By Brooke Linville
It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.
~Author Unknown
I drove back toward our rental, our temporary location, listening to the radio. While I usually reserved Christmas music for the day after Thanksgiving, I needed the kind of joy only Jewel singing "Winter Wonderland" can bring.
"I'm dreaming of a place I love" came through the speakers of my white 2001 RX300. Tears started to fall as I kept my eyes on the road. It was a road I had driven nearly every day for the past three years. It was on this road three months ago that I had seen smoke coming from our neighborhood, making my heart quicken and my foot hit the accelerator pedal. We had left our dog, Shade, inside that night.
My husband, Dan, tried to reassure me that the fire wasn't near our house and that everything was fine. I was not easily persuaded.
"See, it's in the field below the house," Dan said as we drove past our neighborhood trying to find the fastest way back home.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Okay."
I looked again.
"Are you sure?"
As we pulled into our neighborhood I nearly hit a fire engine with my car because the smoke was so thick. I sent Dan into the fire to get the animals and the photos, which he did.
Hours later we learned that was all we had left.
Our three-bedroom suburban house had been redone in custom tile and it had a kitchen that was made to feel like a diner. It had a pass-through bar and cabinets that seemed to float in the air, with several feet between them and the top of the vaulted ceiling. The previous owners had left plastic tube lighting, which seemed corny, but they gave the room a unique ambience, and so I kept them.
Dan and I had redone parts of the house, updating light fixtures, repainting walls, and building a custom 750-square foot deck in 100-degree heat. I had just finished our son Kellen's nursery, as he was due a month after the fire.
In the months since, I dreamed of that house. It was the only way to get back to the place I loved.
I had imagined our first Christmas with our new baby even before he was conceived. Even though Kellen would only be a couple of months old at Christmas, I knew he would have new pajamas under the tree and would play with the boxes. He would sit on my lap as we tore through the wrapping paper and uncovered Christmas treasures. The weekend prior to losing our house, I had finished making Dan's stocking while watching the closing ceremonies of the Beijing games. It was a crazy quilted rugged stocking and I was just starting on Kellen's which I had hoped he would keep his entire life the way that I had mine. I imagined that Kellen's stocking that first Christmas would have pacifiers, rattles, and a Christmas ornament in it. I had collected ornaments, one each year since I had been in elementary school and I had looked forward to starting the tradition with my son.
Christmas for me had always brought immense joy. I loved the smell of fresh pine. I loved the emotions of the music, which even in the sadness of songs like "Christmas Shoes" could bring joy in believing in the goodness of humanity. That, for me, was the true spirit of the season. I loved the ornaments, especially those that had been handmade by my mom and grandmother and great-grandmother. I loved wrapping gifts, maybe even more than giving them. I loved the feel of crisp paper and straight lines. I loved the whooshing sound of scissors shearing the colored paper into rectangles. I loved folding the paper down and creating edges that showed I had put effort into the beauty of the present. I made bows and tags. It was my holiday. And I loved it.
Instead of joy, however, this year brought sadness. I would have no tree in my living room, no generational ornaments, no scraps of wrapping paper from years past. Our stockings were gone. Our first house, the one I envisioned spending my first Christmas in as a family of three, was in ashes. And all I had now were floorboards and the outline of a new home.
"I'll be home for Christmas" continued over the car's speakers. Only in my dreams.
I knew that the house wouldn't be finished. Even though Dan was working as the general contractor and pushing sub-contractors through at a nearly record-setting pace, construction was expected to last until at least January. I had cried to them about this date, but I knew it was the most realistic. I didn't want to be home only in my dreams though. It wasn't enough.
When I got back to the rental, a place I refused to call my house much less home, I told Dan my plan.
"I want to spend Christmas at the new house," I said.
We talked about the logistics, like heat, and decided we could make it happen.
I started making plans for our Christmas at home. We bought a tree in the middle of December. They were being offered free to the ten families who lost their homes in our neighborhood's fire. While I had thought about not getting one, knowing that I could put it in my new, unfinished house made it okay. Boxes of gifts from friends, family, and strangers continued to arrive. Old family ornaments were graciously given to me by my mom and sister even though we had already divided them a few years ago. My mom's book club in Virginia shipped ornaments across the country. Though simple, one of my favorites said "Joy" in white, covered lightly with glitter. I may not have felt it fully in my heart yet, but I knew that joy would come.
I prepared stuffed French toast Christmas Eve to take to the house in the morning. We bought a hot pot for coffee and a few other snack items. We had invited friends, family, and some of the community to the house Christmas morning. We packed up the gifts and stockings and drove up the hill from our rental to our house.
There was heat and there were walls but not much else. We hung garland from the unfinished banister on the stairs. We set up a folding table where the kitchen would soon be, and I unfolded my reindeer table cloth from Pottery Barn. We placed folding chairs in the living room which had no carpet or paint.
Friends and family came through the house throughout the day, and we showed them around, pointing out where I envisioned our Christmas tree would go in subsequent years. We listened to Christmas songs and found solace in the sound of laughter throughout our house.
It wasn't the Christmas at home I had expected but we were home. And there was peace and joy that Christmas day.
