The Great Christmas Bowl (9 page)

She looked back at me, through the crack in the door. I opened it just a smidge wider. “We have a Christmas Tea at our church every year, and I was wondering if you'd like to come.”

Her smile dimmed. “I know about the tea. Every year the church sends someone by to make sure everyone in the park is invited.”

Oh. Another task I didn't know had to get done.

“So I'll see you there?”

She lifted the foil on the turkey. Smelled it. My stomach growled, and I hoped the wind covered it up. I had saved some of the turkey, the corn pudding, and the apple pie at home.

“Nah, I never go. It's too fancy for me.” She looked up. “Thanks again. I'll tell Bud you stopped by.”

I nodded and let the door close.

I was nearly back to my car when the door opened again and Marge stuck her head out. “Hey! Aren't you the fish now?”

I waved my hand. “Yep, that's me. The town's new Trout.”

She laughed, warm and genuine, and gave me a little wave back.

I rather enjoyed my new celebrity status.

Chapter 7

“What are you doing?”

I looked up from the kitchen table, where I had spread out around me three different versions of the Bible, a
Strong's Concordance
, and a Bible dictionary. I resembled a Dallas Theological Seminary student and felt like one after an hour of rooting through the original Greek words for deeper understanding.

“I'm trying to figure out what I'm doing.”

Mike shoved his hands into his blue bathrobe, raised a blond eyebrow. “I've been wondering that for years.”

“Oh, very funny. I'm trying to figure out the true meaning of hospitality, being that I'm the ‘hospitality' chair. Something that Marge Finlaysen said to me . . .”

Outside, the snow still drifted down in gentle fluffs. The spindly birch trees appeared eerily white against the gray pallor of the day. I peered at Mike, grateful that he and Kevin made it home last night and still surprised by their lack of protest about our abbreviated Thanksgiving meal.

For the first time in years, I didn't have leftovers to worry about. China to hand-wash. And I wondered if I had discovered a hidden treasure about Thanksgiving in my snowy night offering to Marge and Bud.

Which had driven me to gather my Bible study supplies and root through the New Testament for references to early church hospitality.

Mike poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Listen to this.” I opened my Bible to Romans. “‘Share with God's people who are in need. Practice hospitality.'”

Mike sipped his coffee. “See, now this is what I like. No flavor, just good old Folgers.”

“It's Sumatra. In my concordance,
hospitality
is translated as ‘entertaining strangers.' Like Abraham did when he entertained the angels.”

Mike grabbed a roll from the counter and sat down, watching me.

“And in Titus, it says to be hospitable, love what is good, which translates to being fond of guests, and it also implies strangers.” I closed my Bible, drummed my fingers on the surface. “I'm starting to think that Jenni's suggestions designed to cater to others are closer to the purpose of the tea, but in the same breath, it's not fair to Gretchen, who's spent years investing in this event. I can't get past the part where we're also supposed to live in peace with one another. What about ‘they'll know we are Christians by our love'? If I tell Gretchen and Muriel we're changing the menu, that's certainly not going to speak love to them.”

Mike ran his thumb down the handle of his mug. “What is the meaning of love, anyway? Isn't it always looking out for the good of others?”

“My point exactly.”

“Except, what would you call the times we had to ground Neil for not finishing his homework or cut Amy off from her million-hour phone calls?”

I got up from my chair and poured a refill of coffee, not liking how much sense he made. “I'm going to make someone upset.”

Mike rose. “You'll figure it out, my beloved trout.”

I stood in the kitchen, watching the storm sweep snow from drifts and toss it about in wild gusts. Someday—perhaps tomorrow—it would pass, the sun would shine, and the snow would glitter. In the meantime, I would hide myself under a blanket and relish being warm in my home.

Mike changed clothes and disappeared into the garage. An hour later, I heard a motor running. I looked outside to see him camouflaged under a spray of snow as he pushed the snowblower up our long driveway. Kevin emerged from the basement, hair tousled, and to my surprise, donned his boots and coat and went outside to shovel.

Apparently I was the only one interested in hiding in our snow-covered enclave.

Sunday morning, the storm had abated, and we piled into the SUV for church. I saw Gretchen and Muriel in the entryway, having a powwow, and lifted my hand to them, pretending not to see when they gestured me over.

I just wanted to sit in the service and push the tea and the Trout's future from my mind. I sat next to Mike in the pew and closed my eyes, listening to the organ prelude.

I'd forgotten that we had an influential member of the pastoral staff on my committee. Apparently, she'd been dispensing her own opinions around the Thanksgiving table, because when I opened my eyes, perused the bulletin, and saw the sermon title, everything inside me went tight.

The Need for True Hospitality in Our Congregation.

Perfect.

I hung my head through the opening hymn, trying to decide if I should make a break for it. We Norwegians didn't make waves, however, and I planted myself.

Maybe I'd learn something.

I guess I'd crumpled the bulletin into a tight wad, because just as Pastor Backlund rose to take the pulpit, Mike reached over and eased the bulletin from my hands. He took my hand, his fingers winding through mine.

