The Christmas Chapel

DECEMBER 23 
CHAPTER ONE 
THE CHAPEL 
Benjamin Dickerson’s arthritic legs ached as he shuffled on the snow-covered sidewalk. His effort to clear a small path to the chapel, which he had just opened, seemed useless as the blizzard kept pounding down, its snowflakes like tiny bombs heading for hapless targets. Bundled up in a heavy coat, wool earmuffs that pinched the stud earring in his left ear, and tall boots, he could barely remain upright against the onslaught. 
The storm began the night before and today it became more relentless as it paralyzed the city so that all transportation had come to a complete stop. 
Benjamin - called Old Ben - shook his head. 
Heaving the shovel over his shoulder, he turned back toward the little chapel. 
It was hopeless to try to clear the sidewalks. He shrugged. Now that he had done it, he wondered if he had been crazy to even open the small church. 
It had been closed for two years ago. But tonight he felt, as its caretaker, that it needed to offer shelter to anyone who was caught in the storm. 
Besides, if it was open again, even just for one night, then maybe he could relive the good old days when it was one of the most prestigious buildings on what had once been elegant DeLancey Street. Now, over one hundred years old, the chapel was a fragile, old-fashioned structure. 
Dusty gray where its frame used to be white, the church was a sad reminder of a vital community that was now a forlorn, four-block neighborhood of empty Victorian houses and buildings. While the city hadn’t officially started turning dear old DeLancey Street into an industrial section of small factories, he knew that when they did, it would ruin the once proud character of the old street that had been among the city’s first settlements. 
Through the falling snow, he glanced across the street where a boarded up three-story Victorian stood. 
Old Ben sighed. He had lived all his life on DeLancey Street and spent much of his childhood in that big, beautiful house. Miss Emily, who owned it, had entertained not only her own eight children and their friends, but the neighborhood kids as well. 
That house had once rocked with so much energetic life. Now it was as dead as Miss Emily who had died in it three years ago. 
Ben had heard that a manufacturer was thinking of buying the house and demolishing it to build a glue factory there. 
Glue! What a thing to do to that pretty ’ol house! 
He shook his head and started to trudge back to the chapel’s entrance. The snow fell faster now, pounding at him with a fury even more zealous. 
Behind him drivers, with their horns blaring, were stalled in their cars. The snow-laden sidewalks were full of people. Desperate to get to their dry, warm destinations, they lowered their heads and plunged through the storm like bulls attacking matadors. 
Old Ben threw them a sympathetic look, and then turned his attention to the steeple. 
Though it was barely visible in this storm, he could still make out its illuminated outline. The blue lights of its tall cross were shining beacons in the white speckled night. 
He fought the wind to open the church’s front door and hurriedly stepped into the foyer. Stomping the snow off his boots, he shrugged out of his heavy coat and went to the thermostat to turn up the heat. If people should come tonight they would need plenty of warmth. And he would give it to them. 
Old Ben laughed softly. The trustees would have a fit if they knew what he was doing. But by the time they got the gas and electric bills, it would all be over. 
Besides, this was probably the last Christmas the little chapel would be here and he would be able to continue living in its back two rooms, to care for and protect the place. 
He knew the trustees were considering selling the church to the developer who would tear it down and sell the land to some stinky factory. The thought sickened him. 
He ran stubby fingers through his thick, gray crew cut hair. This was not a night to be thinking about the chapel’s demise. This was a night to be hospitable; if indeed that was what God needed him and the chapel to be. 
Normally he would have spent this December 23 like he usually did, by himself with his DVD banjo lessons and western paperback novels. Since he had retired eight years ago and his Nellie had died four Christmases ago, there really wasn’t anything else for him to do. They had never had children so he was all alone – a hermit who had started talking to himself but was struggling to keep from answering his own solitary comments. 
“Don’t start answering yourself,” someone once warned him, “because that’s a sure sign you’re going crazy!” 
He sure didn’t want that! To be known as Crazy Old Ben would be just awful. It was bad enough to be known as Old Ben. 
He grinned. “Though I guess at seventy-three I do fit the description,” he said to the chapel as he pushed open the swinging doors that led to the sanctuary. 
The heat hugged him as he flicked on the overhead lights that chased away the dusk’s darkness. He watched with satisfaction as they bathed the oak paneled walls with a golden sheen that added sparkle to the stained-glass windows that were set in them. 
There were eight, created to portray Christ’s life. 
Old Ben looked at the left wall first. Those four glass portrayals were his favorites, showing the Nativity scene with the wise men and shepherds; Jesus as a boy in the temple being confronted by his worried parents; Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist; and Jesus healing the sick. 
He shifted his gaze to the right and an automatic frown dented his already lined face. These were the pictures he didn’t like because they showed the suffering of his beloved Lord. 
There were scenes of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane; of him carrying his cross through an angry mob; of being crucified on that cross in the midst of thieves. Only the last one was easy to bear as it was of Jesus standing by his empty tomb talking to Mary Magdalene. That was the one that showed he had risen from the dead. Even though Old Ben understood the necessity for the tragic death, he always felt bad that it had happened to a nice guy like Jesus.