Cold Coats

 It is cold and there is no avoiding that. No longer a chance of denying it. I cover myself in layer upon layer of clothing, donning thick jackets and sweatshirts, pants with thermal lining and tight-fitting boxers with the same. Mom taught me to leave no room for wind or air or breathing or any stray snowflake to enter into my little mobile cocoon. I wouldn’t be out of place in one of those Arctic Research stations. Smiling to myself, I wondered if I looked like the Michelin Man or perhaps a resurrected mummy. I hoped that Brendan Fraser wouldn’t pop out of one of the snowbanks that flanked the driveways and sidewalks of the city, intent on uncovering my treasure and healing my curse. 

Something rustled as the wind blew and I froze, almost literally, scanning the white-capped trash cans that the sound had come from. A cat skittered out, sliding across the icy road on his way home. I breathed a sigh of relief, pushing mist like a dragon through my scarf. As I watched, the cat clambered onto a porch and disappeared through a little door. 

“Good. It’s too cold for you,” I said to myself, resuming my solemn march. My little toy watch read 8:31 PM. The weatherman had said it was 14 degrees with a wind chill of 7 degrees. Shuddering, I pulled my heavy coverings tightly around me, burying my gloved hands into big pockets. 

It’d been a couple miles since I left my home. 

I wasn’t going back either. 

This Christmas had started off badly. Charlie Mercher, the horrid father that he is, had lost himself to a bottle of caramel whiskey in the early evening. The rest of the night, which was usually reserved for celebration, had been a violent flurry of harsh words and frightening promises. Mary Mercher, my sweet old lady, wouldn’t let me near him. I’m not sure what the fight was about this time, but I’m pretty sure that momma is my momma and that dad may not be my dad. 

I didn’t know what to think of that. 

I didn’t want to think about it either. 

I share my momma’s nose, small and with a wide bridge. I’ve got her brown hair and her brown eyes. We’ve got the same sense of humor and the same freckles and the same favorite foods but . . . the only thing that I share with my dad is my last name. I preferred my first name anyways; Thomas sounds much better than Mercher. What did Mercher even mean anyways? Angry? Drunk? 

Unfaithful?

My younger brother Michael liked his last name. 

But he couldn’t speak yet. He’d just throw his little chubby arms up gleefully when I’d say it. 

He had dad’s eyes. 

I didn’t. 

My heart was cool with guilt, but what was I supposed to do? There’s no way little Michael would survive out in this cold. My only chance as a ten-year-old is to march forward.

 I’ll send help when I find it. 

And I will find it.

Well, I hope I will. 

Just me and my cold coats. 

There was a fire department somewhere nearby. I knew it was childish, but they’d always been my heroes. They’d rush into frigid fires to save people from their untimely doom. Modern day knights in shining armor! I always thought that those flaming houses I’d see on the news looked like dragons. Their doors were mouths that breathed fire and consumed families. The kids in my class laughed at me when I told them that I wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up. 

“That’s so childish!”

“You’re too skinny!”

And all the laughter a young man could endure. 

I’d do it anyway. 

 Heat flushed my face at the memory, thawing my icy cheeks for a moment before succumbing to the screaming cold. 

It hurt and I couldn’t find the fire station. 

I searched for some time, following the moon through a curtain of fluffy white. The houses on either side of the street were alive with light, the silhouettes of happy families and normal lives performed a play for me beyond sheltered, warm curtains. A young boy spotted me while he stood by a brightly decorated tree, his window curtains drawn to let in the night's winter beauty. I stopped and stared at him for a while, and he returned the favor. I waved. He waved. I opened my mouth to say something, but a woman appeared. She scolded the boy, ignoring his protests, and closed the curtains. 

I wondered, had my parents been any different, if I’d be on the other side of that window too. 

Shaking the thought, I marched on, a cool chill finally piercing my layers of protection. 

After what seemed like a very long time, a town broke through the suburbs. Tall buildings rose on either side of me like giants decorated in bright lights. The spectacle seemed a stark contrast to the icicles that hung from their roofs. As I crossed the street, a man dressed in a black suit stopped me. 

“Hey, kiddo! What’re you doing out in the cold so late?” He smiled warmly. 

I shrunk away from him. “None of your business,” I grumbled, hiding my face behind my scarf. 

His smile didn’t fade. “I didn’t mean to offend you, son.” He lifted his eyes, gazing behind me as if looking for someone. I followed his stare into the blizzard that followed me. “It’s getting pretty bad out here. Do you have somewhere warm to stay?”

I shook my head. 

“I see. Where are your parents?”

I didn’t answer. 

“Hmm. Do you need help?”

I shook my head again. 

