On the 23rd of December 1953, my parents married in the parsonage of Bethlehem Baptist, Mom’s home church. Aunt Margie and Uncle Max served as witnesses, signing their license, certifying them in holy matrimony.

Family legend has it that Daddy borrowed a pick-up, and they spent their wedding night at an Asheboro Motel. In his youthful exuberance to check in and escort his brand-new bride into the room, he neglected to turn off the headlights. The next morning, Christmas Eve, brought a dead battery requiring a stranger’s jumper cables. Mom was twenty-one; Daddy, twenty-five.

They made their way back to Carthage and started their life together in a small wooden house on Grandaddy Barber’s land. With a scrawny cedar tree, one that they chopped down in the woods, they celebrated their first Christmas. I’m not sure how many ornaments it had, probably not many and certainly no lights as electricity cost dinero. Personally, I only knew the red glass lantern and the little blue bird that were said to have been with us from the beginning, but fourteen years and four children preceded me.

They had their own land by the time I came along, but money was still tight. Our Christmases were brought to us by Sears & Roebuck catalog, ordered on credit from a form embedded in the center of The Wish Book. Except for “big baby,” a gift when I was six to try to get me to be less of a tomboy, and the BB gun when I was ten after my parents threw in the towel on such efforts, I don’t recall specific gifts.

What I remember is the smell, (cedar tree and breakfast, complete with red-eye gravy,) the taste, (see above, red-eye gravy, and Old School Peppermint Stick Candy,) the sounds, (talking, laughing, singing along with Christmas albums on the old stereo, and playing with whatever Sears and Santa had bestowed upon us,) the feeling, (of a big, chaotic, imperfect family.) My family of origin doesn’t gather anymore as we haven’t sustained our relationships with one another. Such is the way life sometimes unfolds. But I hold dear many memories, along with one 1953 ornament.

I broke the red lantern Christmas of 2013, but the little blue bird lives on. At seventy, it’s showing age and degenerative vertebra in the neck region. It resides in my office, as the centerpiece of a metal tree that stays up year-round. Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas, little bird.

***

My sweet cousin and her husband fostered two little boys last year. They had hopes of adopting both. As rulings and intentions often happen with a well-meaning, yet broken court system, one of the boys has returned to his biological family. With hearts splayed open, the prayers for that little wrap around safety and stability as he rejoins the life from which he was once rescued. I don’t know all the details and I’m hoping for a happy ending that rewrites statistics.

The vulnerability and risk that foster parents accept along with the emotional wounds of raising and losing a mini human that becomes a family member, one that brushes snaggled teeth and sleeps with hands tucked under the pillow. One that learns to eat vegetables and live on a farm and play with Benjamín the cat. All those intimacies can be yanked away with a hearing and the strike of a gavel.

I’m not sure that I possess that brand of courage. Out of fear of being hurt, I’m often hesitant to be of help, standing back when I could go forward with a lantern of light and hope.

My ego might not let me admit this to myself and I might spout wisdoms such as, “I could never take in a foster child because if it didn’t work out, I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I just love too much.” It’s tempting to tread water here and not peel back a deeper layer and know that those who love bigger than I do are people like my cousin. It’s selfless and it totes a hefty price tag. Peace unto you, sweet Alabama cousin, peace and blessings on you and your brave heart.

***

I was in Greensboro a few weeks back, staying at Hampton Inn Downtown. It’s clean and safe, and most of all, Toast the dog feels at home there. We like to walk down West McGee, passing the police and bus stations and Toast sniffs the courthouse lawn, channeling her inner bloodhound. It’s a historic area and I dig visiting the vibe of the city.

On a Thursday morning around 7:30 AM, we encountered a woman on the sidewalk. She looked to be around my age. She wore a blue coat and burgundy toboggan. Her expression was stretched tight.

“Good morning,” I said to her. Toast wagged her body in greeting.

“What time do they open?” she asked.

She was standing in front of a tow truck sign, and I took her to mean the towing company.

“I’m not sure.”

“Okay.”

Toast and I walked on, and I thought about the three times I’ve had a car towed and the overall ick of that experience.

On my way back to the Hampton, we saw the woman again. She had crossed the street and sat with her head in her hands on the steps of the police station. A young officer stood beside her writing on a small notepad. She had been asking me what time the police station opened, which clicked into a whole new folder in my database. I’ve sat on those steps, and that ick is worse than the tow truck variety.

She’s been on my mind. She’s a stranger and I don’t know the situation or resolution, but I’m sending her love and light. If I could go back to that day, I would have crossed the street and offered her something – money or encouragement or maybe the human touch of a hug or the dog touch of Toast. It’s hard to know if help will be wanted or welcomed, but the answer is always no when unaccompanied by effort. Next time I will find my inner Alabama cousin and get down and dirty with a courageous heart. Next time, love and light will come with action.

***

Our children will be in Beaufort this Christmas. As adult kids tend to do, they will be accompanied by pets and people. We have traditions, but they become looser every year, fluid as we age and change. At some point, we’ll drive around in search of tacky lights and overquote “Elf.” “You’re not Santa. You smell like beef and cheese. You sleep in a bed of lies.”

Santa will still deliver packages Christmas Eve, filling the space under the tree. Christmas Day, we will make a big breakfast and stay in our pajamas for our long as possible – maybe until nightfall.

I’m happy that we’ll all be together, even for a few days. And, as cool as our gifts tend to be, it’s not what I’ll remember – it’s the smell, taste, sound, and feeling that fills the tank of my soul.