By Liz Adair
I’ll probably quote Robert Frost incorrectly, but in Death of a Hired Man, he said, “Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in.” I’ve often thought of that in my situation, because for three of my children, home has been a place they were not allowed to return to. These were my adopted children who came to us as older, abused, deprived waifs, dragging baggage that would make them, at some point, dangerous to the rest of the family.
Faith wished us all a merry, cozy Christmas in her posting last week, and that phrase has lingered with me as people began to arrive.
First it was Jack (grandchild number 17), making his sudden advent three weeks early, weighing 8 lbs 11 oz. Mother and son had a rocky first week, but things are going better now.
Next was Clay, back from
Then my brother arrived. A professor at
Last to arrive was my adopted daughter. She spent last Christmas with us, just Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. This year, she has come early and will spend about four days. We’ll all go to church this morning and take up a whole pew and then come home, Scrabblize all afternoon, and just take joy in being cozy together on a rainy winter day.
There are two more out in the world, two adopted children, sealed to us in the temple. I hear from them periodically when life is going well for them. But that is followed by long stretches of silence where, I infer, life is going ill. Time may come when they’ll make their way back and be welcomed into our cozy holiday group. Who knows? There have been other Christmas miracles.