“I got you. Well,” he gestured to a tall, brightly lit building behind him. The doors were open to the cold, the inside of which was lined in benches filled with well-dressed people. “If you need somewhere warm to shelter, you’re welcome here. We have hot cocoa!”

 There was cheerful singing coming from the building. It sounded like a particular type of celebration.

“Are you having a birthday party?” I asked. 

He chuckled, following my eyes to the building. “Actually, yes! I suppose we are!” The man saw my expression. “Oh, don’t worry, they may not sing well, but you know what they say, joyful noise and all that!” He laughed heartily. I smiled along with him. The man appeared friendly enough and the building looked warm and inviting but . . .

“No thank you,” I said. “I’m on a mission.”

“Oh yeah? Can I ask you what your mission is?”

I thought for a moment. Distrustfully, I responded, “I’m trying to save someone.”

My little brother needs help. I wanted to say, but the knot in my throat nearly choked me. Between it and the cold, I struggled to move. My bones hurt. Hot cocoa sounded really good. I wouldn’t mind singing either. Part of me hoped that they had a birthday cake as well. I couldn’t remember the last time that I’d celebrated a birthday, but my friends at school would tell me about theirs all the time. 

“Save someone? Who?”

I didn’t respond. 

After a moment, he continued. “Well, you’re in luck, son! I just so happen to know a Man who’s in the business of saving people!” He grew excited. 

I didn’t respond. 

“I could introduce you, if you’d like. Maybe He could help save whoever you’re trying to help as well.”

“Are they a firefighter?” I asked. 

“Hah! A firefighter? I suppose so! But He fights the kind of fire that lasts an eternity. Actually, He’s already defeated it.”

“He must be very brave then.”

“Oh, He was.”

“Was?”

“Mhm,” the man smiled solemnly. “He died, nailed to that up there by the very same people that He fought the fire for.” He pointed to a giant cross on the pointy part of the building. 

“How could they do that? Wait, He died up there?!” I exclaimed. 

“Oh! No, not that exact one. That’s just a copy.”

“Why is it on your building then--if it killed such a brave man?” My imagination swam with the idea of a yellow-clad firefighter hanging from those pieces of wood. 

“That’s a good question, son. We put it there to remember Him and what He did. But do you want to know the best part?” He asked.

I nodded, intrigued. 

“He rose again three days after His death. He used His blood to put out the fire!”

My eyes grew wide, welcoming the sting of the bitter wind. “He must’ve had a lot of blood . . .”

The man chuckled. “Enough to cover everyone who was on fire and doesn’t want to burn anymore . . . including you and me.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the howling wind tossed my scarf wildly. 

I’m on fire? I wondered.

“Would you like to come inside?”

“He’s in there?!”

“Mhm. Well, He’s everywhere, but we can talk about that later.”

“I–” The biggest part of me wanted to go in with the man. To sing. To eat. To meet this mysterious firefighter who defeats eternal fire with His blood. I wanted to shake His hand. To tell Him about mom being mom and dad being maybe dad. I wanted Him to save my little brother, to take him with Him to whatever firehouse He served at. 

But dad had warned me about buildings like this. He’d told me to watch out for the people under the cross. He told me they were judgmental and mean and that they’d always make promises that they didn’t intend to keep. Fear ran rampant in my heart. 

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

And I ran, my feet crunching through the snow. The man called out after me, panic in his voice. I thought he’d come after me, so I picked up the pace. 

Focus! Find the firehouse! Send help to little brother!

It didn’t take much more wandering before I realized just how lost I was. Turning back, the man and building were nowhere to be seen. Did I take a left to get here? No, a right and then a left! No, no, that can’t be right. Continuing onward, I stumbled into a large field with a sign that read “Calvary Park.” My legs were soaked through with slush, refreezing and melting with the cyclic heating and cooling of my movement. I could no longer feel my face. I tried to touch my nose, wondering if it was still there, but couldn’t tell. I sniffed a few times, filling my lungs with an aching coolness. I fought the panic that icicles might form inside me.  

At least I have my nose. 

A bench sat beneath a quaint street post, bathed in its soft light and covered in a layer of fluffy powder. My body ached and burned with a violent numbness. I yawned, finally slowing down enough to realize just how tired I really was.

It wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a while, would it?

I plopped down onto the bench, sending an avalanche off its sides. Leaning back, I stared into the silent sky. It was pitch black.  No, my eyes were just closed. I forced them back open. The darkened sky erupted with sparkling lights above me, only partially shrouded by the lazy drifting of snowflakes, all illuminated by the gentle moon. As I lay there, my strength abating, my breathing slowing, I listened to the intense nothingness. 

How can a world be so active and yet so quiet? I wondered. 

