We set out with fresh oil in the truck, a recently repaired flat tire and a cab full of Christmas treasure. The lines on the road ticked beneath us like grains of sand from an hourglass while we amused ourselves with scenery. Green fields full of cows–and the occasional pony–grinned back at our wide-eyed gaze. But after a few hours, we wondered if the long journey was worth the destination.
We stopped to rest our weary heads at a lodging place in a historic village via Lexington, Virginia. Col Alto was built in 1823 and was a very long drive from Saint Charles, Missouri. The history was written in plaques on the wall, not far from the soothing warmth of a gas fireplace. I stood there, warming my hands and shoulders in front of the mantle upon which stood a tiny ceramic town of colorful buildings and even smaller people. Their little faces lifted in silent song amidst twinkling white lights and plastic evergreen branches. I yawned and we retired to a bed fitted with crisp, white linens and a perfectly snug comforter.
The arches at Col Alto
The rain fell like spittle on our Christmas Eve morning–as we tried in vain to keep our luggage dry. Still, we couldn’t resist the charm of the broad, brick arches. We climbed the old, stone steps and posed for proof that we were there. We didn’t feel the cold or the wet or the tired–only the joy of exploring something old, yet new-to-us. There is magic in exploring history, but we did not have time to unravel these mysteries. Still, we paused the hourglass for a time. We wanted to study the architecture of old homesteads now updated to modern times. If not for the steady drip of December rain, we might have paused indefinitely to explore the shops–oblivious to those waiting for our arrival.
The rain was intent on spoiling the roads but we persevered to our destination. Soon, we were wrapped in the embrace of those we love and shaking the wet from our hair. We filled our bellies with good food and settled in, reminiscing simpler times.
It doesn’t feel like Christmas Eve’s of yore. There is no candlelight service, no hymns, no driving to look at lights. The river of rain is trying to wash away our happy and we are grasping at hope like a cork in a swirling current. In truth, this new tradition feels like a new patch on an old garment. I should be in bed but sleep won’t come. So I’m sorting out thoughts that have spilled out like old buttons from a mason jar. And sadly, none of them match.
And the thing is, I’m lonely. I miss the people who have passed or worse–the people who have passed me by. I consider those faces who used to care for me but whose paths no longer intersect with mine. I miss the illusion of infatuation–the glittering glances of adoring faces who haunt the halls of my hungry heart. I remember when their gaze warmed my cheeks like the gas fireplace at Col Alto. But now, I feel the cold chill of reality. These feckless fellows have flown and I am the dust swirling where they once stood.
I am not bitter. It’s just that I remember. And remembering–while often sweet–can also sting like lemon juice on cracked skin.
The clock has just struck and it’s Christmas Eve no longer. In a few hours we will tear into packages and snap memories on digital devices. Everyone will smile and we will count our blessings like we eat bacon; ravenously. Because in truth, we have so much to be thankful for.
Soon, we will pack back into the truck, hopefully with hearts full of new memories. And we will start the hourglass again. But all the while I will be dreaming of the day when the journey finally ends. Because if home is where the heart is, my home is not here.
“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” – John 14:3
Leave a Reply