An Unwanted Christmas Guest - by Michelle Joy Teigrob

 

A week before Christmas as I was reflecting with gratitude on all who planned to join us for the big day, including my daughter and her husband from overseas, I sent up a sincere prayer. Lord, may our home shine with your hospitality. May all our guests know you are present through our joy, peace, and genuine love.

The very next day, my phone splintered with a text message that reminded me to always be sure I truly mean my prayers as the Lord does hear and answer. Through the text message, I learned that a woman who had recently divorced one of our family members expected to attend our cozy, family Christmas Eve gathering as she always had in the past.

I didn’t understand. This woman enjoyed her own large, separate circle of loving family and friends. Why would she care to join those she had chosen to leave through divorce? Cynical and suspicious thoughts prickled my peace. While I did not worry that she would deliberately do anything to disrupt our time, I couldn’t help wondering if her reasons for attending our gathering had more to do with a desire to collect juicy gossip tidbits to bring back to her own circles than because she enjoyed our company. Was this choice to visit our home truly an act of love and care on her part?

To be completely transparent, I simply did not want her to come; I also felt ashamed of my reaction. I have always sought to follow the biblical call to respect and welcome every person as a child of God. As someone who works daily with refugees from around the world, I feel I am fulfilling a deeply Christian mission to welcome and care for the “stranger.” And yet, here I was, struggling to accept this woman who had been part of our lives for so many years.

God, help me, I prayed. I know you call us to show hospitality to strangers, those in need, and fellow believers (Hebrews 13:2; Luke 14:12-14; Galatians 6:10). But this woman is not a stranger, she is not in need, and I’m not even sure of her faith.  

We decided as a family to accept the woman’s attendance at our gathering, yet my feelings of distrust and aversion to her participation continued to prickle.

As I worked on finishing preparations for the day of celebration, a thought came to me – Jesus was an unwanted Christmas guest. The innkeepers of Bethlehem claimed they could not fit him and his family into their apparently crowded lodgings. But was that the real reason – absolutely no room anywhere? Or were other secret prejudices at work? Mary and Joseph hailed from Nazareth, a small town viewed with apparent skepticism and maybe even distaste in that time (John 1:46). Also, could the nasty rumours that likely swirled around the circumstances of Mary’s pregnancy have followed her to Bethlehem? Of course, this is all conjecture. The Bible only tells us that a lack of space led to Jesus’ birth in the stable. 

Whatever the real reasons for the rejection of that Christmas family on that Christmas night, the truth is – they were left out in the cold. It came to me that I was acting like one of those innkeepers. While I was not leaving Jesus outside literally, my chilly reception of this unwanted former family member basically amounted to the same thing. After all, it was Jesus who said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). But, Lord, she is not “one of the least.” She is well-set financially and socially. Yet again I received a reminder. What about her spiritual resources? How well-set is she there? Although I wasn’t sure of where this woman stood in her Christian faith now, I knew that years before she had decided to become a Christian after a decidedly difficult upbringing. She still bore the signs of those challenging childhood years in her abrasive personality. As someone who had not been blessed with a loving Christian childhood, what if she was looking to me and our family as those who claimed to be genuine Christ-followers, not for gossip fodder, but genuine love and care? What if she was checking in – not to see if she could find something juicy to take back to her friends – but to learn whether one’s avowed Christian beliefs truly make a difference in how one lives and loves?

Of course, there was no way I could know the true motives of her heart. But I determined then and there that I would do whatever I could to ensure my heart was right. I would be praying fervently that Jesus would be shining brightly through our whole home that evening. Yes, this woman might be coming only to get “news,” but I began to pray that the only stories she’d be leaving with would be ones of how much Jesus-like love she had experienced.

Michelle Joy Teigrob lives with her family in Peterborough, Ontario. Her book on grief, Joyfully Star-mapping through Life's Dung-piles, was shortlisted for the 2025 Word Awards. 

