Christmas
Tales
"The Burning Cloth"
Once upon a Christmas, a
beautiful hand crocheted lace cloth graced our Yuletide table. It was eventide
and the meal was complete. Plates had been removed, glasses carried to the
living room for use while we opened presents. The dishwasher was loaded,
dessert was set out on the buffet for later, and the dining room still had
candles burning. An entire array of candles flickered amidst the greenery on
the mantle. On the now empty dining room table in the center of the handmade
all cotton tablecloth, two tall slender nutcracker candles continued to burn.
Now these candles were the kind one buys at the dollar store, they were painted
(probably with lead paint), not dripless, not long-lasting either. What can I
say?? They cost one dollar for the two of them and they were cute. (I love
nutcrackers!)
The tablecloth was a gift, of sorts. It was beautiful; it was made by hand. It
was just the kind of gift that I would have treasured forever. There was one
problem. The giver and I have history. Aah, you say, history!
She was an addict with several children: two teen boys and two pre-schoolers.
We had helped her off and on for several years. We'd talked to her about the
Gospel. From time to time she'd be arrested for being drunken and disorderly;
once she was arrested for shoplifting. If we found out about it in time, we'd
check on the boys. Made sure they had a place to stay. We had obtained
furniture for her for one apartment when she had only the oldest two boys. On
numerous occasions, we had brought food, clothes and other necessities.
But a few summers ago, she had received an eviction notice. She'd brought it
for me to translate and decipher for her. I carefully explained what it meant,
highlighted what date the Sheriff would come and toss her things out if she had
not vacated. We inquired if she had somewhere to go. She assured us she did;
she and her current partner, father of the two younger children, would take
care of it. I warned her again that things would literally be thrown out on
such-and-such a date. She needed to pack necessities in plastic bags for the
children and find a place to stay. She said she understood.
We were busy with other things that summer, other missions projects, and didn't
follow up until I got a call from one of the teen boys. The Sheriff had come
that day, tossed out their stuff while mom stood by and wailed. Both boys were
with a kindly neighbor and had nothing except the clothes on their backs. When
they got home from school, they found nothing but garbage on the ground, he
told me. Mom had managed to find someone to lend a truck and had some of the
furniture in the back of the truck, but all of their clothes were gone. Less
kindly neighbors had rummaged through everything and taken anything else
usable. I'm fuming, "She can find a truck AFTER things are thrown out
willy nilly! Why not before?" (I didn't say THAT out loud until I was off
the phone!)
"But she did, at least put some clothes for you in a plastic bag, didn't
she?"
She had not. And I was angry. Angry that a mother had not bothered to prepare
for the inevitable, had not attempted to protect her teenage sons. As far as I
was concerned, she was derelict in her duty. "A change of underwear for
her children, at least that," my brain kept sputtering.
I headed to the store, purchased clothing for the week. Eventually one of the
boys moved in with us. He finished High School. The other moved in with
relatives and had to drop out of school in order to support himself.
About a year later, she brought me the tablecloth out of the blue. It was
something she'd said previously she could make for me if I'd just pay for the
thread. I smiled graciously, told her thank you, tried hard to remember that
she is an addict struggling to keep body and soul together, and paid for the
thread. The tablecloth was absolutely lovely. I knew she'd done a lot of work
on it, but it reminded me of a woman who couldn't care enough for her children
to stick a few clothes in a plastic bag when she knew full well she would be
evicted. Or to stop wailing long enough
to grab a few clothes for the boys even as they were being tossed out the
window.
We've lost touch with the family. They've moved many times and haven't called
in several years. The two older boys work, hold down jobs. As far as I know,
mom still drinks and does drugs. The younger children would be teenagers now. I
pray for them. Maybe Mom has learned to care for these children, but somehow, I
doubt it.
Back to the beautiful cotton tablecloth with two nutcracker candles burning
while we were in the other room opening Christmas presents.
Rachel looked up. "I think something's on fire in the dining room,"
she said.
"It's just the reflection of the candles in the mirror," I replied
calmly.
"I don't think so. Something's on fire; I smell smoke," she insisted.
And she got up to go look.
Then we heard a shriek, and I raced to the dining room to view my two
nutcracker candles bend double, the flame now merged with the burning
tablecloth. I turned to the kitchen, grabbed a pitcher, and filled it with
water. (No, I still don't have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen, but I do
know it's a good idea to have one!)
Rob (my older son)
quietly entered the room. Passing the buffet, he picked up the large silver
platter of cookies and candy and sat it down on the flames. I scurried into the
room with my water pitcher in hand to view a silver platter with smoke seeping
out from the sides. Flames all gone. Fire out. Silver platter only slightly
warm. Candy and cookies unharmed. His
fingers red from pinching out the last little flame. The tablecloth, though, sported a 15-inch
hole rimmed in black. The table also had a large smoked circle in the antique
wood surface.
And every year, someone will look up from opening presents, glance toward the
mirror in the family room and say, "Do you remember the year we set the
table on fire?" Then we all laugh at how everyone reacted: Rachel, who had
sounded the alarm; me frantically filling a pitcher with water; Christy, Brad,
and Bob watching from the kitchen door as Rob put the fire out.
And I remember the charred tablecloth that I tossed in the garbage and pray for
a very lost woman who again has two teenage children.
*Written in 2007 - "Life in the Manse"
#LifeintheManse
#GrowingupOzark
#Christmastales
