A significant portion of the Congregational Church, having been let out of their own Christmas Eve service, showed up to offer moral support. They brought cookies.
In the midst of it all, somehow the puppies escaped, and as more onlookers arrived, a few scampered out into the snowy night. Which brought out the search parties to track them down; then, of course, a few traumatized children who envisioned frozen puppies lost in the snow had to be comforted.
Snow and boots and coats lined the foyer. Ingrid found Tiger and simply fed him cookies, watching the chaos.
No, watching John.
Watching his hands turn red with cold as he tried to keep their church from catching fire. Watching as he donned a turnout coat and boots and joined the crew to douse the flames, stomping out any remaining ash, raking his beautiful manger scene to glowing embers.
Watching as he searched through the snow for lost puppies, warming them in his big hands with towels they’d found in the church kitchen.
She watched as he bore the brunt of more than a few jokes from the cookie-hungry fire personnel. He managed to laugh, his voice loud and low, just a hint of chagrin on his face.
Humble. Patient. Protecting.
He retrieved Tiger, helped him take off his wings, and replaced them with the turnout coat and hat.
Ingrid caught a puppy and hunkered down with it, and that’s when John found her. He crouched beside her and handed her a gingerbread man.
“I have to say, honey, your live Nativity just might be the best attended one ever,” he said, his face solemn, his blue eyes twinkling.
How she wanted to laugh. Could feel it bubbling up, right under the surface. Oh, John. He could be magnetic and breathtaking and infuriatingly darling and . . . Tears burned her eyes.
Maybe, however, you’re Mary, and God is simply asking you to be willing to say yes to whatever He asks.
She’d been asked to love this man. To trust him. Even when he failed her.
She looked away, wiped a finger under her eyes.
John swallowed, the twinkle in his eyes dying. “Let’s go home.”
“Yes,” she said quietly and let John help her off the floor. She returned the puppy, found Tiger and Romeo, and headed out the door.
She managed to pull together some soup and a plate of leftover cookies from church. Then she tucked Tiger onto her lap and read him the Christmas story.
Admittedly, without Butter curled at her feet, she struggled to summon the joy she knew she should feel at the holiday. And Tiger’s tears when they told him that Butter had “gone to heaven” only turned the evening somber.
Thankfully, the phone call from Darek updating them on Ivy’s condition lightened her grief, but worry settled in again when Darek said they wanted Ivy to stay the night for observation, just to make sure the baby was out of danger.
It all brought back the memory of Benjamin. The joy at being pregnant, the fear when he stopped moving inside her. The moment when she felt her body release him, the blood on the floor, and the hazy hours that followed.
Long after they tucked Tiger in bed, she sat in the family room, rocking, wishing for Butter’s fur to run her fingers through.
John and Romeo found a puzzle, something simple they could finish in a night.
After a while, Romeo went to bed. John sat in silence, watching the fire flicker, until finally he left her also.
Maybe, however, you’re Mary, and God is simply asking you to be willing to say yes to whatever He asks.
She pulled her legs onto the chair, stared at the tree, lights glistening from the bulbs. Patches of naked green tree remained, but John had waged a worthy battle to cover its bareness with ornaments.
In fact, she couldn’t deny the evidence of John’s attempt to resurrect Christmas for her, from the trip to Europe to the half-decorated tree, from the Nativity scene to his words today just before the chaos erupted.
I’m sorry.
Oh, how those words had the power to burrow into the wall around her heart, open up fissures and cracks.
I’m so sorry.
She didn’t want to hear it. To see his love in a thousand small ways. Because then she’d have to loose her hold on the ember of bitterness, let God heal her heart.
Worse, she’d have to reckon with the truth that she might be just as responsible for the rift in their marriage.
If you love someone, you don’t act like they annoy you. You like them, and you try to make them think they’re the most important person in the world to you.
Romeo’s words had tucked inside, just under her skin, and seeing John in action only uncovered the ugliness. Somehow, over the past few months, she’d stopped loving John. Even liking him. She’d been going through the motions, pretending, masking her wounds.
