The Red Gloves Collection
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Compilation copyright © Karen Kingsbury 2006
Gideon’s Gift
copyright © Karen Kingsbury 2002
Maggie’s Miracle
copyright © Karen Kingsbury 2003
Sarah’s Song
copyright © Karen Kingsbury 2004
Hannah’s Hope
copyright © Karen Kingsbury 2005
The words to “Sarah’s Song” are copyrighted by Karen Kingsbury and are used by permission.
Scriptures are taken from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
Warner Faith
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com
.
The Warner Faith name and the “W” logo are trademarks of Time Inc. Used under license.
First eBook Edition: October 2006
ISBN: 978-0-446-55324-7
Contents
Praise for THE RED GLOVES SERIES
On GIDEON:
“This may be a small book, but there is nothing little about its message of hope and the miraculous. Give yourself a gift. Read GIDEON’S GIFT.”
—
Robin Lee Hatcher,
author of
Firstborn
“GIDEON’S GIFT is fabulous! It’s a perfect book for the whole family.”
—June Cotner,
author of
Christmas Blessings
“Heartrending and gentle … This second chance for two souls will give you goose bumps. Karen Kingsbury delivers!”
—Deborah Bedford,
author of
A Morning Like This
On MAGGIE:
“To call Karen Kingsbury an author is a disservice. She is an artist, and MAGGIE’S MIRACLE is yet another breathtaking masterpiece. When I finished the last page, I could only shake my head in wonder.”
—Mark Atteberry,
author of
The Samson Syndrome
“I loved this book! Karen has a gift for writing an appealing, sweet story that captures the reader’s heart. It increased my faith and reminded me that God is in control!”
—Margaret Maxwell,
wife of bestselling author John C. Maxwell
“Karen Kingsbury is a great fiction writer and an even better person. Wait until you read MAGGIE’S MIRACLE! You will be deeply touched.”
—Pat Williams,
Sr. Vice President, Orlando Magic
“Karen never ceases to brilliantly move her readers with heartfelt stories—MAGGIE’S MIRACLE is no exception.”
—Dr. Gary Smalley,
founder of Smalley Relationship Center
“MAGGIE’S MIRACLE is a delightful Christmas story that warms the heart and brings the availability of miracles to happen in our own lives. It is an easy-reading book; in fact, I couldn’t put it down until I had finished reading it.”
—Anna M. Hayford,
wife of Dr. Jack Hayford, chancellor, King’s Seminary
On SARAH:
“Carve one hour out of this busy holiday season and curl up by the fire with SARAH’S SONG. You’ll be deeply touched, even moved to tears, by this simple, gentle story of an older woman’s memories and a younger woman’s heartache. As they count the days until Christmas, both women’s lives are changed forever. May your life be changed as well!
—Liz Curtis Higgs,
bestselling author of
Thorn in My Heart
“SARAH’S SONG is sure to touch the heart of the reader. Karen Kingsbury has crafted another moving story of God’s hope and restoration. This isn’t to be missed!”
—Tracie Peterson,
bestselling author of
Silent Star
and
Eyes of the Heart
“Kingsbury can touch the heart like no other author. SARAH’S SONG made me treasure the gifts of love in my own life. This tender story is sure to be a Christmas favorite year after year.”
—Colleen Coble, author of
Without a Trace
and
Beyond a Doubt
On HANNAH:
“The newest Red Gloves Christmas novella by Karen Kingsbury has become part of my Christmas tradition over the last three years, along with
Gideon’s Gift, Maggies Miracle,
and
Sarah’s Song.
In HANNAH’S HOPE, Kingsbury raises her own bar of excellence. Truly touching, a wonderful cast of characters, and a tribute to the members of the armed forces serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. Thanks, Karen, for touching my heart and for once more making the true Spirit of Christmas come alive in me.”
—Tracey Bateman,
author of The Claire Everett Series
To my parents, Anne and Ted Kingsbury, on the celebration of their fortieth wedding anniversary. Thank you for defining that elusive, “forever” kind of love the world needs so badly. You have been and continue to be an inspiration to each of us five kids, and to our families.
And a special thanks to Dad for creating a rich and poignant memory for me when I was a little girl, something I have never forgotten—something that inspired the writing of
Gideon’s Gift.
