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My Son's House: Christmas Story
Posted by glowin, Dec 24, 2008. 1367 views. ID = 2151

My Son's House

Posted by glowin, Dec 24, 2008. 1367 views. ID = 2151
This post was written in 4 minutes.
This post has been awarded 12 stars by 3 readers.

Merry Christmas all--I hope to be getting to know many of you soon!

Here is my Christmas short story actually done 2 years ago when I visited my adult son in Niagara Falls for the first time since he had left home.


Today, I am in my son's house. I have never been here before, but it feels like I have been here forever; I feel so welcome. My son greeted me with open arms, and it was like we had never been apart.

I marvel at my son's house. It is not an elaborate house by today's standards, but it is modern and well-built. It is shaded and protected by aged willows, and the back yard is fenced and spacious, perfect for his little boy to run and play.

My son is a paramedic. He saves people for a living. Like every one of my children, he has done his mother proud, given that this young man once thought having fun was the most important subject in school. How he has grown.

My son's house is comfortable, warm and inviting. A person entering it for the first time would know where to find things. I did. My son appears to be very proud of what he has done to make his house more reflective of the man he is, and to make it more attractive to those who come here, most of all his own son.

The kitchen is surprisingly well-stocked, putting my mind at ease, since like every mother since the dawn of time, I worry about a boychild alone. Apparently, he was listening and watching as I prepared meals, when I thought his mind was elsewhere. His cupboards are stocked with wholesome and nutritious foodstuffs, and his freezer tells me that he cooks many meals from 'scratch'.

A mother visiting a son who lives alone thinks it is her motherly duty to provide home-cooked food, especially at Christmas. I ask him when he last tasted tourtiere, a mouthwatering meat pie, part of any traditional Canadian Christmas. He thinks, had to think long enough to tell me meat pie would be on the table tonight beside the turkey and dressing, and all the trimmings.

My son does not like dessert, but I do need something sweet to complete a table already groaning with holiday fare. I decide to make a few shortbread cookies. I find everything except sugar, which is no surprise—he has never liked sweets. He is out doing last minute shopping. I cannot reach him, and there is not a store nearby.

I have noticed sugar lumps in the cupboard. I improvise. Soaking sugar cubes in butter and heating them in the microwave gives me the needed sweetness for shortbreads, and the finished product is decorated with chocolate shaved from a box of Laura Secord chocolates I found under the tree. (Yes, he also had a tree decorated for the season, something not common in most 'bachelor' pads.) The shortbreads are delicious, despite the improvization.

And now, while supper simmers, I will take an hour to visit one more home. I have been invited to yet another son's house. I am greeted at the door with open arms. It seems as though I never left it, the years fall away. This house, too, is warm and inviting, and those inside are showered with blessings and the joys of the season.

It is the exclusive Yuletide gathering, attendance 'sold out' every year. The night is spectacular, the stars bright, the air charged with good wishes from other visitors. God has invited us to His Son's house tonight, and I am so glad I could make it. It is a feast fit for a King, and Angels will entertain us as we arrive, singing 'O Holy Night.'

I am proud of my son, in much the same way as God must be proud of His Son. My son saves people. God's Son saved mankind, and year upon year, the world over rejoices and worships Him, remembering His birth long ago in a lowly manger. Please join me from your house as we sing:

'Away in a manger, no crib for a bed’

Copyright 2008 glowin. All rights reserved. has been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work. For permission to reprint this item, please contact the author.

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