Page 47 of No Room in the Inn

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, holding up one hand to placate me. He looks a little confused as he glances at me quickly before looking back to the road. “I wasn’t saying that at all. I was just going to say that I already know the true meaning of Christmas. I wasn’t implying anything about you.”

“I—what?”

Nixon frowns over at me. “I wasn’t trying to say you don’t know what Christmas is all about.”

“Oh.” That’s…embarrassing. I swallow, trying to ignore the blush I can feel rising on my cheeks. Nixon just keeps his eyes on the road, which I’m grateful for.

“But now I’m kind of curious about why you got so defensive,” he says.

“I didn’t get defensive.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, they scream “defensive.” Nixon raises one eyebrow at me, and I deserve it.

I sigh, absently running my fingers through my hair. It’s tangled from the wind; brushing it is going to be a special kind of hell.

“Look, you’re running around in a Santa suit, right?” I say. “And singing Christmas carols to old ladies and all that. Whereas I’m…” I gesture vaguely to myself. “I’m in this Santa dress, but I’m running away from my family, and I’m clearly terrible at any and all Christmas activities. Between the two of us, I’m the one that struggles with all this Christmas spirit stuff. From the outside, at least.” The admission makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat, and I can’t quite look over at Nixon. I stare out the windshield instead.

“Hmm,” he says slowly, sounding pensive. It’s funny, but even though I’ve just met him, I already know what expression he’s most likely wearing—thoughtful, interested, with the corners of his lips quirking into that almost-smile.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. When I finally can’t take the silence anymore, I say, “Hmmwhat? What does that mean?”

Nixon doesn’t say anything, but hedoespull an unexpected—and, I suspect, illegal—U-turn until we’re suddenly moving down Main in the opposite—and wrong—direction.

“Um,” I say, frowning at him. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t lost his mind, but also you never really know with him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Nixon Hallstrom, it’s that I have to expect the unexpected. “What are you doing?” I say.

Nixon just holds up one finger and doesn’t speak until we’re all of a sudden pulling to a stop in front of the nativity at the entrance to town.

I crane my neck to see it better. I just look at it for a second—poor Joseph still isn’t in the best condition—and then look at Nixon. To my surprise, there’s no smirk on his face, no grin. Instead he just gives me a small smile. Then he points at the nativity.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the meaning of Christmas. That’s always been the meaning of Christmas. It’s that simple.”

“Huh,” I say, blinking in surprise. I don’t mean to say it, but his words are so unexpected that I can’t stop myself before speaking. I look over at him with interest. “I didn’t realize you were religious.”

He shrugs. “I am.” He pauses. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I am,” I say absently, my brain storing away this new tidbit about him. I guess, now that I think about some of the things he’s said about forgiveness, it makes sense.

I frown. Except…

“Wait a minute,” I say. I glance over at him again, shifting in my seat so I’m facing him. He moves too, leaning not against his seat back but against the car door. He’s as at ease as I’ve ever seen him—as though this is one thing he’s sure of. He cocks one brow at me, inviting me to go on.

“If you believe in Jesus Christ as your Savior and all that—”

“I do,” he says.

I nod. “Then you believe He died for you. Redeemed you and saved you from your sins and mistakes.”

Now it’s Nixon’s turn to nod. “Yes.”

I tilt my head, thinking. “If you truly believe He has the power to forgive you for your sins, then what right do you have not to forgive yourself? I mean,” I say, trying to clarify, “what right do you have to hold on to something He’s already forgiven?” I soften my voice, keeping it gentle, because experience has shown me this is a touchy subject. “You’re sorry, aren’t you? About the crash?”

The peaceful look is gone from Nixon’s face, replaced by a mask of stoicism. But he still nods slowly, answering my question.

I nod. “You’re sorry. You’ve learned your lesson,” I say. “Haven’t you? And you’ve spent the last year making reparations, right?”

Again, the only response I receive is a slow nod accompanied by an impossible-to-read facial expression.

“Those are the requirements for His forgiveness,” I say. “Learn from your mistakes and try to do better. So if He’s forgiven you, what right do you have not to forgive yourself?” I shift in my seat. Then, tentatively—hesitantly—I reach out and cover Nixon’s hands with my own. He looks down at them, surprise briefly flitting over his face.

---