It was early evening Boxing Day - One year ago…
Settling on a branch of a weather blown tree a Tawny Owl gazed from a sky heavily grey with the certainty of heavy snowfall to the distant twinkling lights of a small Welsh village nestled in a valley far below. Comprising of rows of terraced houses, two pubs, a garage and random corner shops the most dominant building in the village was the Chapel whose solid oak doors were never locked.
As villagers settled in the snug warmth of their homes for the second day of Christmas and a bitterly cold wind remorselessly chased fallen leaves along the narrow streets the Chapel stood silent and forlorn, the only illumination within its pitch-black interior being when a passing moonbeam briefly entered through its side windows. But the Chapel wasn’t as deserted as it appeared. Waiting patiently in the shadows of the altar an elderly clergyman, the Reverend Henry Griffiths, dourly reflected that a small hand carved figurine of Jesus, which for years stood on a wooden plinth near the pulpit, was missing and had undoubtedly been stolen.
Angry, yet bewildered someone would steal something that belonged to everyone, with valuable items, solid silver cups and the like around the altar, if the thief returned the last thing he would expect was anyone to be in the Chapel on a cold winters evening. Feeling a sudden cold shiver, the Reverend reflected how the statue had been presented to him when he was a young priest in Africa and before returning home had made a final visited his congregation living in a nearby mud hut village. Visualising in his mind’s eye how the villagers sang and danced as the headman handed him the ebony statue, not for the first time the Reverend considered how he’d shaken hands with every villager and how people rarely look down when their hands connect for this universal gesture of trust and good will. The absolute silence was suddenly shattered by a distant echoing creak, the unmistakable sound confirming one of the front doors had opened. Hearing approaching footsteps the Reverend moved further into the shadows and in the exact moment a passing moonbeam illuminated the central aisle it revealed seven year old Timothy Wilkins, the last person the Reverend expected to be the thief, even worse he was wheeling a bicycle down the aisle. Continuing to watch as Timothy halted in front of the altar, he pushed down a lever beneath the bicycle for it to stand propped up. About to confront Timothy, the Reverend hesitated when he unzipped his jacket and gently placed the statue onto the plinth. Removing his woollen bobble hat revealing an angelic face crowned with a halo of tousled curly blonde hair Timothy murmured. “I promised you Jesus, if you gave me a mountain bike for Christmas, I’d take you for a ride on it!” Quickly pushing up the stand Timothy swivelled the bicycle around and promptly headed back down the aisle. When the vague glow of the moonbeam faded plunging the Chapel into total darkness the Reverend smiled the warmest of contented smiles as he heard the distant rumble of the Chapel door closing.
* * *
Still perched on the branch of the weather worn tree the Tawny Owl continued to gaze down at the distant twinkling lights until gently falling snowflakes increased to a dense a dense white wall that obscured them. The wind continued the chase leaves around the streets, the Chapel stood empty and silent and as the second day of Christmas drew to a close all was well in the sleepy Welsh village nestled in the valley…
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