Searching for a ghost of Christmas Past

It wasn't until she'd left the plowed roads of the city that the storm finally convinced her it was moving in as predicted. As she headed north, the snow got less fluffy, less festive, more determined. A Christmas Eve snowstorm; she considered how many other years she would have welcomed this.

The four lanes of the rural highway unrolled through farm country as she drove, huge swathes already covered in shifting drifts. The road funnelled down to two lanes and cars slowed to a crawl. She hoped the sanders would be ahead of her on the main highway that would carry her west. She probably shouldn't have come out, but with a night to herself and a week left until the SUV's lease ran out, it seemed both a perfect diversion and a fitting farewell.

Her hopes of a better highway were dashed at the bridge to the ramp: a single lane creeping along, two black stripes the only thing visible where usually thousands of cars thundered past every minute. "Merry Christmas," she thought to herself, easing the truck into the queue that inched along, everyone desperate to be some place else but trying to make sure they got there in one piece.

As ice formed around the edges of the windshield, she didn't dare to glance at the road directions on the seat beside her. She'd memorized them, but strange destinations in unfamiliar towns had a way of shifting shape when covered with a blanket of snow.

The glare of headlights in the snake of oncoming traffic highlighted the occasional vehicle stuck in the once grassy median, piloted by drivers who had overestimated their prowess or underestimated the ice beneath the snow. Several had softened into snow-covered cartoon figures, reminding her that the storm had started taking hold here much earlier.

Unable to see road signs until she was practically on top of them, she dreaded leaving the relative safety of the only tracks in which they all travelled. Strangers guiding each other. Camaraderie created from the unspoken need for no sudden moves, no reckless gestures.

She glanced at the clock on the dash. The extra hour she'd factored in for the weather had already been consumed by the relentless storm. She pushed on, trying to drive patiently, tears of frustration threatening. Of course they would start without her; they didn't even know she was coming.

The snow fell steadily, even as the traffic finally began to thin. The stores had been closed for a few hours now and anything not already purchased was no longer needed. It was usually her favourite night of the year: the silence of the streets and so many people finally giving in to the need to just stop and go home.

At last she exited the highway, slowly curving up the obscured ramp, scared to touch the brakes. Once off the highway, her trust in the memorized directions faltered. Unfamiliar street names flashed by but more escaped her notice, obscured by snow. As she surveyed the emptying streets, she was reminded that not only wasn't she home, she barely knew where she was.

She pulled into a lot, and turned on the interior light. She picked up her directions, backtracking in her mind which turns were made, which ones she might have missed. She glanced at the small yellowed newspaper clipping pinned to the sheet – the tiny clipping that had brought her to here.

The name of a church, the name of the town, the time of the Christmas Eve service. So little information, but for when it was printed, half a century before, it was no doubt all that needed to be said. She'd managed to find an address, all these years later, but tonight with this strange place shrouded in snow, she crept down quiet side streets, with seemingly a church on every corner. Except the one she was looking for.

After another half hour of aimless grid searching – and yet another half hour that she knew she would be late – she finally spied a small church. Stoic, traditional, terse; she knew it right away, though she'd never been here. Narrow stained-glass windows glowed from the inside, reminding her of ornamental villages people now displayed to remind themselves of a quieter, smaller time.

Though every culture is laden with symbols, this would forever remain one of the strongest for her. Any church, anywhere in the world, meant sanctuary from any storm. Curiously, she'd learned this from her father, though it was mother who had made her sit still on Sunday mornings, singing strange words from dusty books. It was her father who knew that a flickering light would be warm, and that a storm could be formed by things other than snow.

Pulling the truck up onto a snow bank, she opened the door into the cold night air. She could hear music; they hadn't waited for her, but it still wasn't too late. She walked through the drifts to a side entrance and tried its handle. It needed a strong pull, but when it opened, a welcome smile ushered her in.

How can you recognize something you've never seen? The glow of warm wood and so many candles, a traditional place to gather on any occasion, but especially this one. It had not changed since my father first saved that notice of its service, when as a young man he'd made his way east from the prairies. It was here he'd found comfort in an unfamiliar place, years before he met my mother, a decade before I was born. This place that had meant enough for him to keep a tiny notice for all those years. The clipping that was lying on the seat of my truck.

Sitting now at the end of a pew, I looked around, overwhelmed yet embraced. I'd found the clipping years after his death, unmissed and untouched until removing a fireplace mantle in our home had revealed its long-forgotten resting place. Like a firm guide on faltering ground, he had brought me here.

More than a decade has passed since that Christmas Eve. It was the first without my sons, as we all adapted to alternating holidays and the end of a marriage. But as most will attest, what works on a March afternoon in a lawyer's office can play tricks with your heart when it comes to pass. I'd saved that tiny yellow clipping for three years, uncertain why until that night.

My dad had brought me through the storm to where he'd spent his earlier Christmases, alone.

To remind me that I never would be.

Lorraine Sommerfeld's column appears Saturdays in Wheels and Mondays in the Star's Living section. www.lorraineonline.ca

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