The Innkeeper ~ a short story by Valerie Ronald

 

    I used to play my violin in this attic room. The mountain vista drew the music from my fingers as if I were playing to some celestial audience. When Anna converted the house to an inn, she kept this room for me, although she said it was for her. She loved to hear me play. Dust coats my violin case now, unopened since the day of her death. Securing the loose window sash rattling in the rising wind, I note the heavy pewter colour of clouds laden with more snow. No tire tracks mar the drifts in the lane. It has been many years since the last guest stayed under this roof. I don’t encourage visitors.

This old place is in disrepair, but I haven’t the heart to do anything with it. I just want to live out my days in peace. I cannot abandon this old inn˗˗it is the place where I have known happiness. The ghosts of better days tread the empty halls, reminders of memories too dear to leave.

I descend the grand staircase sweeping down to the main hall. In yuletide seasons past, Anna made this the heart of the house. Beginning with a tall, fragrant evergreen regally filling the curve of the staircase, she spread her Christmas magic to every corner. I remember carrying in armfuls of pine boughs and holly for her to wind around the balustrade, and lighting a fire of sweet applewood in the stone fireplace. She would gently push me out and close the curtained French doors so she could add the finishing touches in secret.

Stealing a look through a slit in the drapes, I would see her kneeling before the manger scene she always saved until last. Old, worn figurines of Mary, Joseph and the infant Jesus were touchstones in her hands as she lovingly set them in place. These weren’t just family keepsakes to my Anna. The nativity was real to her, just like the rest of the Bible she read. Why she married a heathen like me, I’ll never know.

Fingertips of snow brushing against the windows bring me back to the empty cavern of this great room. The guest rooms and this lofty hall have long been unused. Much of the furniture was sold and doors shut after Anna was no longer here to welcome visitors. I live in the kitchen and back bedroom now, rarely venturing this way.

I hear a tentative knock at the front door. It startles me, so I stay hidden in the shadows by the staircase. I have been a recluse for too long. I don’t know how to be with people anymore. After a second knock, I see two figures through the frosted glass door, moving away toward the outbuildings, not back down the lane. I go to the window. The snow is flying thickly, but I can see it is a man and woman. He has his arm around her shoulders, sheltering her and whatever she carries in her arms from the blowing snow. I mutter under my breath when I see them pull open the slightly gaping plank door of the old barn and go in. I meant to fix that long ago.

There is no car in the lane, only a trail of footprints coming to the door. Did they get lost or break down on the twisting turns of the mountain road? Have they come to break in and steal? I am bewildered by this new turn of events. I wasn’t that fond of visitors when Anna was running the inn, but she ran it so smoothly I hardly knew they were here. Now she is gone and I am faced with two strangers taking shelter in my barn.

I am tempted to ignore their presence in hopes they will go away, but dusk is descending and the storm is getting worse. It is too cold to spend the night in an unheated barn. I struggle between my desire for privacy and knowing what Anna would want me to do. Finally shrugging into a parka, I grumble my way out to the barn.

When I push open the door, I am struck by a tableau startlingly close to my earlier memories of Anna’s manger scene. The woman is kneeling in the hay, her scarf-draped head illumined by snow light coming through a barn window. Beside her stands the man in his long coat. They are both gazing down at a baby wrapped in a soft blue blanket, lying in a small nest of hay. In the pause before my next heartbeat, Bethlehem becomes reality.

Then the woman rises to her feet, picking up the baby, huddling close to the man, and I see they are just ordinary people, not some sacred vision sent to convert an old man. I am surprised by my disappointment. As I had figured, they told me they had a car breakdown a short distance past my lane, so needing to find some shelter, they came up the hill to the inn. Despite my rusty social skills, I invite them in for warmth and food. They follow me gladly, stamping the snow off their boots and unwrapping the child from his blanket in the steamy kitchen. They introduce themselves as Jason, Maria and their son, Joshua. The familiarity of their names is not lost on me. They are gravely polite, graciously thanking me for the meal and a place to stay out of the storm.