It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.
~Author Unknown
I drove back toward our rental, our temporary location, listening to the radio. While I usually reserved Christmas music for the day after Thanksgiving, I needed the kind of joy only Jewel singing "Winter Wonderland" can bring.
"I'm dreaming of a place I love" came through the speakers of my white 2001 RX300. Tears started to fall as I kept my eyes on the road. It was a road I had driven nearly every day for the past three years. It was on this road three months ago that I had seen smoke coming from our neighborhood, making my heart quicken and my foot hit the accelerator pedal. We had left our dog, Shade, inside that night.
My husband, Dan, tried to reassure me that the fire wasn't near our house and that everything was fine. I was not easily persuaded.
"See, it's in the field below the house," Dan said as we drove past our neighborhood trying to find the fastest way back home.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Okay."
I looked again.
"Are you sure?"
As we pulled into our neighborhood I nearly hit a fire engine with my car because the smoke was so thick. I sent Dan into the fire to get the animals and the photos, which he did.
Hours later we learned that was all we had left.
Our three-bedroom suburban house had been redone in custom tile and it had a kitchen that was made to feel like a diner. It had a pass-through bar and cabinets that seemed to float in the air, with several feet between them and the top of the vaulted ceiling. The previous owners had left plastic tube lighting, which seemed corny, but they gave the room a unique ambience, and so I kept them.
Dan and I had redone parts of the house, updating light fixtures, repainting walls, and building a custom 750-square foot deck in 100-degree heat. I had just finished our son Kellen's nursery, as he was due a month after the fire.
In the months since, I dreamed of that house. It was the only way to get back to the place I loved.
I had imagined our first Christmas with our new baby even before he was conceived. Even though Kellen would only be a couple of months old at Christmas, I knew he would have new pajamas under the tree and would play with the boxes. He would sit on my lap as we tore through the wrapping paper and uncovered Christmas treasures. The weekend prior to losing our house, I had finished making Dan's stocking while watching the closing ceremonies of the Beijing games. It was a crazy quilted rugged stocking and I was just starting on Kellen's which I had hoped he would keep his entire life the way that I had mine. I imagined that Kellen's stocking that first Christmas would have pacifiers, rattles, and a Christmas ornament in it. I had collected ornaments, one each year since I had been in elementary school and I had looked forward to starting the tradition with my son.
Christmas for me had always brought immense joy. I loved the smell of fresh pine. I loved the emotions of the music, which even in the sadness of songs like "Christmas Shoes" could bring joy in believing in the goodness of humanity. That, for me, was the true spirit of the season. I loved the ornaments, especially those that had been handmade by my mom and grandmother and great-grandmother. I loved wrapping gifts, maybe even more than giving them. I loved the feel of crisp paper and straight lines. I loved the whooshing sound of scissors shearing the colored paper into rectangles. I loved folding the paper down and creating edges that showed I had put effort into the beauty of the present. I made bows and tags. It was my holiday. And I loved it.
Instead of joy, however, this year brought sadness. I would have no tree in my living room, no generational ornaments, no scraps of wrapping paper from years past. Our stockings were gone. Our first house, the one I envisioned spending my first Christmas in as a family of three, was in ashes. And all I had now were floorboards and the outline of a new home.
"I'll be home for Christmas" continued over the car's speakers. Only in my dreams.
I knew that the house wouldn't be finished. Even though Dan was working as the general contractor and pushing sub-contractors through at a nearly record-setting pace, construction was expected to last until at least January. I had cried to them about this date, but I knew it was the most realistic. I didn't want to be home only in my dreams though. It wasn't enough.
When I got back to the rental, a place I refused to call my house much less home, I told Dan my plan.
"I want to spend Christmas at the new house," I said.
We talked about the logistics, like heat, and decided we could make it happen.
I started making plans for our Christmas at home. We bought a tree in the middle of December. They were being offered free to the ten families who lost their homes in our neighborhood's fire. While I had thought about not getting one, knowing that I could put it in my new, unfinished house made it okay. Boxes of gifts from friends, family, and strangers continued to arrive. Old family ornaments were graciously given to me by my mom and sister even though we had already divided them a few years ago. My mom's book club in Virginia shipped ornaments across the country. Though simple, one of my favorites said "Joy" in white, covered lightly with glitter. I may not have felt it fully in my heart yet, but I knew that joy would come.
I prepared stuffed French toast Christmas Eve to take to the house in the morning. We bought a hot pot for coffee and a few other snack items. We had invited friends, family, and some of the community to the house Christmas morning. We packed up the gifts and stockings and drove up the hill from our rental to our house.
There was heat and there were walls but not much else. We hung garland from the unfinished banister on the stairs. We set up a folding table where the kitchen would soon be, and I unfolded my reindeer table cloth from Pottery Barn. We placed folding chairs in the living room which had no carpet or paint.
Friends and family came through the house throughout the day, and we showed them around, pointing out where I envisioned our Christmas tree would go in subsequent years. We listened to Christmas songs and found solace in the sound of laughter throughout our house.
It wasn't the Christmas at home I had expected but we were home. And there was peace and joy that Christmas day.
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