Earlier this month, on a trip up north with my mom and sister, my mom asked us to take a detour to drive past her old home on her family’s dairy farm on Tug Hill in the Adirondacks.
As we approached the land where she grew up, where she milked cows in the barn and tended the garden near her family’s modest home, she recounted a story of a Christmas past, one I could feel the magic in. One that reminded me of simpler times.
It inspired the painting above, and it’s what I’d like to share with you today.
In her words:
It was approaching dinner time on Christmas Eve — the evening when Santa visited our house. All four of us kids rushed in from doing our chores in the barn and in the pastures, eager to strip off our heavy coats, boots, hats, scarves, and mittens as the sun set and dusk set in.
We’d spent the day sneaking glimpses at the sky, each wanting to be the first to see Santa’s sleigh, despite knowing he wouldn’t visit until we were fast asleep.
The moment the door to our house opened, we were welcomed by the smell of oyster stew and pecan pie Ma and my Grandma had been preparing all day.
We hung our heavy gear and started to get the table set. Even though dinners together were frequent, our Christmas Eve dinner always came with magic in it, each of us always having one eye on the sky.
Rushing to get the dishes done after we’d properly stuffed our bellies, we gathered with our parents and grandparents around the lit tree adorned with our homemade ornaments, excitedly chattering about what Santa might soon put under that tree.
Pa reminded us that we needed to be fast asleep in our bedrooms for the magic to happen, so we took our anticipation with us up the stairs, where we changed into our pajamas and got into bed, never stopping our whispering.
And there it was — the bells ringing.
We were out of our beds in an instant, running down the stairs to find our gifts — a new pair of ice skates, a sled, a new hat + mittens knit by my grandmother, doll clothes made by my Ma.
As we cuddled up in piles on the living room floor around the tree, we continued to steal glances outside, where the full moon lit up our still-fresh footprints in the sparkly, frozen snow from just hours ago.
The night was still. The moon and stars, big and bright. The air was crisp. There was a deep, gentle peace surrounding us, but inside was charged with excitement. The fire, big and bright. The air, warm, and the feeling of love, prominent.
Dear friends…
I could feel the hustle + bustle of little footsteps in that old home as my mom told me her story, and it was a hustle + bustle I could actually get behind — one of excitement; of coming together; of love on a deep, peaceful night lit only by the full moon and the bright snow on the ground.
I wish this deep peace of gentle nights for you throughout the holidays + this winter.
May you always feel at home, and never alone. May you take a break from the hustle + bustle of daily life and let the excitement of being with ones you love wash over you.
May you hear the ringing of the bells and know just how much this world needs your love + light.
Happy holidays, from my home to yours. 💛