“It is a Bergstrom family tradition that the most recently married couple chooses the tree,” said Sylvia. “James is not here, I can’t bring in a tree alone, and I don’t want to go with anyone else. Rather than break family tradition, I’ve decided against having a tree this year.”
Claudia peered at her. “So you believe that the most recently married couple, or bride, in this case, should decide whether we have a tree.”
“Exactly.”
“That sounds reasonable to me.”
“Good,” said Sylvia, surprised that her sister had conceded so easily.
With a triumphant grin, Claudia turned to Agnes. “It’s up to you, then. Should we have a tree this year or not?”
Startled, Sylvia spun to face Agnes. She had forgotten. It was too cruel to admit, but it was sometimes difficult for her to remember that Richard was married, that Agnes was more than a visitor.
“If it’s up to me …” Agnes avoided Sylvia’s eyes. “I would like to have a tree.”
Claudia’s smile broadened in satisfaction, sparking Sylvia’s anger. “You’ll have to bring it in yourselves,” Sylvia said, and strode off to the sitting room to work on the Christmas Quilt.
She heard them at the back door dressing to go out into the snow, but she did not move from her chair. She worked on the Christmas Quilt, pausing only to take the strudel from the oven—baked to a perfect golden brown—and fix lunch for her father. She placed a bowl of soup, some crackers, and a mug of hot tea with lemon and honey on a tray and carried it up to the library, where her father was reading a book in an armchair in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blue-and-white Ocean Waves quilt her mother had made long ago.
“Lunchtime,” she announced. “Chicken noodle soup and tea with honey.”
“Better than any medicine.” Carrying his book and holding the quilt around himself, her father joined her at the large oak desk and seated himself in the leather chair as she placed the tray before him. “What are you girls up to down there? I thought I heard the back door open.”
“Claudia and Agnes went out for a Christmas tree.” Sylvia nudged a stack of business papers out of the way and moved the bowl of soup closer.
“Oh?” Her father brightened. “That’s a fine idea. I was beginning to think you girls didn’t want a tree this year.”
“Agnes had her heart set on it.”
“Do you need me to help place it in the stand?”
“We’ll manage, Father. Thank you.”
“Nonsense.” A fit of hoarse coughing interrupted him. “I’m feeling fine.”
“Oh, yes, I can see that you are. You should be in bed.” At his warning look, she held up her palms. “Fine. You’re on the mend. I’m not going to argue with you.”
“You’re the one who should be in bed,” he pointed out, indicating her abdomen with a nod.
“Nowthat is nonsense,” said Sylvia, dismissing his advice with a smile. “I’ll let you know when the tree is in place so you can help decorate.”
Not long after she returned to her quilt, she heard the back door open. A moment later, Claudia stood in the sitting room doorway, still in her coat and boots. “Sylvia,” she said, fighting to catch her breath, “I need your help.”
Alarmed, Sylvia hauled herself awkwardly to her feet. “What’s wrong? Is Agnes hurt?”
“No, but she’s—I can’t explain. Just come with me.”
Quickly Sylvia threw on some old winter clothes of James’s, having outgrown her own coat, and followed her sister outside. They trudged through the snow toward the largest stand of evergreens, following the narrow trail Claudia and Agnes had broken earlier.
They had not ventured far. They were still within sight of the manor when Sylvia spotted Agnes’s coat and hood through the bare-limbed elms on the other side of the creek. The young woman stood fixed in place, gazing up into the branches of a Frazier fir. It was full, tall, and straight, and as they drew closer, Sylvia could see why Agnes had chosen it.
“What’s the matter?” Sylvia asked, lowering her voice. “Is she afraid to hurt herself with the ax? Do you need me to do it?”
“You’re welcome to try, if she’ll let you.”
As they reached Agnes, Sylvia realized that the emotion in her sister’s manner was exasperation, not worry. “Agnes?” she asked carefully. “Is something wrong with the tree?”
“No.” Agnes stared up at it, her expression unreadable. “It’s perfect.”
