Historical, United States, Contemporary 

December evenings in Texas resist the holiday spirit. They tend to be balmy and warm, more tropical than polar. But I remember one in 2004 that cooperated. A chill was in the air. Winter was creeping southward. We bundled up in our winter coats and drove to the nearby high school for a Christmas banquet.
Families sat at round tables. Tables were adorned with wreaths. Each wreath centerpieced with a candle. We drank wassail, ate turkey, and–the highlight of the night–we listened to the high school choir sing a rendition of holiday songs.
It might help to know that the school is Episcopalian, with strong Anglican roots. The choir director cherished the old hymns. Less “Chestnuts” and “Rudolf” and more “Silent Night” and “Herald Angels.”
It was delightful. As the choir sang and the families listened, I enjoyed that all too fleeting feeling, “All is right with the world.” I stared at the candle as it flickered and I thought of candles as they have done the same at a thousand Christmases. And as I enjoyed the moment and watched the candle, a story began to take shape. A candlemaker in the English Cotswolds. A 19th century village of simple people in need of a miracle. By midnight, I had sketched the story on paper: “The Christmas Candle.”