The memory goes something like this:
It is Thanksgiving and after the meal you heap leftovers on a sturdy paper plate. We pile into the van and drive around until you find one of the local street people. With tears in your eyes, you step out of the car and hand over the food. “Happy Thanksgiving,” you say, your voice choked.
When you climb back behind the wheel, you look at Mom and shrug, your chin quivering. And then you say it, the thing you say still today:
“There, but for the grace of God, go I.”
T
he gift that changed them all had led to this: a Christmas wedding.
Nothing could have been more appropriate. Gideon was an angel, after all. Not the haloed, holy kind. But the type that once in a while—when the chance presented itself—made you stare a little harder at her upper back. In case she was sprouting wings.
From his seat in the back of the church, Earl Bad-gett’s tired old eyes grew moist. A Christmas wedding was the only kind for Gideon. Because if ever angels shone it was in December. This was the season when Gideon’s gift had mattered most.
Gideon’s gift.
A million memories called to him. Had it been thirteen years? Earl stared at the vision she made, surrounded by white satin and lace. The greatest miracle was that Gideon had survived.
He brushed the back of his hand over his damp cheeks.
She actually survived.
But that wasn’t the only miracle.
Earl watched Gideon smile at her father—the glowing, unforgettable smile of a young woman on the brink of becoming. The two of them linked arms and began a graceful walk down the aisle. It was a simple wedding, really. A church full of family and friends, there to witness a most tender moment for a girl who deserved it more than any other. A girl whose love, whose very presence, lit the room and caused people to feel grateful for one reason alone: They had been given the privilege of knowing Gideon Mercer. God had lent her a little while longer to the mere mortals who made up her world. And in that they were all blessed.
Gideon and her father were halfway down the aisle when it happened. Gideon hesitated, glanced over her shoulder, and found Earl. Her eyes had that haunting look that spoke straight to his soul, the same as they always had. They shared the briefest smile, a smile that told him he wasn’t the only one. She, too, was remembering the miracle of that Christmas.
The corners of Earl’s mouth worked their way up his worn face.
You did it, angel. You got jour dream.
His heart danced with joy. It was all he could do to stay seated, when everything in him wanted to stand and cheer.
Go get ‘em, Gideon!
As they rarely did anymore, the memories came like long lost friends. Filling Earl’s mind, flooding his senses, linking hands with his heart and leading him back. Back thirteen years to that wondrous time when heaven orchestrated an event no less miraculous than Christmas itself. An event that changed both their lives.
An event that saved them.
Time flew … back to the winter when Earl first met Gideon Mercer.
T
he red gloves were all that mattered.
If living on the streets of Portland was a prison, the red gloves were the key. The key that—for a few brief hours—set him free from the lingering stench and hopeless isolation, free from the relentless rain and the tarp-covered shanty.
The key that freed him to relive the life he’d once had. A life he could never have again.
Something about the red gloves took him back and made it all real—their voices, their touch, their warmth as they sat with him around the dinner table each night. Their love. It was as though he’d never lost a bit of it.
As long as he wore the gloves.
Otherwise, the prison would have been unbearable. Because the truth was Earl had lost everything. His life, his hope, his will to live. But when he slipped on the gloves … Ah, when he felt the finely knit wool surround his fingers, Earl still had the one thing that mattered. He still had a family. If only for a few dark hours.
It was the first of November, and the gloves were put away, hidden in the lining of his damp parka. Earl never wore them until after dinner, when he was tucked beneath his plastic roof, anxious to rid himself of another day. He would’ve loved to wear them all the time, but he didn’t dare. They were nice gloves. Handmade. The kind most street people would snatch from a corpse.
Dead or alive, Earl had no intention of losing them.
He shuffled along Martin Luther King Boulevard, staring at the faces that sped past him. He was invisible to them. Completely invisible. He’d figured that much out his first year on the streets. Oh, once in a while ^they’d toss him a quarter or shout at him: “Get a job, old man!” or “Go back to California!”
But mostly they just ignored him.
The people who passed him were still in the race, still making decisions and meeting deadlines, still believing it could never happen to them. They carried themselves with a sense of self-reliance—a certainty that they were somehow better than him. For most of them, Earl was little more than a nuisance. An unsightly blemish on the streets of their nice city.