Poles Apart (Heart of Christmas)
By Marion Ueckermann
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It was a cold and frosty night.
The seven words on the screen contained no magic. No hook. Sarah Jones stared at her laptop. Nothing enticed the reader to continue. From her chair in the kitchen, she gazed at the Christmas tree sparkling in the lounge. Tiny white lights flickered on and off, their reflections dancing in the colored balls that hung on the surrounding green branches.
Didn’t help.
“Ugh, this is impossible.” Sarah closed the laptop lid and slumped back in her chair. Maybe if she ate something, her muse would come out to play. She glanced at the cereals and toast her sister had set out on the table, the knot in her stomach refusing to budge. No. Not going to help either.
She turned to look out the window at Cape Town’s Table Mountain and the blanket of mist clinging to the top like a white cloth. The day was young—the mist would soon lift from this beautiful South African landmark, her muse for so many stories.
Not this one.
Shutting her eyes on the welling moisture, Sarah raked her fingers through her hair. For a few moments she sat in blindness, obliterating the world around her. If only she could obliterate the looming deadline or give sight to the nothingness in her mind.
The tap on her leg brought a smile to her lips. She took a deep breath then exhaled as she opened her eyes to the dark gaze from below.
“Hey, Jonathan. What are you up to?”
“Nuffing.” The pajama-clad five-year-old smiled as his chubby hand tapped Sarah’s leg again. “An’ you, Auntie Sarah?”
Another heavy sigh escaped her lips. “Nothing, too.” She wrapped her fingers over Jonathan’s. For a brief moment his hand disappeared beneath hers before he pulled away and scrambled onto her lap. The wooden kitchen table scraped against the tiles as it made way for his small body. He placed his palms on Sarah’s cheeks, focusing her gaze on him.
How she loved those chocolaty orbs.
“Whatssa matter, Auntie Sarah? Are you sad?”
“No, Jonathan. I’m not sad.”
“You sure?” He smoothed his hands down the sides of her head before twirling some strands around his fingers, following the long winding path until he ran out of hair.
Sarah nodded. “I’m sure. I’m struggling to start this story, that’s all.”
“What’s it about?” Matthew, Jonathan’s older sibling by three years, thumped across the kitchen, pulled out a chair and plopped onto it. He poured a glass of milk before stretching to grab a piece of toast from the basket in the center of the table. After spreading the toast with butter, he twisted the lid off the peanut butter jar. His knife disappeared inside. Soon a thick layer of brown covered the slice of white, which he topped with a generous drizzling of maple syrup. Mouth wide open, Matthew sank his teeth into the gooey meal and closed his eyes. “Mmm, good.” He licked a stray sticky strand from the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, Auntie Sarah, what’s your story about?” Jonathan echoed.
Sarah gave a weak smile. “Nothing at the moment, boys, I’m afraid.”
“You got building blocks again?” Jonathan’s dark eyes held a seriousness Sarah adored.
Matthew giggled. “It’s writer’s block, silly.”
Twisting around, Jonathan screamed. “I’m not silly, silly.” As he turned back to face Sarah, his bottom lip rounded into a pout.
“No, you’re not.” Sarah planted a kiss on her younger nephew’s forehead, shooting a frown at Matthew.
Matthew eyed Sarah and his brother over the syrupy horizon before sinking his teeth again into the gooey layers. “So, what’s the story meant to be about?”
“Matthew Grant Olson, how many times have I told you not to talk with food in your mouth?” Hannah strode across the kitchen and dumped the basket of ironing on the counter.
Matthew chewed fast, swallowed, and then grinned. “Sorry, Mom.”
Jonathan wiggled around on Sarah’s lap and wagged his head at Matthew, seemingly happy that his mother’s admonition was just retribution for his brother calling him silly.
A laugh slipped from Sarah’s mouth. She should write a book about kids instead of a romance. She’d gathered enough fodder staying with her sister the past fortnight. Building on her new townhouse dragged on far longer than anticipated. Summer rains and availability of stock already delayed construction by two months, rendering her homeless after she’d given notice at her rented apartment. And now, in a few days’ time, the building industry would close for the Christmas holidays. Nothing would happen for five weeks. Why did she have such specific and unusual taste in finishings? Couldn’t settle for an alternative? And why did she decide to build when she did, knowing the challenges she’d face this time of the year?
