Lindsi, Danni, Dexi, and I followed our mom past our ice-coated
apple trees strung with white lights to the back stoop, the firmly-packed snow of
our sidewalk groaning beneath our boots.
We were groaning, too—both from hunger and impatience. We had just gotten back from attending one of
Danni’s after-school basketball games and hadn’t eaten supper yet. It was also ridiculously cold.
Going in through the backdoor as a group was always a
production, especially in the wintertime.
Our “entryway”—if that’s what you could call it—was a mere three square
feet of tile. Straight ahead was our
basement stairway, with hooks for our jackets lining the wall to the left. To the right was our kitchen—a place we dared
not set foot with wet boots.
Hanging up
our coats and pulling off our boots took time, and unless we felt like striking
up a rather cumbersome team-building activity, stuffing four huffy girls in four
puffy jackets inside of that elfin-sized entryway simply wasn’t going to
happen.
“Hurry up!” my oldest sister, Lindsi snarled, her icy breath
visible as she shoved my youngest sister, Dexi, through the open door.
“Stop it!” Dexi whined, the echo of her shrill, raspy voice suddenly
exiting the crisp evening air (thank the Lord) as she stumbled inside.
Mom turned around from rummaging through the kitchen
cabinets. “Girrrls,” she grumbled,
sounding more like a bear than our mother. Her voice had that low, croaky tone to it—a
tone with which we’d learned not to mess.
“Lindsi pushed me,” Dexi tattled. She hung up her Phoenix Suns Starter jacket,
yanked off her boots, and scrambled down to the basement to set them out to
dry. Lindsi barged inside.
Lindsi would be faster, I told myself. She rarely wore boots because she thought
they weren’t cool, so all she had to do was kick off her fancy shoes and hang
up her stylish, thread-bare, sorry-excuse-for-a-winter-coat and I’d be in.
But then I remembered that Lindsi was also known for taking
her sweet time—especially when it came to the care of her personal items.
Danni and I shivered together on the stoop. Somehow,
occupying a small space together was much more do-able when huddling in sub-zero
temperatures. To distract ourselves from
the ice-cold climate, we sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and discussed
our Christmas wish lists.
When Lindsi was finally finished hogging the entryway, Danni
and I darted in and dashed down the stairs to shed our winter gear.
As we ascended the stairs afterward, accompanied by the
smell and sizzle of grilled cheese coming down from the kitchen, I defended my
reasoning for wanting a Polaroid camera to my dubious older sister. “Yeah, well, the film might be expensive, but
you get to see your pictures right away!”
Suddenly, Mom’s silhouette filled the space at the top of
the stairs, the dim entryway light casting an ominous glow upon her body. Standing with her hands on her hips and her
feet set apart, she reminded me of a giant pair of open scissors, ready to cut
through any crap a girl could hurl her way.
“Who was born in a barn?” she bellowed. Mom wasn’t normally the bellowing type, but
she could be when it was the end of the day and we’d already tested her
patience a few too many times.
Danni and I looked at each other and back at our mom, baffled. A barn?
What was she talking about?
I could even hear Dexi’s confusion coming from the kitchen
table, where she’d begun her homework.
“Huh?”
And then I realized that the door was wide open behind Mom, the
sparkling snow whirling behind her like white glitter. Here we were, living in the self-proclaimed
“Icebox of the Nation,” and still one of us had failed to close the door.
“Well?” Mom asked.
I stood there, frozen, trying to make sense of the peculiar
pairing of her question and the door.
Just when I began to suspect she could’ve been using an expression we
weren’t familiar with, Danni spoke up.
“Jesus,” she replied, blinking her blue eyes earnestly.
“No!” Mom sighed, exasperated. She jabbed her thumb at the biting cold blue
space behind her before slamming the door shut and repeated, “Who was born in a barn?”
“Jesus,” Danni replied
emphatically.
A subtle ripple of amusement crossed over Mom’s stone cold
expression and suddenly, she doubled over, laughing. She laughed so hard she snorted, which
usually only happened when she thought something was really funny. She closed the
door, and when Danni and I reached the top of the stairs, Mom wrapped her arms
around my big sister, shaking and snorting as she ushered us into the kitchen
for some hot soup and sandwiches.
To this day, I still can’t recall which one of us had been
the last one inside, but I can still feel the warmth that so quickly spread
through our home and our hearts on that cold winter’s night, melting away our tempers
and testiness as we turned our attention to the One who actually was born in a
barn.
