A Visitor's Christmas

Snow fell and lights twinkled in the trees of our old Chicago neighborhood.

It was two days before Christmas and we were coming home—sort of. This was where we had lived before recently moving to Des Moines for my husband John’s new job.

We’d spent Easter, Fourth of July and Thanksgiving in our new home. But I couldn’t bear the thought of Christmas hundreds of miles from where we’d stored up so many family memories, so John, our 14-year-old son, Andrew, and I packed up our Dodge Durango with suitcases and nine shopping bags of gifts, and headed to Chicago, where many of our friends and relatives still lived.

It wouldn’t be Christmas like I remembered. But I held out hope it could be a homecoming nonetheless.

So far the season had been disappointing. Hanging ornaments, wreaths and stockings in our Des Moines home had made me miss our old traditions keenly.

Our house on Marston Lane back in Chicago had been lovely during the holidays, its hardwood floors and white living room walls glowing with candles and Christmas tree lights. I especially enjoyed setting up the crèche my father had made so many years ago.

We neared the house where we would be staying. For various reasons—limited space and busy holiday schedules—neither John’s large family nor my mother had room. Our friends Marsie and Scott, who lived in our old neighborhood, had called, eager for us to join them in their home.

Along their street we passed Christmas trees, holly wreaths and lights pushing away the early December dusk. Marsie and Scott’s house, however, was not lit up. We pulled into the driveway and hurried through the cold air to the house.

Marsie’s smile at the door immediately warmed us. We piled in, a tangle of hugs and greetings stored up after months apart. As I hung up my coat, though, I couldn’t help missing the sharp scent of a Christmas pine.

An electric menorah glowed on the dining room table and crystal dreidels adorned a cabinet. In the kitchen Shabbat candles were waiting to be lit. Along the hallway, mezuzahs, each holding a tiny roll of parchment bearing a special Hebrew prayer, were affixed to doorways.

Marsie, Scott and their son, Jared, are Jewish. I’d always loved their traditions and cherished our friendship. But I couldn’t hold back a wave of disappointment. No Christmas in this house—another reminder that my life had changed.

We were back in the old neighborhood, yes, but we were not home. We were guests, piecing together a visitor’s Christmas. I hurried outside and stowed our bags of gifts in a corner of the garage, suddenly embarrassed. During Hanukkah children are given one small gift each evening of the eight-day festival. What would Marsie and Scott think of my huge haul?