The Great Christmas Bowl (14 page)

No kids for Christmas. In the three days since Sunday, the truth had sunk into my bones, a dull ache that persisted despite Mike's hugs and occasional jokes about no wrapping-paper mess or kids clamoring for batteries.

I had adult children. Their gifts didn't require batteries anymore. (Besides, I had a veritable military stockpile of batteries in the cupboard, just in case.)

The thermometer had begun to rise over the past two days. Icicles dropped water from my overhanging roof onto the deck, and to my dismay, the snow that dripped from the clouds looked more like rain.

I'm dreaming of a gray, slushy Christmas. . . .

I turned away from the window, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat on the sofa, staring at our Christmas tree. Gracie settled down at my feet, sighing as only dogs can.

I put my coffee on the end table and noticed my Bible sitting there with the stack of other Bibles and reference materials I'd assembled during my hunt for the meaning of
hospitality
.

With some shame, I realized I hadn't cracked my Bible open in weeks.

I picked it up and thumbed through the pages until I got to Psalms. My marker ribbon opened to Psalm 81, and as my eye scrolled down the page, it stopped on verse ten: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you up out of Egypt. Open wide your mouth and I will fill it.”

I couldn't help but think of the Trout. But then I thought of those Israelites and their grumpy obedience. Or often, disobedience. I thought of God's provision despite their bad attitudes—of manna and then victory over their enemies. I glanced at the verse again, almost hearing God say,
“It'll all work out.”

Sure it would. The words now mocked me as I closed my Bible, set it back on the table. Somehow, despite my good intentions, I'd made a mess of everything.

In trying to please everyone, I'd ministered to no one.

As I stared out the window at the drizzle and cold, it occurred to me that perhaps there was one person—or rather two—to whom I could show real hospitality.

I turned up Christmas music as I looked for my clam chowder recipe. I thought I'd taped it to my Christmas Eve dinner list, but it had vanished. I didn't need it, of course, but I thought somehow seeing the smudged little card would bring comfort, tell me that despite the defection of my family, I'd still done good.

I cut up and fried the bacon, onions, and celery together, added the potatoes and water, dropped in the chicken bouillon cubes. I brought it to a boil, let it simmer until the potatoes were soft, then added the clams, the half-and-half, and the nutmeg.

Heating it through, I then covered it to stay warm while I showered and dressed. I dug through my garage for a box and packaged the soup up for delivery.

I added a few other things to the box—some fudge I'd decided to whip up and a dozen gingersnaps that I'd baked last week. I also put in a pair of wool socks I was going to use for a stocking stuffer for Anya and Neil's new scarf. I'd probably overpurchased anyway.

The afternoon sun had sunk into the horizon and bled out through the clouds. I glanced at the clock, wondering how it had gotten so late.

I recalled the directions to the Finlaysens' easily, driving through the mud and crusty snowdrifts to the back lot of the trailer park. I expected lights to gleam through the dingy windows of their mobile home, but aside from a few haphazardly strung Christmas lights, the place was dark.

I sat there in the car, motor running, fearing the worst. Certainly Mike would have called me if Bud had been rushed to the hospital. I didn't know whether to leave the soup or not, so I turned around and headed back to town.

Darkness slunk into the early evening and I turned on my lights. Maybe I'd just stop by Mike's office and see if he knew anything.

The EMS bay was quiet when I pulled up. Odd, since the ambulance stood in the bay, and I knew the ambulance attendants had a five-minute dispatch requirement, which meant they had to be nearby.

I got on the cell phone and called Mike, but it flipped over to voice mail. Kevin's did the same.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, reluctant to return home with my goodies. Not only was I hungry and my loot in danger of being consumed, but our big, empty house in the woods seemed like a tomb to me, albeit a well-decorated tomb.

I sighed and opted to head for the harbor, where the charm of the city lights against the water might cheer me. I put the car into gear. It wasn't until I'd turned left onto the back roads that I realized the route would take me by the dark church. The place of all my failures.

Where was my fish head to hide under?

Two blocks from the church, I spotted cars lined up, people exiting their vehicles. Someone must be having a holiday party.

