A letter to my nieces and nephews and my children, and a thank you to my big brothers for their years of Christmas charity.
When I was a child, Christmas morning in Milo held all the magic in the world. Unable to sleep after a Christmas Eve celebration that always included a special meal my mother reserved for celebrations like cheese fondue or puff pastry filled with ham and cheese, a reading of the nativity story, and the opening of one, and only one, of our presents from under the tree, I would lie awake in my bed, and count the hours until everyone else woke up.
In our house, one could peer into the living room from either the door in the hallway, or the door from the kitchen, both of which my mother ceremoniously hung blankets in front of, so that I could not so much as peek into the room until my big brothers and my father had returned from milking the cows in the barn.
As a little girl, I found the wait unbearable. I tried to pass the time by helping my mother as she prepared breakfast and heated up her special hot chocolate, but the anticipation of it all made the ticking of the clock slow down until I was certain it had stopped altogether.
But then I grew up a little, and as I awakened in the morning to find those blankets over the doors, they made me smile. The anticipation still built in my chest, but it was easier to see the beauty in the preparations my mother had made, to see the thoughtfulness as she bustled around the kitchen trying to make everything perfect, and I found it a little easier to be patient as we waited for Dad and the boys to come in from the barn.
And then, I grew up a bit more, and as I awakened on Christmas morning, I didn’t even think of sneaking a peek at the Christmas tree. Instead, I rolled over in my bed and pulled back the curtain to look out at the barn. Sure enough, the barn was alight in the darkness of an Idaho December morning, my father and my brothers busy in the cold. I layered my coat over my new red plaid flannel nightgown, pulled on my snow boots, and gave my surprised mother a wave as I headed for the back door. It was only twenty yards or so across the farmyard to the barn, but by the time I made it inside, the wintry air had frozen my knees through the gap between my nightgown and boots and coated my eyelashes and nose hairs in frost. It was warmer in the barn, but only by a few degrees. Dad and the boys were working too hard in their heavy overalls and boots to notice the cold, or me, as I watched from the corner. It was then that I realized all the extra effort they’d expended every Christmas of my life, in rising so early and working so quickly because they knew we were waiting for them to begin our Christmas morning celebrations.
On my walk back to the house, the crunch of the snow under my boots was crunchier and more satisfying. The frosted trees fairly twinkled in the moonlight. The stars shown brighter in a completely clear sky, and a feeling I’d later learn to identify as joy filled my heart as I took in our little farmhouse, with its windows aglow. It looked like the warmest, coziest, most welcoming place on the planet. I stopped in my snowy tracks and took it all in. This was what Christmas morning looked like to my Dad and my brothers. This is what they saw when, finally finished with the chores, they were ready to return home. I imagined they were filled with the same anticipation as those of us who’d waited for them to come through the door.
I returned to the warm kitchen and my mother, with vivid descriptions of what I’d just witnessed, and in her wisdom, she filled our remaining waiting time with discussions of holy nights, crowded inns, choruses of angels, and a stable where a miracle happened, and how, because of that miracle, we each have the opportunity to return to the warmth and comfort of home. “Stables are just barns, and mangers are just troughs, and heaven is just home, after all,” she’d said.
I hadn’t thought of this memory for many years until last Christmas, when I sat in my husband’s Christmas concert and listened as they told a story about cows and Christmas and charity. Sure, I’d heard Pearl Buck’s story about the boy who milked the cows as a gift for his father, but hearing it, along with the beautiful music, filled my heart with that same joy I’d felt as a child, standing in a Milo farmyard, contemplating the reason we celebrate Christmas at all, and the gift of going home we have all received from our Savior.
I knew then that I needed to share this memory with you, because those selfless men grew up to be your fathers, uncles, grandfathers, and great grandfathers. We are all products of a Milo home, even though we’ve grown in number to span the country, and not a one of us really knows what it’s like to get up at four o’clock on a Christmas morning to go out in the cold and milk a herd of uncooperative cows. Even though our experiences vary greatly, I hope you can feel the heritage that is yours and feel the love Grandpa Theron and Grandma NaDine worked so hard to instill in you.
With all my love,
(Your mom, grandma, aunt, great aunt)
Jana
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