It was late October when fire reduced our barn to a heap of ashes. The landlord came from Bethesda, Maryland to tell my father that insurance did not cover his property. Only the 30 milk cows survived the flames. A temporary milking system was installed in a large shed, but hay and grain were destroyed in the inferno.
Providentially a Nazarene minister was looking for a farmer to occupy a 120-acre farm he had inherited. Our new home would be rent-free. Our cows were moved to the farm 50 miles south at no cost to us. Household items were loaded on the hay wagon and pulled by our tractor for the entire world to see.
Christmas was fast upon us. I asked myself if Christmas had turned to ashes with the barn. There was no tree with packages under it. My father reminded us that we had each other. Mother played the piano as we sang Christmas songs on Friday night. Family love remained.
The tree problem was solved. We scoured the woods and found a four-foot juniper. My father created a tree stand from the scrap lumber in the wood shed. We kids strung popcorn on sturdy thread in Mother’s sewing box. We made chains from colored construction paper. Lights were out of the question, but the little juniper brought light to our recently saddened hearts.
World War II had just ended leaving my fascination with airplanes intact. By some effort, I know not how, there appeared a gift under the juniper for me. It was a model of a B-24 bomber. I spent weeks shaping the balsa wood wings and fuselage
Gradually the frightening images of the ash heaps faded. I enrolled in 7th grade in the one-room school at Cherry Hill. Miss Flahart was the teacher. She never knew that my preoccupation in class was due to my attraction for a pretty 6th grader. The sentiments toward the pretty girl were mine alone.
A pastor visited the two Seventh-day Adventist families. No church existed for a hundred miles. He offered to baptize me in a new church in Chestertown, Maryland. My sentiments for Louise were kept inside, but my sentiments for Jesus went public. I was 12. At age 82 I still hear the voices of the church members singing “Shall We Gather At The River” as the pastor lowered me into the water. On the way home we crossed the Chesapeake Bay on a ferry. I stood alone on the top deck and thanked God for embracing me as His child. That memory is as fresh as the wind that whistled in my ears.
Christmas at Peach Bottom healed the broken spirits of our family. Louise helped me to realize that love cannot be destroyed by adversity. My baptism in Chestertown helped me to comprehend God’s eternal love.
I do not understand the tragedy of a barn up in flames. I do understand the future that God had in store for my broken family. I am reminded of that every year Christmas comes around.