A Christmas Story Stitched with Kindness

At a northern dawn, a weary soul pulls a small tree, crooked and lacking a crown, towards a place he knows in the woods. Most would have chosen a more perfect specimen but nearly every tree here is sparsely branched and misshapen. As it stands in this woodsman’s eye, the little fir is as stately as the finest of pines.

From a branch of the biggest tree around, a small blackened and flat bottomed kettle hangs with an enamelled mug, just where he had left them. Here he makes a small fire, fills the kettle at a nearby brook and places it over the flames. As he waits for it to boil, he spies a few small locks of wool clinging fast to his clothes: a small share of batting that has freed itself through the cobbled and tired seams of a quilt. Collecting up the strands, he rolls them into a small ball, lays it carefully aside and fixes his tea.

Two Canada Jays appear, as they so often do at such a mug up. From their perches, they tilt their heads to scout the bill of fare. Their company was expected and the old fellow reaches into his pocket for a small piece of brown cake slipped in there just for the purpose. He offers it from the flattened palm of one hand while the other holds his steaming mug. One jay flies in to perch at his fingers, quickly selects a morsel and flies off. It has but left, when the other bird arrives to make its own pick. They do this one after another until his hand is emptied. 

The quick respite over, he carefully puts out the small fire, hangs the kettle and mug back in their place and starts out of the woods with the tree in tow. In short hops and glides from one branch to another the jays fly ahead, as if leading the way. Where the woods thin to open country they perch and sing a chattering, clicking melody to draw his attention. He spies a small green mass of mistletoe on the very branch they call from. Freeing a sprig from the clump, he puts it in his pocket.

The jays will not venture any further from cover and fly back the way they came. He watches them go, knowing they will right away retrieve the small ball of wool. A last small gift, purposefully left, the perfect lining for the cup of their nest. 

He reaches his sleigh, empty except for the old quilt he had left carefully folded on the seat. He loads the little fir into the back and pulls himself into the front. He unfolds the quilt over his lap and looks down at the jigsaw of oddly shaped scraps of material. A few rough stitches of his own now support those that first held it together. In his time, he has seen a world’s worth of beautiful patchwork but none he had ever considered its equal. Above all, it has always held firmly to its purpose, staving off any chill that threatened to slow his labours. The few tears, tatters and weakened seams where sheep’s wool now poke through being the surest testament to that.

Taking the reins in both hands, “Easy and away,” he calls. Eight reindeer pull the sleigh into the air above the treeline. To the south, the northern edge of the great evergreen forest that circles the top of the Earth like a wreath begins to disappear.

When every gift has been offered, only the pieces of our stories stitched with kindness stand fast against the cold. And in our pockets, the assurance of love.

Pattern now available here