Our Christmas at the Farm by Kim Moir

Self-pity was not far from my mind on that Christmas morning many years ago. Currier and Ives images of families gathered around Christmas trees and Norman Rockwell’s ghosts of idealism floated through my mind as we put on our winter coats, boots, and hats. It was only 9 AM and I had already been up for several hours keeping Nicky entertained and out of trouble while he watched Disney videos in his room so he would not wake our other son, Scott.

Bill and I packed up what we would need for our Christmas morning cookout, loaded up the car, and headed west to a place we knew would be a safe and quiet spot where we could spend a few hours of our day. Nicky has autism, and in the earlier years of his life we had help with him in our home for twelve hours a day. His needs were so severe that he needed constant monitoring, engagement, and structured teaching to keep him growing and moving in a positive direction. Because today was Christmas, our workers were at home with their own families, and we were on duty. This routine had been going on for many years.  We were growing weary of having people in and out of our home, sleepless nights, and days filled with tantrums and bites while we tried to coerce Nick into using his language to communicate.

The Farm became our place of quiet this day, and in the car Nicky settled into a place of calm. Driving to this familiar location brought with it an assurance that we would always be welcome, no matter what day of the year it was, or what time it was. Thankfulness replaced my self pity as I realized we were creating memories which were uniquely ours, shared by none. Parking beyond the driveway to the Swihart’s house, we unpacked our car and headed out through the pasture, down the path toward the cabin in the woods.

Nicky knew the way because he frequented this place on other days, with other workers.  He looked forward to a quiet time in the woods where he could pick up rocks, crush leaves, and wander in the beauty of dappled sunlight beaming through overhead trees. A chorus of crunches from our footsteps sounded from the snow and soon we headed slightly downhill and to the left, to the opening in the trees where we would settle for a while with the trees as windbreak. Bill and Scott worked together on the fire as I unpacked the picnic basket, unloading sausages and bagels, juice and utensils. We had unwrapped our stockings at home before we left, and Scott was assured that presents awaited us when we got home.

When hard times come to a family, it is what you do with the everyday moments that create habits of perseverance, character, and hope. Creative choices come when we are willing to explore the landscape provided for us and step out into the unknown. Such was the case this Christmas Day.

Bill and Scott gathered kindling and started a fire while Nick played in the woods and I sat on a rock and waited, thinking of our unique morning. I really didn’t want to be here, but this was a safe option for our morning.  As I look back on this now, I can see God’s hand of provision for us this Christmas day. Sausages cooked on the fire, we prayed, gave thanks for the meal, and quietly ate together as a family. For today this was our manna provided in the woods, a respite away from our home, another sign to us that God saw our need and showed us a way to keep going.