The Christmas House

We wanted the opposite. No pressure to be happy, no half-hearted attempts at the old traditions, no memories where my brother’s absence would remind us of this gaping loss.

“Guess what I found?”  My nephew screeched to a brief halt, as he and his cousins raced around exploring the house we had rented for Christmas.  We were refugees, fleeing our past Christmas traditions, and having Christmas in a town where we’d never been before. 

The Christmas House was the rambling, two story rectory for the small Episcopal church.  The house may have been bigger than the church.  Possibly.  Too big for the solo priest, certainly, so the church rented it out.  It connected to the church through a passageway, and he popped in from time to time to see if we needed anything. 

The kitchen was oddly and delightfully stocked.  Three colanders, multiple bottles of bargain wine, six corkscrews, and no working knives.  No platters, and dozens of glasses.  A dining room, plus a huge eat-in kitchen. 

My nephews, niece and daughter roamed around, finding mattresses in odd closets so they could all sleep in one room.  We put presents under the tree, and family photos in the dining room.  

We walked to the charming downtown for the beauty of walking in the snow, and found a coffee shop we loved.  We peered in store windows, loving that everything was new.  We had no Christmas traditions here.  We were free to make our own – no none.  There was no demand for celebration. 

This was the first Christmas after my brother’s unexpected death.  I couldn’t picture being at his home without him, or my parents’ home without him, so we decided to get together somewhere entirely different.  Some sorrowful people want to immerse themselves in tradition as a way of holding life together.  We wanted the opposite.  No pressure to be happy, no half-hearted attempts at the old traditions, no memories where my brother’s absence would remind us of this gaping loss.  We would feel our sorrow in different ways. 

Cardinals always remind us of my brother.  Once in a backyard celebration for him, several came to sit in a small tree, listening attentively.  Their red catches my eye often, and I send him a hello.  Here in this Christmas rental, in my parents’ first floor room, was my nephew’s discovery -- a gigantic photo of a cardinal, hanging right above their bed.  At the time, my mother was sliding into the Parkinson’s that would end her life.  This unfamiliar house sheltered her restless sleep under a reminder of my brother. 

On Christmas morning, we sat at the table, nibbling on eggs and Christmas cookies.  “Look,” someone said in awe, and we all fell silent.  In the bush outside our window, not one but two cardinals had come to say hello.  A wealth of love.  They sat in the bush a long time as we watched through the window. 

In that first sorrowful year, when we didn’t know how to hold grief and celebration together, the Christmas House cradled us in our sorrow, and we received all the gifts we needed. 

In this uncertain COVID Christmas, I hope you receive all the gifts you need, too.  I hope whatever you need alights tenderly in your life, at just the right time. 

-- Mary Austin

The images are via Pexels by Eric Mclean (the house) and Tina Nord (the cardinal.)