Sylvia looked around for the ax and spotted it on the toboggan. “Then let’s cut it down and take it inside.”
“No!” Agnes caught Sylvia by the coat sleeve before she could lift the ax. “Don’t you see? There’s a bird’s nest up there.”
She pointed, and Sylvia followed the line of her finger to a spot just above the midsection of the tree. After a moment’s scrutiny, she was able to discern a nest of twigs, brown leaves, and straw hidden within the spruce branches.
“I told her it’s abandoned,” said Claudia. “All the birds have flown south for the winter.”
“Not all of them,” countered Agnes.
“Some chickadees don’t. Neither do owls and woodpeckers.”
“What sort of bird made that nest?” asked Sylvia.
Agnes hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Then it most likely belonged to a robin who left for sunnier skies months ago.” Claudia shook her head. “It’s almost certain that’s an uninhabited nest.”
“Almostcertain,” said Agnes. “I don’t want to destroy the home of a living creature if we can’t do any better than ‘almost.’ Even if the bird did migrate, what will it think when it returns home in the spring and discovers its home is gone?”
Sylvia had never given much thought to what birds thought, or even if they did. “Perhaps the bird would be glad to have the excuse to build a nice, new nest in a tree deeper in the woods.”
Incredulous, Agnes looked at her. “Is that how you would feel? Is that how you think the boys would feel if they came home from the war and found that we had torn down Elm Creek Manor and moved into the old Nelson farmhouse because it was closer to town?”
Claudia threw up her hands. “This is so far beyond reasonable that I don’t think the word has been invented yet to properly describe it.”
Agnes, hurt and close to tears, turned her gaze back to the tree. Sylvia saw that she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.
“I have a solution,” she said carefully. “Why don’t you pick another tree, one without a nest in it?”
“No.” The set of Agnes’s jaw showed that she was resolute. “It has to be this one. I knew the moment I saw it.”
“But—” Sylvia threw Claudia a helpless glance, but Claudia just shook her head. “We have so many trees, and you haven’t spent much time looking. I’m sure you’ll find another tree just as lovely.”
“No, I won’t. I didn’t set out to find an adequate tree or the most convenient tree. I set out to find the right one, and I did. This is the one I choose. Haven’t you ever found something and known in your heart that it was meant to be yours?”
Sylvia had, once. She sighed. “Well, you found it all right, but you can’t keep it.”
“I know that,” said Agnes.
Sylvia thought for a moment. “We could move the nest to another tree.”
“You are not climbing a tree in your condition,” said Claudia. “Let Agnes do it.”
“I don’t know how to climb trees,” said Agnes defensively. “One doesn’t get much practice in a city.”
“You know a lot about the migratory habits of the birds of Pennsylvania for a girl who’s never climbed a tree.”
“Stop bickering,” ordered Sylvia. “I’m trying to think.” Claudia was right to say Agnes was not being reasonable, but Sylvia had never seen the younger girl dig in her heels before, and she had to admit it was a change she approved of. She also sensed that something else lay beneath the surface of Agnes’s insistence. Someho
w the fate of the absent bird, their men overseas, and Agnes’s own exile from her family home had become intertwined in the young woman’s mind, and although Sylvia didn’t quite understand it, she longed for a solution that would bring peace to Agnes’s troubled heart and restore contentment to the family.
A light gust of wind stirred the trees, sending a light dusting of snow upon Agnes’s fir. The tiny crystals glittered like diamonds in the midday sun.
Suddenly it came to her. “Let’s decorate the tree out here.”
The others stared at her, Claudia bewildered, Agnes hopeful. “Out here?” echoed Claudia.
“Yes, why not? It’s within sight of the house. We can enjoy it from the ballroom windows.”
Claudia was aghast. “Hang ornaments that have been in the family for generations on a tree outside in the dead of winter?”
“We don’t have to,” exclaimed Agnes. “We’ve already strung popcorn and cranberries and nuts. We can trim the trees with those—”
“And apples, for a bit of color,” added Sylvia.