There was a sudden bout of panic as I fought the urge to sleep. 

No. Don’t close your eyes!

 But they’re so . . . heavy. 

They almost closed.

“Help!” I called out to the darkening heavens.

“Timothy!”

“H-huh?” I groaned. 

Someone was rushing toward me. They spoke my name with a voice that I recognized but had never heard before. They wrapped me in a thick blanket and scooped me up from the bench. I opened my eyes dreamily, fluttering as their heat seared my body. 

“G-uh?” I grumbled. 

“Shhh, son. I have you.” 

He wore a yellow and tan coat. I brushed my hand against it. It was cold, like mine. 

“C-old,” I struggled to speak. 

He grabbed my fingers with a gloved hand. “Shhh, son. I know. I’ll get you somewhere warm.” He ran through the streets, carrying me like a little child. I wanted to protest. To remind him that I am ten and not a kid. To tell him to go rescue my younger brother, the one who really needs it. As my eyes slowly regained focus, my body warmed by the man, I realized something about Him . . .

“Fire . . . fighter?” I whispered weakly. 

The man smiled a glorious smile. One that instantly warmed my body and something much, much deeper. “Of sorts, yes. Be still, son. It’s my birthday today, did you know that?” His hair was fluffy, spilling out from under a fireman’s helmet. I touched it. It felt like sheep’s wool. I remembered the feeling from a field trip last year in Ms. Hooley’s class. We visited a farm. I liked petting the animals, even though I wasn’t supposed to, but there was one animal that was softer than all the others . . . 

A lamb.

“Birthday? I met a man earlier who was celebrating a birthday too . . .”

“Is that so? Well, we should go,” He said, setting me down on some steps. “Are you alright?” He asked, concerned. 

There was warmth in me now where there had been only ice before. “I-I am. Thank you.” I looked up into the man’s big, green eyes in bewilderment. 

This man is a firefighter! A hero!

My hero.

I knew someone who needed a hero.

“My-”

“Your brother, right?” He interrupted. 

I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t. 

“Don’t worry, son, I’ve got him covered,” He winked, “I’ve got you too. It’s going to be all right, trust me.” 

“Th-thank you.” Somehow and for some reason, those words felt more concrete to me than even the hardest stone. I believed that this firefighter could quench any fire. I thought back to the man from earlier and the weird conversation that we had shared. “Am I on fire?” I asked. 

“Hah!” The man smiled brightly. “Not anymore, Thomas.”

“You know my name?”

He nodded. “And many others. Regardless, you’re not on fire outwardly, Thomas, and I do not fight outward fires. I leave that to men like you.”

“I-I don’t understand,” I responded.

“Most people don’t,” the stranger replied, “but I know someone who can teach you about it.” He stood from where He had laid me down and walked toward an open door, banging on its wood loudly. I realized that there had been singing before, behind the wonder and chilly fuzz in my ears, but it stopped at His beckoning. 

“Oh my gosh!”

“Is he okay?” 

There were suddenly a lot of well-dressed people surrounding me. The man from earlier, the one who spoke in strange riddles of an everlasting firefighter, helped me to my feet and brought me inside. 

“Are you okay?” They asked. 

“Get him some hot cocoa and a change of clothes!”

“Oh Lord, please don’t let him have hypothermia!”

“Should we call 911, Pastor Michael?”

“No,” the man, Pastor Michael, responded. “He’s not hypothermic, but he got pretty darn close. Son, what happened?”

“I-I-” With so many faces around me, each twisted with worry, words became very hard to find. “I was so cold, but He–” I pointed to where the firefighter had been, but no one was there. “He saved me . . .”

“Who saved you?” Pastor Michael followed my fingers, confused.

“The firefighter. Didn’t you see him?”

He looked at me now, his brow furrowed. “Firefighter?”

“I didn't see anyone.”

“Are you sure he's okay?”

“Maybe he’s delirious?”

The congregation chattered on and on, but the Pastor simply stared at me. We had a silent conversation, one that only he and I understood. 

I had been put out. 

I wasn’t on fire-even on the inside–anymore. 

Not in the way that I had been. 

That night was full of fear and worry but ended in warmth and good conversation. Pastor Michael listened to my story about dad and about mom, calling someone who could help. They took my little brother and I away, putting us in a new home with a couple from the congregation. They were friendly, protective, and never missed a church meeting. We celebrated every birthday, every holiday, and I had my fill of a blessed life–not to mention birthday cake.  

And whenever someone would ask about my understanding of Jesus Christ, I’d tell them, quite plainly and quite simply, with the same bewilderment that I felt as a child, that Christ had saved me twice that night. 

Once from the searing cold.

And once when He put out the fire that consumed my soul.