I slowed, curious as to who might have invited the entire town, passing the Jamesions' house and the Guenthers', the Thompsons' and the Haydens'. Their houses, aside from the twinkling lights and a few puffy snowmen, remained dark.

I braked for a family of five crossing the street. They waved to me, but I barely noticed.

My gaze had stopped on the church.

Our well-lit, decorated church—the one with the line of people extending out the door, up the sidewalk, around the side, and into our tiny dirt parking lot. I let my foot off the brake and rolled nearer. A large, white, painted sandwich board stood on the sidewalk, outlined in red and green lights, with a flashlight pointed to the words
Soup Kitchen, 6–8 p.m.

What on earth?

I had to drive two blocks and circle around to the alley behind the church to find a parking spot. I left my goodies in the car and got out, glad that I'd at least showered before I left my house because to a one, every person in line greeted me.

“Hey, Mrs. Wallace, what a great idea!”

“Merry Christmas, Marianne!”

“Community Church has the Christmas spirit!”

I pasted on a smile to cover my bewilderment, excused myself through the line at the door, and wedged my way into the kitchen.

Gretchen Gilstrap stood at the counter, dressed in an apron, ladle in hand. When she looked at me, we shared a moment of strained, disbelieving silence. Then she smiled. “Wonderful soup recipe, Marianne.”

What?

Muriel was beside her, with her own ladle. “It's not fishy at all.”

“Hey, Mom!” Kevin, in a white apron, appeared from behind the serving area, carrying a pot of steaming soup in his kitchen-mitted hands. “Comin' through, ladies; comin' through.”

I stood back as he poured soup into the kettles Muriel and Gretchen were serving from. As if they'd worked in a cafeteria all their lives, they poured out ladlefuls into paper bowls and handed them to eager hands.

Beyond them, our tiny church basement had filled to nearly maximum capacity. The latest soup recipients moved out of sight.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“The sanctuary.” Pastor Backlund came through and grabbed one of our large garbage cans. “The pews are fuller than I've ever seen on a Sunday.” He grinned, though I wasn't so sure he should be excited about that.

Then I heard a voice, laughter that I hadn't heard in months, sweet and teasing. When it ended with “the queen would love it!” I pushed past Gretchen and Muriel and rounded the corner.

There, cutting up celery, was . . . Amy? All the way from London? Dressed in a pink vest and a pair of blue Uggs, as if she had just come in from band practice.

She stopped when she saw me, a smile curling up her face. “Hey, Mom.”

The figure at the sink, elbow deep in suds, also turned. “Hi, Mom.”

Brett? He looked bigger than I remembered when I saw him last summer, his brown hair longer over his eyes.

“Okay, these are the last of the clams.” Brianna came in holding a box. “Howdy, Mom,” she said over her shoulder. She had her hair up and looked collegiate in a maroon University of Minnesota sweatshirt.

I opened my mouth, but I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't stop the tears from filming my eyes. The room turned fuzzy, and I covered my mouth with my gloved hands. I
had
to be dreaming.

“Hey, Mom. Merry Christmas.” Hands pressed my shoulders. I stared at Neil, who looked at me as if he might be surprised to see my shock. Had my son grown old enough to look normal in a dress shirt, rolled up at the cuffs? “Kevin called, said you needed a little help.” He pulled me into his arms. For a second, I just stood there, smelling the scent of my eldest son, the one who used to climb into my lap day after day begging for a story.

Anya scooted by me and dumped a load of spoons into the sink. “I really need this recipe someday, Mom, if I'm going to carry on the Wallace family traditions.”

I looked at my brood, cooking, cleaning, bringing in supplies, and shook my head. “Kevin called you all?”

“Not only us, but apparently the entire town or at least your hospitality committee.”

“He read us the riot act about hospitality. That it's supposed to be kindness to strangers.” Rachel came into the kitchen with her coat on. “Do we have more hot cider?”

Kevin did this? My loafing child Kevin, who, three months ago, couldn't pick up his dirty laundry, couldn't make his bed?

Then again, maybe a clean room wasn't the true meaning of growing up either.

