Brett splashed a layer of bubbles at me, and I waggled my kitchen knife at him.
We cut vegetables and cooked potatoes and added milk and laughed and told stories for the better part of the evening until we finally used up all our ingredients, including the extra potatoes and clams and milk Mike went out and bought.
Beyond us in the fellowship hall and in the sanctuary above, strangers laughed and neighbors reconnected and Big Lake celebrated long past nine o’clock. As the crowd began to thin, I wiped my hands, took off my apron, and wandered into the fellowship hall.
Someone had draped Christmas lights and decorative pine boughs around the room. The haphazard way they were tacked to the molding suggested a teenager’s hand. Christmas music played from a boom box in the corner.
White tablecloths, now spotted with clam chowder drippings, blanketed the tables, and in the center of each one . . . a Christmas bowl. Gretchen’s beautiful china. And she’d found a good use for the bowls, because in each one, many of them overflowing, were tens and twenties and quite a few hundred-dollar bills.
Someone’s hand took mine and Gretchen sidled up beside me. “I think this is what they were meant for,” she said softly.
“What’s the money for?”
“Didn’t you see the sign? We’re taking an offering for Bud Finlaysen’s new heart. Plus a couple big donors called the church this morning. Apparently your soup kitchen made the evening news last night. There’s even a foundation willing to pick up the rest of the cost. It’s sort of a miracle, Marianne. Thanks to you.”
No, thanks to the Trout and God’s sometimes unwelcome nudges.
Gretchen must have read my face because she nodded, a soft look in her eye. “By the way, Bud’s upstairs with Marge.”
Oh.
I didn’t know what to say. I thought about going up to see my fellow Trout, but then I decided against it. He was the real Trout. I’d simply been the stand-in for a short season.
“Thanks, Gretchen,” I finally managed, slipping my arm around her shoulders.
She shrugged. “Best Christmas Tea ever.”
We cleaned up the kitchen and, to my surprise, even had enough soup left over for the Backlunds, Gretchen, Muriel, Jenni, and the Wallace family to take home. Before we left, Mike slipped my cardboard box into Bud’s car. They were probably sick of soup, but perhaps not the other goodies.
As we exited the church, I noticed that the weather had again turned nippy. My breath spiraled into the air as I slipped my hand through Mike’s arm. Beside me walked Amy and Bri. Neil and Anya got into their car to follow us home. Kevin’s and Brett’s voices rose in argument over who should drive the red clunker home.
Above, the sky had cleared, a thousand lights winking down at me, a Christmas card from God.
Merry Christmas, Marianne Wallace.
Epilogue
“What a great story!” Marci blows on her cocoa, takes a sip, and gets off the bench. She walks over to the cutting board, where I’ve chopped up celery. The bacon is already browning, the potatoes boiling in the pot. “Is this it?”
I glance at Kevin, and he is grinning at me. “Yep.”
“I can’t wait to taste it.” She sits back down, snuggling against Kevin. “So, did everyone stay for Christmas?”
I lean against the counter. “Amy did, and so did Brianna and Brett, but Neil and Anya headed to her house in California. They do every other Christmas here. But Brett and Cathy come nearly every year. Her mother sometimes joins them.”
“Is Brianna coming home for Christmas this year? I know she’s busy with her practice.”
“Not this year,” I say without any sadness. “We’ll probably stop by and see her, though.”
“I suppose it’s hard for Amy to get home. She’s almost done with her doctorate?”
“Yes, although she’s talking about learning German. Marcus’s grandparents live in Germany, and they might move there, although I have a feeling she’s wanting to have a baby.”
Something twinkles in Marci’s eyes. “I can’t wait until Kevin and I have kids. To be a mom, wake up in the morning to little feet. I’ll bet Kevin was an adorable baby.”
I turn away to finish chopping the onions. “They all were.”
They still are.
“Did you love being a mom? Was it everything you dreamed of? Would you do it again?”
Would I do the chaos, the late night feedings, the challenges and worries? Would I do the book reports and the piles of laundry and the illnesses? Would I let them take over my heart so that when they grew up and left home, it created this hollow space that seemed cavernous?
But a space that is just the right size for grandchildren.
I turn and toss Kevin a towel. “I need a dishwasher.”
“I’m on it.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze as he walks by.
I slide the onions into the pot, wipe my eyes, and look at Marci. She’s watching me, as if seriously waiting for my reply. “I would do it over and over and over, Marci.”
Marci nods, slips her gaze to Kevin, and takes a sip of cocoa. “Oh,” she says, putting down the mug. “What happened to Bud?”
“He had his heart transplant,” Kevin says. “With what the community raised, as well as a couple big donations, it covered his hospital bills. The church recently helped them buy a new house closer to town. He took over as the Trout again, although I don’t think he’s quite as energetic.”
“We’re going to have to find a new Trout one of these days.”
Kevin glances at me, waggles his eyebrows.
“Nope,” I say. Unless of course Kevin returns home and takes over coaching the Trouts. . . . No! Not even then.
“Does the Community Church still have the Christmas Tea?” Marci asks.
I laugh.
“Not anymore,” Kevin says. “Now it’s a soup kitchen. Except they call it the Annual Christmas Bowl.” He looks at me, back to Marci. “Hey, wanna see my mom’s picture as a fish?”
“Kevin, no!”
But he’s wiping his hands and thundering down to his room, which remains largely untouched and filled with old copies of the town paper.
Marci leans against the counter, lowering her voice. “If no one is coming home, what are you and Mr. Wallace doing for Christmas?”
I smile, seeing Mike’s headlights appear in the driveway. “Oh, we’re going to Cancún.”
Warren Family Christmas Clam Chowder
8-12 strips bacon (cut into small squares before browning)
1 medium finely chopped onion
3 stalks chopped celery
4 potatoes, diced
2-3 cups boiling water (enough to cover potatoes)
1½ cups milk
2½ cups half-and-half
1-3 6½ oz cans minced clams
dash nutmeg
salt and pepper
Brown bacon until crisp; remove from pan. Brown onions in bacon fat; sauté celery. Drain off grease. Add water, salt and pepper to taste, and potatoes. Cook until potatoes are tender. (Can mash some in the pot to make a thicker soup.) Add clams (with juice). Heat milk in separate pan until scalded; add to soup. Add half-and-half; heat through. Garnish with nuteg. Enjoy with homemade bread (and don’t forget the Christmas cookies!)
About the Author
Susan May Warren is a former missionary to Russia, the mother of four children, and the wife of a guy who wooed her onto the back of his motorcycle for the adventure of a lifetime. The award-winning author of over twenty books, Susan loves to write and teach writing. She speaks at women’s events around the country about God’s amazing grace in our lives. Susan is active in her church and small community and makes her home on the north shore of Minnesota, where her husband runs a hotel.
Visit her Web site at www.susanmaywarren.com.
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The Great Christmas Bowl Page 11