A Hundred Tiny Miracles

“Twenty-three, twenty-four…”

The young girl crouches in the corner of the old wooden treehouse, careful not to budge an inch. Cold wind blows through the cracks of the wooden slats. She takes a breath and holds it in, feeling the icy blades of winter in her lungs. In the distance, she hears the melody of music sprayed with laughter.

“Twenty-nine, thirty! Ready or not, here I come!!!”

She remains as still and silent as the grave, obeying the rules of the game, while a shiver creeps up her spine and she thinks of sitting by a warm fire with a cup of hot cocoa..

“Found you!”

She gives a startled jump and whips around to see the mischievously grinning face of her 9-year-old cousin peeking up through the opening in the treehouse floor. He quickly drops back down the ladder and sprints into the darkening night in search of his other cousins.

The girl stands to gaze out the square opening in the wall that serves as a window. Fat snowflakes drift down, and she leans out to catch one on her tongue. From here, she can see all the way to the bottom of the hill where the long pond stretches from east to west, backed by whispering trees. A small cabin sits on its near margin, and the low-hanging moon casts its shadow on the icy edge of the pond. The cabin windows are aglow with warm, yellow lights like eyes peering through the darkness.

The year is 2000. It is December 23. The girl is 12 years old now, rather too old to play endlessly in the cutting wind and bitter cold. At least she certainly thinks so, and she longs for the warmth of the cabin and its many inhabitants. It is a quaint affair, that cabin, with sitting rooms at either end, separated by a small bath and kitchenette. Every corner of space is occupied by one of her father’s twelve siblings, their spouses, and their children.

The girl races through the deepening snow to reach the cabin porch, where she lands with a skip and a thud. As she extends a hand for the doorknob, she peeks through the cloudy pane of glass to where all the people who treasure her most in the world are gathered. Pushing into the cabin, she feels the rush of warm air and the staticky friction of so many people and so much movement in one place. The conversation is an incoherent buzz, at least four to five distinct lines of exchange in simultaneity.

She perches on the arm of the couch next to one of her aunts, who pats her hand with an enthusiastic “Hey, girl!” She cups the girl’s frozen fingers between her soft, warm hands and rubs them quickly back and forth to take the ice off. Aunty smells of fresh baked apple pie, and the girl remembers warm, stuffy afternoons in the kitchen, solemn and reverent Saturday evening Mass, bright, sunny days in the garden, and quiet, studied hours in the family room watching the construction of homemade quilts. Aunty is steadfast and gentle, and time and time again, she has shown her niece the meaning of service.

The wood stove is cooking in the corner of the room, and that thick, glorious heat travels from nose to toes and back again, thawing the frost on even the most distant windows. Taking in the room at a glance, the girl finds her mother: a fairy in flight. Mama practically dances around the room in merriment, telling jokes and making witty asides, and laughter spills from her as if from a too full cup. Mama is gravity itself, and groups of aunts and cousins are pulled into her orbit. The girl watches her, admiring the light and shadow, beauty and mystery. Mama taught her girl strength and perseverance.

As the girl heads for the food table to grab some sausage balls, she glances into the next room where the rhythms and the melodies build and fade. She feels the music roll over her like the tide, vibrating the very chords of her soul. The room is all but overflowing, and yet, a vacancy!

She hurries into the crowded room and squeezes onto the couch beside a particularly special uncle. He welcomes her with a wide grin and a “Hello Kimbo,” moving his cheek closer to her. She plants a slightly greasy sausage kiss on that cheek, rests her head on his chest, and wraps her slender arms around his torso. “How’s my Kimbalo doing?,” he asks her, and she gives him a squeeze, remembering all the times she has climbed into his recliner after school to tell him about her day and all the times she has chatted with him in his garage searching for the proper tool while he worked beneath the hood of a car. Always listening… he is always truly listening. Uncle puts his arm around the girl’s shoulders and gives her a squeeze in return, his sensitive eyes crinkling at the corners and twinkling with subdued delight.

The girl scans the room, casting her eyes on each of her relatives in turn: a handful of aunts and uncles, her older brother and sister, her scores and scores of cousins, family friends, and last but not least, her father.

Papa sits in the family circle, and they pass a large glass jug of homemade wine between them. In every lap, a guitar, a dobro, or a banjo. In his hands, Papa holds a Takamine: a smooth and shiny black flat top that sings like the birds in the trees and the crickets in the night under his practiced touch. His siblings gaze on their youngest brother with the tender joy and pride that comes from nurturing a seed and watching it grow into something strong and good.

He is a giver. A giver of joy, of time, of patience, wisdom, and smiles.

The song, “O Holy Night,” radiates out from him, through the circle and to the very edges of the room. His voice speaks of familiarity and a thousand comforts. Her aunt’s sweet harmonies join in, and the sound swells. In one corner of the room, an uncle plucks the long string of the homemade standing bass, and it resonates like a low peal of thunder. The girl closes her eyes, the better to feel the song, and she thinks of Heaven splitting wide to admit a procession of glad and trumpeting angels.

Not many temptations could entice her away from her uncle’s warm embrace, but how Papa glows and shines. She wants to be nearer that light. She half shimmies, half slides down from the couch onto the floor and scoots a few inches nearer the circle. A minute later, she is several inches closer, and then a few more, until eventually she’s at the foot of Papa’s chair. By the time she reaches him, he is strumming the opening notes of the next song, but he pauses to stroke the back of her head. “Hi Baby Girl!,” he chirps, with a pleasant note of surprise in his voice, like someone has just handed him the greatest gift.

She thinks of crisp fall afternoons raking leaf piles, springtime walks in the woods scavenging for morel mushrooms, the sound of waterfalls after a hard rain, brush fires in the backyard, a sled pulled behind a 4-wheeler in high snow to the sound of exhilarated laughter, chocolate covered cherries at Christmas time, and home… the feeling of home.

The guitar rings above her head, and Papa gives her a wink as he starts in on Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas.” She leans into him, her left shoulder just lightly resting against his right leg, and instantly, she feels deeply and profoundly connected to the thread of love and belonging that runs through the room like an electric current. Of all the miracles the girl had known or ever would know, this family was the first.

The warmth that emanates from Papa isn’t just a physical thing, nor even a spiritual one. It is a wholeness. A wholeness that comes from living a good life and knowing it, from being surrounded by all the best and right things in the world and knowing it, from treasuring every little moment.

She tilts her head to rest against his chair and joins in singing “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas..” And as her slightly off-key voice joins the others, she understands that these are the moments that Christmas dreams are made of. These are the quiet whispers that call to us from store windows, tree lined streets, tales of Santa Claus, and Christmas Eve mass. These moments are a hundred tiny miracles packed into a single instant of perfect joy.