I never
dreamed I would spend Christmas Eve away from my native Midwestern roots,
without the comfort of family and familiar foods. But, then I never dreamed I
would be a widow at age 29 either. But both are true. And now, by the generosity
of a fellow teacher, I am ensconced in a plush room at the Old Faithful Lodge
in Yellowstone National Park, awaiting the holiday festivities. That is, my daughter
and I are sharing a room next door to my fun-loving friend, Christy. Though my
parents will sorely miss having my 3-year-old opening her gifts at their home
tomorrow, I could not bring myself to come without her — we go everywhere
together — we are best buds.
Christy
bounces in. “Hurry already!” She tosses her jacket on the chair. “They're
having the most awesome buffet downstairs in the great hall.” She smooths her
skirt and starts toward the door.
I stop
her. “Christy, thanks. For this. The trip . . . everything. I mean, it’s been 2
years and still . . . well, holidays are difficult.”
She gives
me a quick hug. “Hey, I know. I have loved having you and Kenna here with me.
Now, how about that food . . . .”
I make a
face and grab Kenna's hand. And we're off to join the other guests for a
scrumptious and hearty meal.
The Old
Faithful Snow Lodge is the quintessential mountain structure — exposed beams,
hewn stone, oversized seating, and a mammoth fireplace with snowshoes on the
mantel — just being here makes you feel like a Klondike adventurer. And with
the snow piled deep by the door and the Christmas trees catching the sparkle of
the crackling fire . . .well, it almost rivals Christmas with my family in
Indiana . . .almost.
When I
cannot possibly swallow another appetizer, I pull Kenna back on my lap and
settle into an Adirondack chair. She sits still for a minute, then pulls back
to look at me, and points toward the window “Mommy, please, let's go see the
snow.”
I can’t
refuse her. I want to see it too.
We go
over to the room across the hall and gaze out the huge window at the silent
world being draped in a frosty coverlet. And seeing isn’t enough. Kenna and I
want to feel the feather-soft snow on our faces. A quick dash upstairs, and we
are bundled into parkas, gloves, and caps. We go through the main hall and out
the door. I happen to catch the gaze of a young park ranger as we go out the
door. Thinking he might attempt to dissuade us from our play, I quickly slip
out, hoping he won’t follow.
The snow
is incredible. Kenna and I twirl in circles like 2 sisters, laughing at the
shower of tiny snowflakes. She is so tiny there beside me, an elfin child in a
world of white. Then…...she is gone. I don’t see her. And the panic is
unbearable. I turn toward the lodge, opening my mouth to scream. And look up into the face of the ranger. His face is calm, chiseled against the wintry night
sky.
I point. “My little girl. She was right here.
I can't find her.”
He
lightly touches my shoulder and is gone. I hear a radio and realize he is
calling help.
Someone
holds out a hand, “Come back to the lodge. They'll find her.”
As I
stand by the window, I moan my stupidity. What was I thinking? To go out in the
snow, at night, with a child? And I find myself running to my Father. “Oh God,
I‟m so sorry. Please keep her. Help him find her. You said You‟re a help to the
fatherless — please be with Kenna. Help her not to be scared.”
It is
really a very short time, though it seems much longer, and Kenna is back safe
and sound, her nose very red, and a few dried tears on her cheeks. She snuggles
close to me by the fire. I try to thank the ranger.
He smiles
and leans down. “I heard you and Kenna praying over your meal, and I knew she
was in good hands. He just used me to find her. And anyway, I’ve been looking out
for you since you came yesterday. You seemed a little out of your league here.” His eyes
twinkle; he extends his hand. “I'm Bruce Grayson — park ranger, Sunday School
teacher, from Montana.”
I put out
my hand. “I'm Claire Isaacs — Kenna's mom, Kindergarten teacher, from Indiana.
Wait a minute . . . Bruce Grayson . . . from Montana . . .you’re not . . .you
were my husband's hunting buddy? The one who led Him to Christ?"
He nods.
“I heard about Dave . . . can't believe he got to spend Christmas in heaven
before I did. We used to talk about that by the campfire.
He always wanted me to meet you. I’m glad I finally
get the privilege.”
It‟s
getting late. Kenna’s head is lolling around on my shoulder. I get up. “Again .
. .thank you. I am very grateful.”
“You’re
welcome.” His tone takes no credit, just rejoices.
I start
toward the stairs, glance back and see Bruce walking toward the front desk. Our
very own guardian angel. Who would have guessed?
A few
minutes later, I am wrapped in my chenille bathrobe, fuzzy slippers warming my
feet, when I hear a knock on my door. A bellboy stands there with an envelope.
It’s from the ranger. “Please join me for breakfast tomorrow. I have some stories
about Dave you probably never heard. The lodge kitchen makes a mean French
toast platter. — Bruce.”
I smile. An
angel who likes French toast. I prop the note on the night stand and switch
off the lamp. God is looking out for me — my present and my future. Maybe Bruce
will be part of that. But for now, I am content. Christmas is alive in my
heart.