“And candles for the light—”
“Oh, yes, by all means,” interrupted Claudia. “What’s Christmas without a forest fire?”
“Very well, forget the candles.” Agnes beamed at Sylvia. “Will you help me?”
Sylvia smiled. “Of course.”
Once Claudia saw they had made up their minds, she resigned herself to Agnes’s peculiar choice and would not be left out of the decorating. They went back to the house for the apples, popcorn garlands, and strings of cranberries and nuts, which they wrapped around the Frazier fir by tossing one end of the strings into the highest branches they could reach and unwinding as they walked around the tree. With bits of twine, they tied apples by their stems to the ends of branches, which dipped slightly beneath the weight. Inspired, Sylvia sent Agnes back to the house for cookie cutters, which they used to carve stars and circles from packed snow, frosted shapes they arranged on the boughs like ornaments. Claudia turned out to be quite good at it. Soon she was enjoying herself as much as the others, and she led them in Christmas carols, including a few of her own invention.
“Don’t sit under the Christmas tree, with anyone else but me,” Claudia sang, and the others burst into laughter. She pretended to be insulted. “Don’t laugh. I’m composing a holiday classic.”
“I’m sure Glenn Miller can’t wait to record it,” said Sylvia.
Afterward, they stood back to admire their work. Agnes glowed with happiness, and Claudia admitted that their tree was pretty in its own way. “It’s certainly unique,” Sylvia agreed, and the women linked arms as they trudged through the snow back to the manor, pulling the toboggan behind them.
The next morning, Sylvia’s father felt well enough to accompany the women to church. The mood of the congregation was more subdued than celebratory, more longing than joyful. Sylvia knew that nearly every person gathered there yearned for a brother, father, husband, or son overseas, or was grieving for someone lost to the war. Even the pastor had a brother serving in France, and in his sermon he referred to the men they all missed and their longing for peace.
“We must not give in to despair,” the pastor said. “We must have faith that the Lord who loves us will not abandon us. Though far too many of us have sewn gold stars on the service banners displayed in our front windows, though so many of us mourn, we must not believe that God has ceased loving us. He has not forgotten us. In our moments of weakness, we may fear that we walk alone, but we must never forget that God has sent us the light of his love and mercy. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome it.
“The miracle of Christmas is that in sending to us His only Son, whose birth we celebrate this morning, God kindled a light in the darkness that shrouded the earth, a light that continues to shine brightly and will never be extinguished. Today, my dear brothers and sisters, we are confronted by darkness—the darkness of war, of tyranny, of oppression, of loneliness, of evil manifest in the world. Today, with the entire world at war, this darkness seems very deep indeed, but we must not forget that Jesus Christ brought the light of peace, and hope, and reconciliation into the world, and no darkness shall ever quench it. Each of us must bring light into the world, so that the darkness will not prevail.”
Transfixed by his compassionate words, heart aching for her husband, Sylvia found herself fighting back tears of grief and anguish. If James and Richard did not return to her, she did not know how she could endure it. She knew that she could not. She was desperate for the light the pastor had spoken of to shine through the darkness of her life, but she was so afraid, and so lonely. The darkness surrounding her was so opaque she feared no illumination could penetrate it. In silence, she cried out for God’s mercy, for the comfort only He could provide.
A hand clasped hers—Claudia’s—and she reached out her other hand to Agnes, and then Sylvia understood. They were all lonely and afraid. They had to be light for one another.
The three Bergstrom sisters held fast to one another for the rest of the service. They held hands still as they rose to sing the final hymn. As the last notes of the song faded away, Sylvia felt peace settling into her heart, and she whispered a prayer of thanks for her two sisters. They would sustain one another, whatever came, whatever darkness threatened them.
Back at home, the family breakfasted on the famous Bergstrom apple strudel and coffee, and then gathered in the ballroom to exchange gifts. Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears when she unwrapped Agnes’s gift-a beautifully knitted cap, receiving blanket, and booties done in a seed stitch in the softest, finest of blue-and-pink stripes.