The baby is wide-eyed and quiet at first, drinking his milk from the safety of his mother’s lap, watching me across the table. Then he begins to fuss, working himself into a red-faced howl. Maria tries to settle him, walking with him back and forth across the kitchen. Jason tries as well, but the child is overtired and won’t be soothed. Maybe it is the loud crying invading my reclusive quiet which sends me up to the attic for my violin. I have heard that music might settle a baby. I light a fire in the great hall, pull up some chairs, and usher my guests close to its flickering warmth.

At the first draw of my bow across the strings the baby stops crying. His unblinking stare of wonder gradually changes to droopy lids as I play simple carols. Maria swaddles him in his soft blue blanket, her loving gaze on his now peaceful face. Jason makes a bed of cushions and blankets before the fire where they will spend the night. In the morning, I will ask the boy who delivers my groceries to send the mechanic up from town to look at their car. The companionable presence of others in this old inn makes itself felt through the walls as I go to bed. I drift off with the vision in my mind of a child asleep in the hay and a star bright in the night sky.

I thought I would be relieved to see the small family leave the next morning, but to my surprise I am not. Their company has manifested my Anna’s presence again and I want to keep her close. Before they leave, Maria places her son in my reluctant arms. His innocent gaze pierces my heart, and I quickly give him back before my eyes well over. Jason shakes my hand firmly; Maria gives me a gentle hug. Then they head down the lane.

The fireplace in the great hall gives crackling accompaniment to my violin as I play Christmas carols for my Anna. The ache of loss gives way to joy in the memories. Strangers at the inn have opened the long-locked door of the past and I am grateful.

I am interrupted by a knock on the door. The mechanic stands there with a puzzled look on his face. He tells me he can find no car around the bend from my lane, nor any tire tracks in yesterday’s snow. Am I sure they were here? The delivery boy and the mechanic have trampled the snow up my lane, so no double set of footprints give proof of the family’s passage. Windblown snow covered their trail to and from the barn last night. I can tell he is annoyed at making a wasted trip out here because of some old man’s rambling delusions.

After he leaves, I sit down hard in a kitchen chair, my legs too wobbly to hold me. Did I imagine all this? I look around the kitchen for proof of my visitors, yet all is the same as before. But I am not. If their mystical resemblance to the holy family is only a figment of my aging mind, I do not care, for they have opened the rusted door on this old innkeeper’s heart and set it beating again.

I go outside to gather pine boughs and holly to decorate the great hall. Surely this is a Christmas season I need to celebrate. Their fragrance fills the room, and I gaze around me with satisfaction. Anna would be pleased. Then something under a chair catches my eye. I reach for a blue baby’s blanket. Pressing it to my cheek, its softness absorbs my tears of joy.

 

Valerie Ronald writes from an old roll top desk in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, with her tortoiseshell cat for a muse. A graduate of Langara College School of Journalism, she writes devotionals, fiction and inspirational prose. Her purpose in writing is to encourage others to grow in their spiritual walk.

 

Cancer at Christmas Remembered by Alan Anderson

 

Memories of Cancer 2017

Readers of my blog posts might see a resemblance to a post I wrote in December 2022. You might be new to my posts, however. I pray the memories I revisit in this post bring comfort to anyone in need of hope. As I begin, here is a poem I wrote in 2022 as I remembered Cancer at Christmas 2017.

 

Cancer At Christmas: a husband’s poem for his wife

By Alan Anderson

November 3, 2022

The news is more than sad, but this year

we celebrate Christmas,

not cancer.

I will be honest in my heart,

share cries and whimpers,

feel numb,

shake a fist at heaven.

My head held up only by my hands,

offers you, my love, who brings me this news,

a face wet with tears,

frozen fear.

Why God, I ask, would there be cancer

at Christmas? Help me, I pray, help

my darling.

My love—you amaze me.