And when he didn’t notice them anyway, they only grew deeper.
But deeper than her pain lingered the truth. She did love John. Loved him so much that sometimes she could weep with the depth of it. And if she were honest . . .
Of course she trusted him. Every day of her life. She simply didn’t want to forgive him. She’d preferred to hold on to the anger, the resentment, rather than face the grief of her loss.
But forgiveness just might fix this.
She drew in a long breath, got up, and headed upstairs.
He wasn’t asleep as she had supposed. Instead, he stood at the window, still dressed, staring out at the lake.
“I always thought my job was to protect you. To provide for you. I had no idea doing that would also destroy what we had.” He didn’t look at her. “I wish I could, but I can’t fix this, Ingrid.”
She sank down on the bed. “I should have told you how I felt.”
To her surprise, he shook his head. Then he turned. A dim light from the bedside table scattered the darkness, and she easily traced his beautiful blue eyes, the look of sadness in them. “And I should have listened to you.”
Oh. She didn’t know why his admission turned her throat thick and scratchy, but she blinked back the burn in her eyes, fighting the urge to flee.
He came and knelt in front of her, taking her face in his wide, strong hands. “I can’t fix it, but I believe God can. I know He can help me be a husband who listens. And I pledge to do that—to listen. To you, to God. To obey and trust God.”
A tear dripped down her chin, over his thumb. “I’m sorry I blamed you—”
“But I am to blame. I did this.”
She hung her hands on his wrists. “I know. And when you did, I should have forgiven you. Trusted that God could heal me. But . . . I don’t know that I wanted to be healed. Or that I should be—should I ever really heal from the loss of our child?”
John found her eyes. “I think healing is different from forgetting. I admit I’ve been guilty of that too. I’m sorry I tried to fix everything with a dog. Not an inspired move—I get that. But I gave you Butter because I didn’t know what else to do. And I got a vasectomy because I was scared. I feared losing you, losing another baby. I was overwhelmed with my life and . . . yeah, I thought it was all up to me to fix it. To take care of us. So I tried to put it behind us when I should have tried to help you heal. I should have leaned into God for courage, instead of reacting in fear.”
She closed her eyes, tipping her head forward to touch his. The sense of his presence—strong, warm—flooded through her, shook her.
How she’d missed him.
“You’re an amazing mother, Ingrid. Our children are going to be just fine. We need to let them sort this out. And . . .” He backed up, met her eyes again. “Romeo is going to be fine.”
“You think so?”
“I know it.”
She touched his face, ran her fingers along the stubble. “Perhaps it’s a good thing we have such a quiet house this season.”
Then she leaned in and kissed him. Softly at first and then with a depth, a passion that came from knowing this man, believing in him. Seeing all the ways he loved her without speaking.
John pulled back, moisture in his eyes. So blue . . . She could remember the first day they landed on her, turned her mouth to dust, and curled desire inside her.
“I love you so much. And I want the next thirty years to be even better than the last.”
Ingrid ran her thumbs over his cheekbones. “I believe they will be.”
She kissed him again, and this time he didn’t pull away, didn’t hesitate to hook his arm around her waist, pull her with him onto their bed. She sank into his amazing arms—strong, protective, safe—and found in his embrace the woman she’d been once upon a time. Young. Eager.
Humbled by her destiny and willing to say yes to whatever God—and John—asked.
Christmas arrived with the smells of brewing cider on the stove and homemade cinnamon rolls, the sound of Tiger’s laughter.
John slipped on a bathrobe, his slippers, and headed downstairs.
Tiger sat on the floor, surrounded by the decadence of his stocking—Matchbox cars, markers, a LEGO kit, a giant chocolate Santa. He got up and ran to John. “Merry Christmas, Grandpa!”
John swung him in the air, gave him a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Tiger.”
He put down Tiger, who turned to Ingrid. “Now can we open presents?”
Ingrid closed the oven after basting the turkey. “Wait until your mommy and daddy get here.”