“Where did you ever find the yarn for this?” asked Sylvia, fingering the precious garments.
“I found a worn layette in the attic,” confessed Agnes. “Moths had eaten through the blanket, but I washed it thoroughly and most of the yarn was still useable. I wish I could say it was new.”
“Nonsense,” declared Sylvia. “It’s as good as new. Better. It has family history.”
Agnes was so pleased she blushed.
Later, after the presents were opened and admired, the women read aloud from their men’s letters, saved for this occasion so that they would feel as if the family had reunited on Christmas Day. It had taken all of Sylvia’s willpower not to tear open James’s letter as soon as it had arrived a week before, but now she was grateful she had agreed to Claudia’s proposal. The men had been promised a hot Christmas dinner instead of the usual rations, James had written. Turkey with dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie for dessert. It wouldn’t compare to anything Gerda Bergstrom might have prepared, but to the men hungry for a taste of home, it would seem like a feast for a king.
Harold reported a mild case of dysentery; Richard was learning how to drive a tank. Andrew had sent one letter to them all, thanking them for the pictures of the girls on the back steps of the manor. “I don’t have a sweetheart to write home to,” he confessed, “so I especially welcome your letters.” He promised to look after Richard and thanked Sylvia’s father for the memories of the best Christmas he had ever spent, which, he said, would be a comfort to him this season spent in the heat of the South Pacific, far from the snowy forests and fields of home.
Sylvia’s father cleared his throat several times as the last letter was read, and when Agnes finished reading, he went alone to the window and gazed outside to the gray sky that spoke of snow to come. Sylvia wished there had been more letters. Cousin Elizabeth had not written for the third or possibly fourth Christmas in a row; Sylvia had lost track. But she knew that what her father longed for most he could not have: for his son to walk in the door that moment, his wife to be standing at his side holding his hand, his brother to be making jokes and teasing the children, his great-aunt Lucinda and his mother to be holding court in their chairs by the hearth.
“Sylvia,” he said suddenly, beckoning to her. “Come take a look at this.”
She went to him an
d looked out the window. Just beyond the elms on the other side of the creek, she saw Agnes’s Christmas tree, simply but beautifully adorned. As she watched, she detected movement, and suddenly a doe and fawn emerged from the woods and carefully picked their way through the crust that had formed on top of the snow. They approached the Christmas tree, and the doe stretched out her head to nibble a popcorn garland. Her fawn cautiously bit into an apple.
Sylvia’s smile broadened as a flurry of motion heralded the arrival of a flock of chickadees. Soon other birds joined in the feast, and squirrels as well, busily harvesting the popcorn, fruits, and nuts from the Christmas tree.
Claudia and Agnes came to see what engrossed them. “Our tree,” Claudia lamented when she understood what was happening, but Agnes laughed out loud.
“I knew that nest wasn’t abandoned,” she cried. “I knew that tree was still a home to someone.”
“If it wasn’t before, it is now,” remarked Sylvia, and her father chuckled.
“We should make this a new tradition,” said Agnes as they watched the feast. “Every year we should bring in one tree for ourselves and decorate that one for the animals.”
Amused, Sylvia asked, “What if next Christmas Richard wants to cut down that tree and bring it indoors?”
“I’ll talk him out of it,” said Agnes, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Next year we will all be together again,” said Claudia, with such resolve that for a moment they all shared her certainty that it would be so. “Next Christmas, the war will be over and the boys will be home.”
And Claudia and Harold might be the newlyweds, Sylvia thought. It would be their turn to bring in the tree. Their nephew or niece would be enjoying his or her first Christmas, and God willing, in the years to come many cousins would join her, filling the house with love and laughter again.
Let this be our Christmas miracle, Sylvia prayed, watching from the window as the wildlife of Elm Creek Manor enjoyed an unexpected Christmas feast while snow began to fall.
Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt Page 17