Yes, you live.

Yes, we live.

We hang decorations, drink eggnog,

romance each other, your words slipping

out like healing hands, touching me,

but it’s me who wants to support you.

We celebrate Christmas,

not cancer.

In this together,

we hold on.

Never let go of the moment,

any moment.

This illness will not last forever.

We have peace, stillness.

So, my love, sleep like a baby

in the arms of He who loves us.

God is not dumbfounded,

by this fiend,… cancer.

Joy is our companion.

We weep, yes,

Yet we rejoice. We are not alone.

Immanuel, God with us,

Is unseen yet present.

Let Him love us.

Let me hold you, my love, you, not cancer.

This year,

We celebrate Christmas.

Cancer News Memories

The prompt for this month’s post states, “December is a month filled with story, the story of God reaching down in love. This month’s prompt asks you to share a story about Christmas. It can be funny, poignant, sad, or inspirational.”

As I read over and pondered our writing prompt, memories of November 2017 flooded my mind. I took this also as a prompt to revisit my December 2022 blog post. In my experience after hearing news of my wife’s cancer in 2017, three words from the cancer surgeon live in my mind.

When the surgeon stated these three words, “You have cancer,” to my wife, Terry, in October 2017, my first thought was, “No, not again!” Her first experience with cancer occurred when our children were still toddlers. We didn’t know what to expect then, nor did we in 2017.

Christmas 2017 came with a gentle embrace of a peace that passes all understanding. We also expected in January 2018, Terry would undergo uterine cancer surgery.

Memories of Healing

I will remember January 8, 2018, forever. Terry had her surgery on that day to arrest her uterine cancer. Her surgeon was a compassionate healer. Prior to the operation, he informed me it would take anywhere from forty-five to ninety minutes. Thanks be to God; Terry’s surgery lasted only thirty-five minutes. She has been cancer-free now for almost eight years, and we thank God for His love and mercy on us.

A Reflection to Share with You

In times of personal struggle, it helps to know we are not alone. I am conscious of the possibility someone reading this post might be going through cancer or some other life-changing experience right now. May God show His mercy, love, and grace to you.

Terry and I know what it is like to stay awake at night wondering what the outcome of this experience will be. Please know this. We are here for you to offer comfort, even though miles separate us. Message me if you need someone to listen without trying to fix you. We all need someone sometimes.

You are not alone. Your illness, your tears, do not take God by surprise. Dear ones, not even cancer can separate us from the love of God. 

Alan lives in a small village called Deroche, British Columbia, with his wife, Terry, and their poodle, Charlie. He enjoys walking on the dike near his home, with trees all around and where he finds inspiration to write. He has occasionally written articles for FellowScript Magazine and is a regular contributor to the InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship blog. Alan’s website and blog is https://scarredjoy.ca.

The Nativity Set by Carol Harrison

                                                              

I hurried into the department store, glad to be out of the bitterly cold December weather. Just inside the store I stopped at a display of nativity sets. Bins of individual figurines sat beside the shelves holding the complete sets. My Christmas shopping list quickly disappeared from my mind as I stared longingly at the display.

I had always wanted to have a nativity set as part of my Christmas decorations. Yet years of holidays had come and gone and owning my own set remained nothing more than a desire. I always told myself that someday I would get one. I just didn't know when. Usually all the sets I saw and liked were beyond my budget. The most beautiful ones were delicate and breakable which would have been impractical in a house with children.

But the prices attached to these bins were affordable. My hopes soared as I began sorting through the containers of pretty yet unbreakable pieces. I started wondering if I could find all the figures needed to make up a complete nativity set. Excitedly I picked up Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus. Next I pulled out a few different shepherds and three unique wise men. Then I found a donkey, sheep and even camels. Finally I discovered an angel. I put them all into my shopping cart and began searching the shelves for a stable but all of them were part of full sets. Undaunted I completed the rest of my shopping and purchased all the affordable figures. I could keep looking for an inexpensive stable or get someone to nail a few rough boards together to represent one.