John walked over to her, slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her back against himself, and kissed her neck. “When do I get to open my present?”
She whacked him with a pot holder. “John Christiansen, you got your present.” But she turned in his arms, lifting hers to wrap around his neck, and gave him a kiss that promised perhaps he had more waiting for him.
Much more.
“That’s gross.”
John released his wife to see Tiger staring at them. The boy covered his face with his hands, giggling.
“Have you talked to Darek or Ivy yet today?” John asked.
Ingrid disentangled herself and walked over to the coffeepot. Took down a cup. “Ivy is fine and so is the baby.” She poured coffee into the cup and handed it to John. “She was just dehydrated.”
“I’m so glad.”
“They’re waiting for the doctor to discharge her; then they’ll be over.” She looked at Tiger. “Another grandchild. That feels so . . .”
“Wonderful.” John couldn’t help it. After the dry spell, the wounds between them, he simply wanted to savor the feeling of having his wife surrender freely in his arms. He reached for her, cupped her cheek, and she smiled into his eyes.
“I think you need to wake up Romeo,” she said.
Romeo. He kissed her, then headed upstairs.
The door was closed, but he heard whining, faint and high, as he knocked.
“Just a second—”
John opened the door without waiting. Romeo stood in the middle of the room in a T-shirt and pajama pants, holding a squirming puppy in a blanket.
Oh no. John closed the door behind him. Raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, Uncle John.” The puppy shifted in his arms, and the blanket dropped away, showing a wriggling mass of brown-and-white fur and oversize, floppy ears, giant paws. Romeo nearly dropped him, then pulled him to his chest. “He was the runt, and he was so cold, I tucked him in my jacket and sort of . . .”
“Brought him home.”
Romeo lifted a shoulder.
The swift, sharp memory of Owen holding a fidgeting Butterscotch could nearly take John’s breath away. He walked over to the dog and settled his hand on its head. The animal had blue eyes that searched John’s. Oh, boy.
“He won’t be any trouble; I promise. And . . . he’s a good dog; I know it. I think he just needs someone to care about him and make sure he doesn’t get forgotten and hurt and . . . Maybe I could just keep him over Christmas?”
John looked at Romeo, a near man at seventeen. Wide shoulders, sparse blond whiskers layering his chin, his hair too long, and compassion in his eyes. The makings of a hero.
“I think you should keep him longer than that,” John said quietly. “I think you need to give him a home.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. We’ll go over later and officially adopt him from the shelter. Merry Christmas, Romeo.”
Romeo smiled then, the fear breaking free, his eyes clear, bright. “Merry Christmas, Uncle John.”
Indeed. John somehow found his voice. “I think there’s breakfast waiting for you. And I’ll bet this little guy is hungry.”
The puppy tucked himself against Romeo’s shoulder, licking his face. John followed him out of the room and down the stairs.
Ingrid looked up at them. Her mouth opened. “Is that a—?”
“A puppy!” Tiger squealed and jumped up from the floor.
“Seriously, John?” she said, but she grinned as Romeo bent down to hand Tiger the puppy.
“Careful now,” Romeo said. “He’s scared, but he just needs a little TLC.” Tiger giggled as the puppy bathed his chin.
“I think Santa left you something,” Ingrid said to Romeo, gesturing toward the hearth.
A thick stocking with Romeo’s name stitched on the cuff hung from one of the pegs.
He walked over to it. Touched his name, then unhooked the stocking. Brought it to the sofa, where he pulled out a pair of socks. Gloves. Then a hat. And his own chocolate Santa.
He looked up at Ingrid, at John. “I . . .”
“Everybody needs a stocking with their name on it,” Ingrid said softly.
Romeo grinned, then reached for his new gloves, trying them on. Tiger ran over with his LEGO kit, the puppy biting at his feet. “Wanna help me build my new LEGO? It’s an airplane with propellers!”
“Sure,” Romeo said and slid to the floor while Tiger dumped out the pieces. Romeo gathered the pup into his lap.