“As we enter into the Christmas season, it's come to my attention that we may need to explore the meaning of and need for hospitality in our congregation.”

I tried to ignore the burn of eyes on my neck. I could just imagine what Gretchen might be thinking.

“Our society is beleaguered with business, people too swamped with their own to-do lists or their family needs to reach past their own front doors and invite people into their lives.”

I sighed.

“The problem isn't our inability to provide a decent meal. It's our priorities. When have we looked out past our living room windows to the needs around us?”

I found a smidgen of a smile and began to relax. Maybe Pastor Backlund wasn't talking to me.

“But it's not only about reaching out to our neighbors or our community. It's about our heart attitudes. Do we long to serve others? Do we rejoice in reaching out? Are we loving each other by our actions?”

Mike's hand gave mine a little squeeze. My hand broke out with a slick layer of sweat.

“As we move into this Christmas season, let us contemplate our hearts and whether we should, in fact, offer up first our attitudes and then our homes to serving one another.”

I looked down at Mike's thumb and played a game:
1-2-3-4, I declare a thumb war
. My mind wandered to next weekend, when Kevin and Mike and I would search our forest for the best tree, drag it home to decorate. I needed to make sugar cookies and buy cranapple juice to spice up and heat. And I had our Christmas letter to write. I wondered if I should order a fresh wreath for this year.

Mike rose beside me, nearly pulling me to my feet. Phew, it was over, no blood loss
.
We sang the benediction. I avoided the pastor's eyes as he walked down the center aisle to the back. I'd escape out the side door.

Gretchen must have had my number, because she was standing by my coat in the hallway as I snuck around to retrieve it. “I brought in the boxes of china and left them downstairs to wash. If you need help, just give me a call.” She patted me on the arm.

I fought a wave of nastiness.

“Hello, Marianne.” Jenni's voice from behind indicated that she'd seen Gretchen. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

“Wonderful,” I said, grabbing my coat. I looked around for a gap in the crowd to evaporate into. “And yours?”

“Perfect. We went to my parents' house. My siblings were all home with their kids.”

Of course they were. “That sounds lovely.”

“I don't suppose you've picked a menu,” she said, all innocent and sweet, the perfect assassin.

“Nope,” I said. I patted her baby on the head. “What a cute outfit.” Good grief, I was turning into Gretchen.

But it worked, and I made my escape without further incident.

Mike was silent on the drive home. But he was smiling, as if he and Pastor Backlund had collaborated on their recent sermons.

They hadn't, had they?

I threw myself into Christmas preparations—spending the week taking down the Thanksgiving decorations; putting up the lights, the wreath, the advent calendars; changing the candles in the bathrooms; hanging bows and ribbons from the curtain rods, the space above my cabinets. I changed the CDs, putting Christmas-only albums in the basket next to the CD player. I pulled out my old Christmas menus. I wrote our Christmas letter, addressed and mailed seventy-two cards, and baked our annual Christmas tree–decorating cookies.

I didn't call the paper.

I didn't wash the china.

Basically, I refused to think about the tea.

And most importantly, Coach Grant never called with a replacement for the Trout.

Pastor Backlund's words niggled at me Saturday morning as Kevin bundled up and left early for the game. “Don't be late, Mom.”

Attitude. Attitude.

Mike brought in the costume and laid it on the kitchen table.

Probably I deserved this. Sort of like Jonah, who got swallowed by the big fish.

I didn't particularly appreciate the comparison.

“It's for the kids,” Mike said. This time his words didn't come attached to a smirk. He folded one arm around me and pulled me tight. “This too shall pass.”

I went down to the basement to grab his orange hunting suit.

Winter had descended upon us in one short week. A glance at the thermometer told me that I'd also need long underwear, wool socks, and probably gloves. I felt like the little boy in
A Christmas Story
who couldn't put his arms down by the time Mike got me dressed in my Trout gear and out to the car. We drove to the game in silence, me next to my prison guard, sweat ringing my forehead, dribbling down my temple.

I felt like the fatted calf, off to be sacrificed.

The Big Lake Trouts' undefeated record earned them the right to have this semifinal game at home, and the town had turned out in record numbers to support their team. The wind raked the flag over the field, whipping it mercilessly, and a shiver went through me. How I longed to be in the stands, wrapped under a blanket or two, sipping hot cocoa.

Mike helped me out of the car and lowered the head over me. He wore a sympathetic look. “You win the Best Mom Award.”

“Just make sure that when I keel over with hypothermia, you're there to warm me up.”

That got the faintest hint of a wolfish smile, although I hadn't meant it quite that way. Men.

Please,
I prayed to the heavens, despite my theological doubts that God cared who won,
let us win this game . . . quick.

I could hear the band warming up. The clock on the scoreboard ticked down ten more minutes to the game.

I tried out a few cheers, to which the fans responded. I had remembered my foam finger this time, but when I put it on, the wind grabbed it and tossed it down the field.

I needed that finger.

I took off, slipping on the snow and ice, my body stiff and uncoordinated. The finger lay quiet in the snow for a tantalizing moment and I lunged for it.

It skittered away from me.

The force of my dive took me off my feet, and with a whump, I fell.