Christmas Is Love...

"Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time."

~Laura Ingalls Wilder~

(All graphics in this post are courtesy of Karen's Whimsy)

Last night as I sat, legs outstretched warming myself in front of the fireplace, my sidekick Sophie stretching herself the length of my legs, a weaving loom in one hand and a strand of yarn and hook in the other watching a sappy Hallmark Christmas movie, a small crack in my memory bank opened leaving my heart feeling tender and sentimental. The true spirit of Christmas visited me and for the first time in a long time I wanted to write of the memories again.

The movie reminded me of my roots and Christmas' past in The Old House. That was what my grandmothers house of my childhood was called, The Old House. Some might have looked upon it in wonder or amazement that it was referred to as a house with its small stature and lack of modern amenities. For all it lacked in size and convenience it more than made up for those things in the love that lived within its walls, the laughter that rang from it, and and the memories that now spring from it.It was a scant three room house with a little porch on the front built by the hands of my grandfather, a man I never met, from hard oak timber that had silvered with age. The roof was of tin that had long ago lost its sparkle and had weathered to a nice rusty patina and was the perfect thing to lie under on a rainy evening as raindrops pinged off of it. Both the front and side doors were screened with wood framed doors that sprung back on the hinges with a delightful creak. I can still hear the the stretched out sound as it was opened wide and the thump as it sprung back in place inevitably followed by a voice from within the recesses warning not to slam the door.

Wood framed windows with wavy old glass let in plenty of light and cool breezes. I remember those windows best shining out into the darkness welcoming us in, a kerosene lamp placed on a table in one of the front windows burning low to light the front path so we would not stumble in the pitch black of night when we arrived as we did almost every Friday night.

I would already have had my bath and be in my pajamas, robe, and slippers when we left for the hour and a half drive so that I could be tucked into bed as soon as we got there. I napped on the way so that when we arrived I could lay in my grandmothers big iron framed bed with its crisp white fresh ironed sheets that smelled of sunshine, wide awake, and listening to the stories floating around the big front room.Voices talking in hushed tones, air occasionally punctuated by chuckles and outright laughter followed by my grandmother scolding not to wake up the babies, referring to my cousin and myself, she knowing full well that we were snuggled up under her handmade quilt stifling our own giggles and whispers. We heard about the neighbors, the crops and the livestock, who was married, who was buried, and who welcomed a new addition to the family. Hungry news for eager listeners who had been miles away in another town, living other lives, wishing the week away so that they could return home for a scant day and a half.

The Old House was a familiar friend of my childhood and I wish it were still standing at the foot of the hill under the sprawling oak with its kerosene lamp giving out a golden glow welcoming me home for Christmas. I wish all the voices of my childhood could still be heard ~ the shushing sound of my grandmother and the hearty chuckle of my uncle who both now reside in heaven. I long to hear the thump of Old Mickey's tail on the porch and the creak of my grandmothers rocker as the aunts and uncles and my mother converse in the big front room around the pot belly stove. I wish to lie in my grandmothers big bed gazing out the window at the stars making wishes and watching them shoot across the sky as my cousin and I whisper.The true spirit of Christmas is love, pure and simple, love. It was an act of love that built The Old House, a man providing shelter for his family. It was an act of love that four children were raised there. It was an act of love that drew them home to gather there almost every weekend. It was an act of love that a lamp was left lit to light the way in the darkness so the family could find their way home.

So it is with the true meaning and celebration of Christmas, the birth of Christ, the ultimate act of love, pure, simple, love. It was an act of love that the God of heaven would provide a shelter some would not see as suitable for habitation, just like The Old House might have been seen, for a tiny baby to be born in. It was an act of love that he would be raised in the humblest of surroundings, just like my grandmothers children were. It was an act of love that drew others to him, just as The Old House drew our family to it. It was an act of love that Jesus was the lamp that God left on to light the way in the darkness so that those who are lost there can find their way into the family and into the welcoming light of home, just as The Old House welcomed our family.

Yes, the true spirit of Christmas did indeed visit me as I sat and pondered in wonder and amazement that Christmas is love and for the first time in a long time I wanted to write of the memories again.May the Christ of Christmas fill your hearts with all the joy this season holds and all the love it cannot contain but must be spilled out in acts of love.

Christmas Blessings,

Miss Sandy