Page 75 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Sir, excuse me. I respect you, Sir, but excuse me, I weally need to talk to you!”

The priest glances down at Peyton and smiles, his eyes drifting over to find his parent—me—before he diverts his attention back to Peyton. He looks a lot younger than the norm, and I note he’s probably only a decade older than me, at most.

“Hello, young man,” he bends down to make up their difference in height, “how can I help you?”

“I,” Peyton dawdles as I move to intercept him, but the priest holds out his hand to let me know his patience isn’t thinning. Swallowing, I gaze on at my boy with longing in my heart. It’s then I realize I miss him. Just as much as I missed my wife’s absence, and the sting becomes harder as it starts to lodge in my throat.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t know. Can I ask, are you Jesus bess friend?”

“I like to think I am,” he replies, clearly entertained.

“Is it okay if Jesus comes to my Grammy’s house tonight?”

“Sorry?”

“Rudolph’s not coming,” Peyton proclaims as if it’s already a fact. It’s the acceptance in his voice that has the ache increasing tenfold. I’ve convinced him, and nothing about that sits well with me.

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ve been bad. I’m on the naughty list,” Peyton admits easily, ratting himself out as a lump grows unbearably while my curiosity grows at his request for a visit from the messiah himself.

“So, you want Jesus to come instead?”

“Jesus job is for miracles to work?”

“He’s a miracle worker,” he nods. “That’s right.”

Peyton leans in. “Grammy says we need a miracle to make Christmas better.”

“What kind of miracle?” The priest asks as the burn in my throat spreads to my chest.

Peyton quickly glances over his shoulder before leaning in. “I need him to—” I strain to hear but to no avail. Frustrated, I take a step forward just as the gut punch is delivered by the way of the priest.

“Why would Jesus need to bring your daddy back to you? Is your father not behind you?”

“He’s not my daddy anymore. He’s not nice to me because I was too bad for too long, and he’s over it.”

I’m going to hell.

“I see. Well, Peyton, the truth is that Jesus is everywhere in spirit, so you can ask him anytime.”

“Right there,” Peyton says, pointing to the cross on the wall, one I know he’s terrified of and purposely avoids looking at during service every year.

“Right here,” the Priest fires, pressing his palm to Peyton’s heart as my eyes burn with the sting. “But, from what I’m hearing you say, you are the one who can bring your daddy back.”

“I dunno, Sir ... am I respect you and be polite?”

“Very,” the priest nods.

“I’m trying very hard!” Peyton declares in watery exasperation, that has my heart cracking dead center.

“Then that’s all you can do.” The priest shoots me a look, one of reassurance, as I softly call Peyton’s name.

“You better run along, Peyton, but remember, you can talk to Jesus at any time if you want him to visit.”

Peyton looks up at the graphic cross, thorns, and blood, and I see it the instant he makes his decision before he stalks toward the twelve-foot, bloodied messiah and bravely starts to shout athim. “Jesus, if I promise to be nice, can you please send my daddy back?!”

“Very good,” The priest says, knowing his message didn’t quite get received, butmine did. My son just had a figurative and literal come to Jesus moment—for me. Bursting at the seams and desperate to get my son in my arms, I stalk over and make it to him just as he turns to me, his eyes brimming with tears.

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