal to his son’s memory, by letting two days go by without grieving for him.

While Flora was alive Alfred seemed to be doing pretty well. But after she died, in November of ’93, Alfred found himself going again and again to the cemetery, standing there, looking at the graves of his wife and his son. Ten days in a row, after Flora’s funeral. Then it became a pattern of several times a week. He still did it.

He never wept. At least, he never wept that anyone could see. Sometimes his friend Roger went with him. Other times Roger made it a point to walk his retriever on the path across the cemetery so that he would happen to bump into Alfred there. Roger never saw his friend say anything, in all the time he stood before those two side-by-side graves: neither to pray, nor to talk to his dead wife and son, as people often do in cemeteries, nor even to talk to himself. When he walked the dog Roger would slow down, a hundred yards away, to give Alfred plenty of time to ponder or meditate or whatever was on his mind, before Roger’s arrival interrupted him. As far as Roger could tell, all Alfred did was stand at the foot of the two graves, staring at one headstone, and then the other. With a haunted look in his eyes.

Juliana was one of those unpredictable young girls who constantly astonish you. At age thirteen she was in the bloom of early adolescence: with eager intelligence and a bubbly energetic smile and depth of soul. Ever since she fell in love with Jesus at church camp two years ago, Juliana had become a sponge, hungry for knowledge and faith, soaking up understanding of what it means to be a disciple. There was so much right about her that it was easy to be angry at her, when she was wrong. It was sometimes easy to be angry at her, even when she was right. But Juliana was so irrepressibly cheerful it was hard to be angry at her for very long.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving she overheard some of the ladies at church talking about Alfred Donovan. “It’s really a pity,” they said. “I think he just sits at home. Well, he and Roger go to lunch at Rotary Club every Tuesday. Roger says the grief and sadness in him is just so deep, but he never talks about it at all. I wish we could get Alfred back to church. Of course, he wasn’t all that active before. But I suppose he hasn’t been here at all, since Flora’s funeral.”

That afternoon Juliana told her mother what she had heard the church ladies saying about Alfred Donovan, and then asked, “Why is he so sad?”

Her mother didn’t answer right away. During the pause Juliana watched the shadows of emotions move across her mother’s face. Then her mother said, “He has had a hard life. He misses his wife, who died a few years ago: you didn’t have her for a Sunday School teacher, but you’ll remember your brothers did.”

Juliana nodded, all her attention focused on her mother’s face. Her mother said, “And he misses his son Danny, who died many years ago, in the Viet Nam war.”

Juliana read the twitch in the corner of her mother’s mouth, and thought she knew what it meant. She asked, “Did you know his son?”

Juliana watched her mother smile as she nodded, “Yes. Danny was two years ahead of me in high school.”

It felt a little awkward and embarrassing: but Juliana could sense an echo of deep mystery trembling in her veins. And so, greatly daring, she asked, “Were you in love with him?”

And this time her mother laughed, and said, “Oh, all of us girls were at least half in love with Danny Donovan, at one time or another. He was a handsome young man, he always had fun ideas, and he made us laugh. When he went off to college we were all heartbroken. For a little while, anyway.”

Juliana considered. She had already gleaned more information than she ever expected to get. Perhaps she should quit while she was ahead. But she decided to risk one more question, since her mother seemed to be in the right mood to answer. So Juliana asked, “Would you have married him?”

Her mother became so still. She didn’t get mad, but she didn’t answer, either. Juliana held her breath. Finally her mother said, “I don’t know. A person never does know, about things like that. Danny never asked me. If he had, I might have said yes. As it turns out, I married someone else, and your two brothers are the result. And, as you know, that marriage didn’t work out. It doesn’t always work out. Then I married your father, and here we are.”

Juliana thought about this story a lot, on the Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday before Thanksgiving. On Wednesday afternoon she stopped at the grocery store on her way home from school. She bought a frozen pecan pie, took it home, and baked it. When it had cooled, Juliana walked the three blocks to Alfred Donovan’s house, rang the doorbell, and waited.

The old man came to the door. He looked at Juliana, and said, “What do you want?” With all her cheerfulness Juliana said, “Hi, Mr. Donovan. My name is Juliana Vernon, and I wanted to bring you a pie!”

Alfred looked at her. He said, “I don’t want to buy any pies today,” and he started to close the door.

She said, “Please wait, Mr. Donovan. I’m not selling pies. This is for you, as a present for Thanksgiving. It’s only a pie from the store, but I did bake it myself, just for you.”

“Why?” he asked.

Juliana took a deep breath, and her words tumbled out in a rush as she said, “Because Jesus loves me, and I know he loves you too, and so I baked a pie to bring to you, just because of the love of Jesus.”

Alfred took the pie. His voice was a little gruff, but he managed to thank her. He closed the door. He took the pie to the kitchen, and set it on the table.

Several times that evening he looked at the pie. He thought about it. He liked pecan pie. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to cut into it. The pie sat on the kitchen table all night. And on Thanksgiving morning, Alfred put the pie in with the kitchen trash and carried the bag out to the garbage can.

He didn’t know why he did that. Part of his soul was astonished that some young teenager would bring him a pie, for the love of Jesus or for any other reason. Part of his soul felt so angry that anyone would have pity on him. And part of his soul felt ashamed, for spurning her innocent gift. In the shaving mirror he told his reflection, “You’ve become a bitter old man.”