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Amy said as she stopped cutting, came over, and kissed me on the cheek, holding her gloved hands up. “I'm sorry we didn't stop home first. Dad left early this morning to get me and Brett from the airport, and we got here just in time to start cooking. Good thing Kevin took your recipe.”

So that's where it went.

“Where do you want these potatoes, Bri?” Kevin came in again, carrying a bowl of freshly peeled and diced potatoes.

He winked at me. “See, I told you it would work out.”

I met his eyes. For a moment, we shared a truth that only Kevin and I could understand.

“Open wide
your mouth and I will fill it.”

With state championships. And clam chowder. And kids who grow up even as you blink.

“Where do you want me?” I said to Brianna.

“I could use some more of those onions cut up, and we need a table cleared out there.”

“I'm on it,” a voice said, and I saw Jenni, her baby in a front pack, sweep through the kitchen with a tray. She looked at me as she passed. “Someday I need to know all your secrets.”

Me too.
I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed a couple of cellophane gloves and a knife. “Move over, Amy,” I said. “Mom's in the kitchen now.”

Brett splashed a layer of bubbles at me, and I waggled my kitchen knife at him.

We cut vegetables and cooked potatoes and added milk and laughed and told stories for the better part of the evening until we finally used up all our ingredients, including the extra potatoes and clams and milk Mike went out and bought.

Beyond us in the fellowship hall and in the sanctuary above, strangers laughed and neighbors reconnected and Big Lake celebrated long past nine o'clock. As the crowd began to thin, I wiped my hands, took off my apron, and wandered into the fellowship hall.

Someone had draped Christmas lights and decorative pine boughs around the room. The haphazard way they were tacked to the molding suggested a teenager's hand. Christmas music played from a boom box in the corner.

White tablecloths, now spotted with clam chowder drippings, blanketed the tables, and in the center of each one . . . a Christmas bowl. Gretchen's beautiful china. And she'd found a good use for the bowls, because in each one, many of them overflowing, were tens and twenties and quite a few hundred-dollar bills.

Someone's hand took mine and Gretchen sidled up beside me. “I think this is what they were meant for,” she said softly.

“What's the money for?”

“Didn't you see the sign? We're taking an offering for Bud Finlaysen's new heart. Plus a couple big donors called the church this morning. Apparently your soup kitchen made the evening news last night. There's even a foundation willing to pick up the rest of the cost. It's sort of a miracle, Marianne. Thanks to you.”

No, thanks to the Trout and God's sometimes unwelcome nudges.

Gretchen must have read my face because she nodded, a soft look in her eye. “By the way, Bud's upstairs with Marge.”

Oh.

I didn't know what to say. I thought about going up to see my fellow Trout, but then I decided against it. He was the real Trout. I'd simply been the stand-in for a short season.

“Thanks, Gretchen,” I finally managed, slipping my arm around her shoulders.

She shrugged. “Best Christmas Tea ever.”

We cleaned up the kitchen and, to my surprise, even had enough soup left over for the Backlunds, Gretchen, Muriel, Jenni, and the Wallace family to take home. Before we left, Mike slipped my cardboard box into Bud's car. They were probably sick of soup, but perhaps not the other goodies.

As we exited the church, I noticed that the weather had again turned nippy. My breath spiraled into the air as I slipped my hand through Mike's arm. Beside me walked Amy and Bri. Neil and Anya got into their car to follow us home. Kevin's and Brett's voices rose in argument over who should drive the red clunker home.

Above, the sky had cleared, a thousand lights winking down at me, a Christmas card from God.

Merry Christmas, Marianne Wallace.

Epilogue

“What a great story!” Marci blows on her cocoa, takes a sip, and gets off the bench. She walks over to the cutting board, where I've chopped up celery. The bacon is already browning, the potatoes boiling in the pot. “Is this it?”

I glance at Kevin, and he is grinning at me. “Yep.”

“I can't wait to taste it.” She sits back down, snuggling against Kevin. “So, did everyone stay for Christmas?”

I lean against the counter. “Amy did, and so did Brianna and Brett, but Neil and Anya headed to her house in California. They do every other Christmas here. But Brett and Cathy come nearly every year. Her mother sometimes joins them.”