Ingrid watched them a moment, and John had no doubt that a reel from the past played through her mind. Probably Darek helping Owen, or maybe even Eden and Grace dressing their new Barbie dolls.
Or maybe a vision of the grandchildren they’d have, filling the house with chaos and laughter and joy.
He slipped his arm around her and pulled her close. “We’ll call the kids later. But I have an idea. After dinner, would you be open to a small trip on Christmas Day?”
They pulled up to the block-long, three-story brick building, parking in the lot across the street. Snow banked the lot, freshly plowed, and light pooled over a few cars, some covered by a thick layer of snow and ice.
Ingrid took the tinfoil-wrapped container of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy from the back of the Caravan. Romeo carried a plate of cookies, and John grabbed the wrapped present, something small Ingrid had kept for this kind of moment.
They walked up to the back door, and the security guard buzzed them in, a middle-aged man with kindness on his face. “Upstairs to the left is the foyer. They’ll buzz you in.”
The place had all the charm of a European boarding school, with the musty cement walls, the scent of institution in the polished marble floors, the stoic furniture. Ingrid perched on the end of a straight chair as the receptionist took their names, then placed a call.
In a moment, she appeared, dressed in jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt, her hair long and braided down the back. Thinner than Ingrid remembered, she wore her trials on her face even as it broke into a smile at the sight of her son.
“Romeo!” Kari opened her arms, and he enveloped her in his embrace, standing a whole head taller. As she closed her eyes and clung to him, Ingrid slipped her hand into John’s.
He’d listened. Without her even asking, he knew.
Kari released Romeo and turned to Ingrid.
Silence passed between them. Then, “Hey, Sis,” Ingrid said.
Kari brushed a tear from her cheek. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here for Christmas—”
“Yes, we did,” John said quietly. “You’re family, and we didn’t like the i
dea of you spending it alone.”
She gave a half smile, shrugged, and Ingrid recognized the gesture.
“We brought turkey and stuffing. Mom’s recipe.” She reached out and pulled Kari into a hug.
Her sister resisted a moment, then sank into the embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“It was John’s idea,” Ingrid whispered back.
Kari pulled away, looked at John. “I’m so grateful for all you’ve done. I know it’s been a lot of trouble, but I—”
“No trouble at all, Kari.”
She wiped her cheek. “The doctors say I could probably be out by the end of January. Can you keep him until then?”
John glanced at Romeo. “He’ll always have a home with us.”
Ingrid took John’s hand again as the receptionist buzzed them into the facility. Romeo walked with his arm around his mom’s shoulder, his voice lifting as he told her about football and the live Nativity, his Christmas stocking, Butter, and his new puppy, Bud.
She gave John’s hand a squeeze. “And what exactly are we going to do with Romeo and Bud when we visit Amelia in Prague?”
“Don’t toy with me, woman.”
“Oh, John,” she said, turning to him, pulling him into her embrace, laughing. “I’m just getting started.”
Dear family and friends,
A warm Christmas greeting from snowy northern Minnesota!
As many of you know, our property was devastated a year ago in a forest fire. We watched as the flames took our cabins, our history, our livelihood.
I had no idea it might be the beginning of a string of farewells.
John and I found ourselves—expectedly, of course—with an empty nest this year. And while I’d prepared for it, the swiftness with which it swept into my life, like the turning of the seasons from autumn to the stiff winds of winter, took my breath away.
We bid Amelia good-bye at the airport in Minneapolis, bound for a year of education in Prague, and I returned to the emptiness and winter in my heart.
Not that I didn’t have joy. With Darek and Ivy’s wedding Memorial Day weekend, and Eden’s celebration of marriage to Jace Jacobsen (the former captain of the St. Paul Blue Ox who is now on their coaching staff), I delighted in welcoming two new children to the family. We’re thrilled that Grace, our family chef, has also found her true love, as she is engaged to Maxwell Sharpe. (You know him as a wing for the Blue Ox.)
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