On Wednesday afternoon, a week later, his doorbell rang. There she stood, saying, “Hi, Mr. Donovan! It’s me, Juliana Vernon again. This time I brought you an apple pie.” And she held it out with such enthusiasm and joy he just had to take it. She said, “I hope you like it. But I’ve got a big test to study for, so I have to run.” And she scurried down the sidewalk and around the corner.

Alfred stood there in the doorway, astonished. His arm trembled. He closed the door, leaned against the inside of the door, and looked at the top of the pie. Juliana had carved a picture in the top crust, for the steam vents: a few stark lines to form a stable; a curved line suggesting a hillside in the background; and a bright star shining in the night sky overhead.

In a sudden rage he hurled the pie down the hall, where it crashed against the kitchen doorpost. He was immediately ashamed. He stared at the mess. Why had he done that? He got a bucket and brush and mop, and cleaned up the ruined pie from the wall and floor. And listened to his conscience mocking him: “Bitter old man. Bitter old man. Bitter old man.”

On Wednesday the following week, the doorbell did not ring. Alfred was glad the girl had given up. And — a little disappointed. But then Juliana showed up late Friday afternoon, with a pumpkin pie.

“Why do you keep bringing me these damn pies?” he said, harshly, hating himself for his harshness.

His voice was intimidating, but Juliana refused to let herself be scared away. “There are two reasons, Mr. Donovan. The first I told you before: because the love of Jesus just makes me want to do stuff like this. And the second is, because if things had been different, you might be my grandfather.”

Alfred stood riveted in silence, his eyes glaring. Juliana pretended not to notice, as she said, “Of course I know how it works. If your son had married my mother, none of the children they might have had would ever have been me. I would never have been born. Or my brothers either. And yet it could have happened that way. So I’m kind of like the grand-daughter you could have had.”

It took Alfred three tries before he could make words come out. Even so, his voice sounded like a croak as he asked, “Who is your mother?”

“Cassie Vernon.”

Alfred closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he asked, “Back in high school her name was Cassie MacNamara, wasn’t it?”

Juliana nodded. They stood there, looking at each other in silence. Then she said, “Umm, Mr. Donovan, there is a third reason: I want to invite you to come sit with me and my family at church on Christmas Eve. Please.”

He said, “Oh, child, you don’t understand. You can’t invite me to church.” And then, hating himself, Alfred went on: “You don’t even know I threw away the two pies you brought me before.”

Juliana lifted up her pumpkin pie, and said, “Maybe you’ll like this one better.” And she handed it over with such earnestness that he just had to take it. And then she turned and fled for home.

The great prologue of the Gospel of John tells of the coming of Jesus: the Word of God who takes on genuine human flesh, the true light who comes to give light to all the world. He comes to give light and life and grace and truth to each one of us: that’s what the opening verses of John’s gospel tell us.

The prologue to John goes on to tell us that when these gifts are offered, these gifts of light and life and grace and truth: some receive them, and some do not.

Think for a moment of the astonishing blessing it is, just to be here: events in a previous generation could easily have run a different course, and we would never have been born. How amazing that we and all the people we love should ever have lived! Yet in the midst of this blessed life, terrible tragedies occur: our hearts break, and in our brokenness it is not a sure thing that we will receive the grace that shows up on our doorstep.

Sometimes it’s bitterness that gets in the way, or greed, or the hustle of trying to believe that the joy of Christmas can be purchased, if you just scramble fast enough. But things do get in the way. Jesus came, the scripture tells us, to give us all the gift of becoming children of God: which would make us all family to one another, the way family is supposed to be. Jesus was born, the scripture tells us, so that the light of God would shine once again in our gloomiest despair. But this immense gift of grace, offered to us in the coming of Jesus: it could be hard for us to receive it.

Yet there are messengers in this world, messengers of Grace moved by Christ’s love to proclaim in word and deed that the light of the world can bring light to our lives once more. They build bridges and roads to get to us: sometimes the road is not very long, just a few blocks from Juliana’s to Alfred Donovan’s house; sometimes the road leads to a homeless shelter or a troubled neighborhood in the inner city; and sometimes the road leads to one of those uttermost parts of the earth: Mexico or Kenya or even St. Louis.

With astonishing graciousness these people demonstrate how grace can come to us even in the places where our lives hurt the most. They do this because, as Juliana put it, “Jesus loves me, and I know he loves you too, and so I baked a pie to bring to you, just because of the love of Jesus.”

Late in the afternoon, the last day of school before Christmas, Juliana showed up at Alfred’s door. With a peach pie. She handed it to him. They looked at each other. Neither spoke. Then she asked, “Will you come to Christmas Eve service, Mr. Donovan, and sit with me and my family?”

He summoned up all his courage, and said, “Juliana, I don’t know.”

The fourth pew on the left was where Juliana’s family always sat. On Christmas Eve her older brother and his wife, and their new baby Lisa, sat next to the center aisle, so they could escape to the nursery if the baby started to cry. Next to them sat her brother Richard, home from college. Then Juliana’s father, holding hands with her mother, the two of them glancing at each other from time to time as if sharing some wonderful secret only they knew. Juliana sat beside her mother. At the far end of the pew, on the side aisle, sat Roger and his wife. And in between Roger and Juliana: yes, Alfred Donovan was there. He did not sing any of the hymns. He did not seem to be able to say anything at all. He was simply there, part of the family, sharing in the grace of Christmas Eve.