Eagerly I headed home with all my Christmas surprises and treasures. Later that afternoon I gathered the children around the Christmas tree and began to tell them about Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus while I placed them under the tree. Then I told them about the shepherds on the hillside and the choir of angels who announced the birth of the Christ child. I added the shepherds and a few sheep to my display while I told how they eagerly hurried to Bethlehem to see this amazing event for themselves. I stood the angel close by, as if watching protectively everyone surrounding the manger. I told them about the wise men who came from the East to worship the new born King and added three figures along with their camels. Finally I placed the donkey and cow behind the holy family to complete the scene. My youngest watched every move.

As I finished telling the story my three older children scattered to activities that more fully captured their interest. I headed to the kitchen to make supper but glanced back to admire my new, long waited for nativity set. I saw my two-year old, special needs daughter lying on her tummy staring intently at the scene. I continued to watch quietly for a couple minutes. Soon her little hand reached out and began to rearrange each piece. Baby Jesus remained in the centre but she moved Mary and Joseph even closer. Then she moved the shepherds, sheep, wise men and camels until all were crowded around the manger holding the baby. Finally she turned them until all were gazing in adoration at Jesus. Completing her task she got up, noticed me and smiled before coming to take my hand and pull me toward the Christmas tree. She possessed an almost negligible vocabulary but no words were needed to let me know how important this set already was to her. I realized she understood the Christmas story she listened to repeatedly at Sunday school and at home.

Each day, until we put the decorations away after New Year’s, she spent time lying in front of the Christmas tree looking at or rearranging the pieces. Baby Jesus always remained the central figure. I enjoyed watching this often repeated task and the huge smiles that always accompanied it. Several more years disappeared before I found a little, rough wooden stable to add to the scene but that didn't seem to matter to her. All she needed to act out the Bible story of Christmas were the figures themselves.

The years passed and each year my youngest daughter eagerly waited for the Christmas decorations to fill the house. She thoroughly loved this holiday season. Smiles wreathed her face especially when the nativity set made its appearance under the tree. It became her self-appointed job to arrange it until she was satisfied that all eyes were on the baby in the manger. She also continued to sit and listen to the Christmas story from the gospel of Luke as many times as someone would read it to her.

Tasks that we often take for granted proved difficult for her to learn to do. By the time she turned ten she had finally learned to read and received a children's Bible as her Christmas gift. As soon as she opened it she brought it to me so I could show her where to find the Christmas story. Over and over she read the words all by herself. This brought her so much pleasure and filled my eyes with tears of joy.

My children grew up and the oldest three married. Our family continued to expand with the addition of grandchildren. It had become our family tradition for my youngest daughter to arrange the nativity set under the tree each Christmas, a chore she relished. If anyone moved it around she'd go over and gently replace all the figures to her liking. One year as I took out the all the decorations, I wondered if the time had come to upgrade the nativity set to a fancier one. While we decorated the house I voiced my thoughts only to quickly be met with total rejection by my youngest daughter.

“A new fancy one will be breakable. How will all the nieces and nephews play out the Christmas story? They have to be able to play with it and move them around. You have to keep this set. It has to go under the tree.” she said with a worried look on her face.

I realized the intensity of her desire for my grandchildren to have the opportunity to enjoy the simple pleasures she had experienced year after year and I gave in. The original set stayed.

Over the years I have added other decorations that depict the Christmas story from the Bible. Yet none of them holds the special place in her heart that my original purchase does. This first visual representation, which made the story come alive for her, needs to remain part of our family tradition. My desire for a nativity set had a wonderful ripple effect within my family, but mostly with my youngest, which continues to surprise and amaze me.

Carol Harrison loves the Christmas season. This story originally appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Tales of Christmas 2011. The picture is one she took of this nativity set which still sits under their tree each year even though the grandchildren are mostly all adults.