“Auntie Sarah has writer’s building blocks, Mommy.”
“Writer’s block, silly.” Matthew rolled his eyes.
Jonathan shot his brother another look, his voice rising with each emphasized word. “I’m not silly.”
“Whatever.” Matthew took another bite of his toast, and then a swig of milk.
Hannah removed the ironing board and iron from the tall cupboard beside her and set them up. “You’re struggling with the story, sis?”
“A little.”
“How much have you done? Are the boys a distraction to your writing?” She filled a jug with water and topped up the steam iron’s water tank.
Sarah shook her head. “The boys are fine. If only my publisher wanted a Christmas story involving children and sunshine, not one with Santa, kisses, and snow.”
Glancing up, Hannah smiled. “You wanted to be a romance writer.”
“I know. And I love it. But it’s so weird—I have no inspiration for this story. I feel like an artist up against a blank canvas.” Tears stung her eyes as she whispered. “I’m afraid the canvas is winning.”
“I have inspiration for you, Auntie Sarah.” Matthew took a deep breath and then belted out the familiar Christmas song, I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus. With a titter, he puckered his lips.
“Not mommy,” Jonathan squealed as he wiggled off Sarah’s lap. “Mommy’s married. We must sing ‘I saw Auntie Sarah kissing Santa Claus’.” He wrinkled his nose and grinned at Sarah as his giggles joined Matthew’s laughter.
“Oh you boys. I don’t think you’re helping your aunt at all.” Hannah folded the ironed pillow slip and set it to one side of the counter before pulling a pair of creased jeans from the basket. She straightened them on the board. “How much have you managed to write?” Steam hissed as the iron met the thick blue fabric.
“Seven words. And they stink.” Sarah lifted the laptop lid. Extending her index finger, she pressed the power button. The sleeping screen woke.
“What? Only seven? You’re kidding.” Hannah’s eyes widened before a frown formed on her forehead.
“I wish I was.”
“But you’ve been tapping away on that keyboard for days.”
“And I keep erasing everything. Like now.” Sarah hit the backspace key several times, clearing her latest attempt. “I can’t get started on this novel.”
“When’s your deadline?”
“End March.”
“Word count?” The iron hissed again and steam billowed into the air above the ironing board once more.
“Seventy to eighty thousand.”
“Ouch. That’s a lot of words. Will you get done in time?”
“I would if I could get my mind around a solid story. I really need some inspiration. What do I know of snow? Or Santa Claus for that matter? It’s been years since I’ve had anything to do with either.”
“You do know that Christmas is about far more than snow and an old man in a red suit that lives in the North Pole.”
“Lapland, Mom. Santa lives in Lapland, not the North Pole. I saw it on a TV program last week.”
“Of course, Matthew.” Hannah slipped the pressed jeans onto a hanger which she hooked onto the clothes stand—last year’s Christmas gift from Grant.
So unromantic. She’d certainly give Hannah’s husband a few pointers this year.
Pulling the next pair of jeans from the mound of clean laundry, Hannah leaned against the kitchen counter. “Lapland aside, you know what Christmas is really about, Sarah.”
Jonathan shot his hands in the air. “Jesus. Christmas is about Jesus. It’s his birthday.” Singing at the top of his voice, he danced around in circles. “Happy birthday, Jesus. Happy birthday, Jesus.”
“Another aspect of Christmas you’ve had little to do with in years.” Hannah raised one eyebrow in her typical big sister way.
Sarah drew in a breath and silently counted to ten.
“You should so go to Lapland, Auntie Sarah.” Matthew grinned as if he’d found the solution to all her writing problems.
Ceasing his dance, Jonathan came and stood beside Sarah, taking her hand in his. “No, you should go to Bethmel… Bethelme…” He looked across the room at his mother.
“Bethlehem, silly,” Matthew prompted before Hannah could.
“I’m not silleeeee.” Jonathan dragged out the word for as long as he had breath. He’d turn blue and pass out if he didn’t breathe soon.
