The journey was a relatively short one — an excursion to her husband's land of birth for a two- or three-day sojourn. It wouldn't have been such a difficult journey had the woman not been so great with child, but they needed somewhere to stop, and there was no place to be found. She was desperate, and her husband didn't know what to do. Even the omnipresent gas stations were closed for the Christmas holiday.
No, this wasn't the road to Bethlehem, but looking back on the events of December 25, 1981, I know that Mary on her donkey must have felt, at some point of her arduous journey, the same way I did that Christmas morning in our old green Dodge Coronet.
It was still very dark, cold and quiet when my husband and I carried our blanket-swaddled 3-year-old to the car and began an excursion that would soon become unforgettable. The roads were piled with huge drifts of wind-driven snow from the massive storm that had come through during the night. We started out even before the snowplows could clear the roads, so we forged our own path on the interstate on what we hoped was the actual pavement, but it was difficult to know for sure in the darkness.
Headed from Salt Lake City to Idaho Falls to visit my in-laws, by 9:30 a.m. we had only made it as far as Malad, a little town not far across the Idaho border, and over the past hour or so, a new concern had taken precedence. A restroom.
Any woman who has been "great with child" knows what I am talking about when I say that my situation had become an emergency. No service stations would be open on this morning just in case needy travelers happened by. What needy travelers? Anybody in their right mind had arrived at their destination the night before to avoid the weather conditions, and were now in a toasty-warm house to see dawn break with all its yuletide glory. Here we were, the only vehicle on the pristine, lonely ribbon of the snow-laden interstate.
Just then I realized that such circumstances could work to my advantage. "Just pull off to the side of the road!" I pleaded with Kris (a.k.a. hapless husband).
"Are you crazy?" he replied. "I'm not even sure we are on the road. We'll stop in Malad. There's got to be a 7-11 open there."
We drove down the first main street we could find. We passed business after business with 'CLOSED' signs in the windows.
"What am I going to do?" I moaned. I was envisioning my own inglorious arrival at my in-laws' house if we didn't find a solution quickly.
Just then we approached a big, white home with an old-fashioned porch.
"Stop at this house!" I demanded. It looked like a grandmother's house — someone who wouldn't shut the door in a stranger's face. Waddling stiffly to the front door, I knocked urgently and, to my relief, the door opened almost immediately. Inside stood a woman in a bathrobe. She smiled at me as a man appeared from around the corner wearing his undershirt, slippers and pants that matched his rumpled hair. I could hear children laughing, but I was miserable, not only because of my desperate need but I had intruded on a family's private Christmas celebration.
"I'm sorry … uh, there's no place open and I …"
The woman laughed merrily and reached for my arm. "Come on in," she said. "You don't need to say more. I've been there!" We were talking 'mother tongue' while her husband stood there looking momentarily perplexed until she continued with, "Down the hall and to your left."
When I reappeared in their Christmas-cluttered living room, the children were still busy with their holiday gifts, but they seemed intrigued by their unexpected visitor. I was somewhat embarrassed, but the family let me know there was no need to feel that way.
"Would you like some lemonade?" the woman offered. She was so eager to offer me her hospitality. "Would your husband like to come in and have some?" Had they been expecting guests, I'm sure that hot cocoa would have been offered, but lemonade was the most festive beverage available under the circumstances.
We chatted at the door for just a moment as I thanked her, and I wanted to hug that woman in the bathrobe. I was not an intruder. My need that day had been embarrassingly simple, but this family would have shared any part of their Christmas with a stranger.
I never asked their names, but the few moments I spent at their house that morning became one of my favorite Christmas memories.
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