My word, I don’t know if I’d ever be able to do this mothering thing. It’s just as well that—
“Matthew, stop frustrating your brother, or you’ll go to your room.”
“I don’t have a room. Auntie Sarah’s in it. Remember?”
“Then you’ll go to your brother’s room.” Hannah shook out the jeans and began to give them the same hot treatment as their predecessor. “You should go to church.” She kept her eyes on the jeans.
Not this again.
Sarah drew in a sharp breath. “Hannah, please, don’t preach.”
“Not all men are like Andrew Palmer, you know.”
“No, they’re not. Maybe only preachers’ sons?”
With a huff, Hannah stood the iron upright. It sputtered, trying to expel steam in its vertical position. Hands on hips, her eyes bore into Sarah’s. “You can’t keep running, trying to find love only in the words you write.”
“At least that love is pure. And safe.” Sarah’s eyes stung again. She swallowed hard. She’d shed enough tears over the pastor’s son.
Pinching her eyelids with her fingers, she blotted out the light, trapping the tears.
“Boys, run along and get dressed.”
“Aw, Mom...” Jonathan’s little hands wrapped around Sarah’s waist a moment later, offering her a tiny hug, before his feet hurried across the kitchen floor with Matthew’s.
“Lapland, Auntie Sarah,” Matthew shouted before his feet pounded down the passage, too.
Jonathan’s voice grew softer as he followed his brother’s path. “Bethme— Bethlehem.”
Hannah strolled over to Sarah, her hands coming to rest on Sarah’s shoulders. “You need to forgive Andrew so you can move on, love again. It’s been nearly four years. That’s a long time.”
“I know exactly how long it’s been, down to the very minute.” Sarah squirmed out of her chair. Hannah’s hands fell away as she did.
Snatching up her laptop, Sarah hurried across the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. The memory of it all made her nauseous. Her world swirled, and she grabbed the doorjamb. “Forgive? How long should it take to forgive, Hannah, especially when there’s a congregation of faces on that ‘To Do’ list?”
“Not everyone believed Andrew’s story. You know that.”
“No, not everyone. But most did.” Heat rushed through her. “What was it they whispered behind my back? Oh yes, ‘Probably doing research for those books of hers. Such a shame, tempting sweet, innocent Andrew that way.’” Sarah swiped a disobedient tear from her cheek. “Sound about right, sis? If they’d bothered to read any of my work they would’ve known there was no way I’d need that kind of research.”
“Sarah, people are just…people. Fallen. Fallible. Desperately in need of forgiveness.” Hannah took a step toward Sarah then stopped. “And Andrew did try to do right by you.”
“Oh yes.” Sarah brushed her hand across her stomach, immediately wishing she hadn’t. “Until he no longer had to.”
“I’m sorry you’ve suffered so much, but don’t block God out because of man’s mistakes. He loves you. And He’d go to the ends of the earth to prove it to you.”
Hannah spoke the truth, but Sarah didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Maybe never.
“Heaven to earth’s a pretty long way—a whole lot of love, Sarah. That’s what Christmas is really all about. Not Santa. Not snow. And certainly not Lapland. Focus your Christmas romance on the Bethlehem babe rather.”
There was no way Sarah could stop the sneer twisting her lips. “What? And risk my publisher rejecting my manuscript after all the hard work I’ll put into it? Besides, God and I don’t speak the same language. Haven’t since—”
What was the use? Hannah knew all this. It wasn’t the first time she’d raised the subject. Wouldn’t be the last, either.
Shaking her head, Sarah turned away. She needed to be alone.
“Maybe you should find another publisher? A Christian one,” Hannah called after her. “Or relearn God’s language.”
“Why don’t you tell me to stop writing, Hannah? Find another career?”
Sarah ran to Matthew’s bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She fell onto the colorful airplane-covered duvet and buried her face in the comforting arms of the feather pillow, thoughts of flying away to the other side of the world consuming her mind. And the more she thought about Lapland, the more appealing all that snow for Christmas appeared.
***
“Not long now, Mila. It’s almost time. By Christmas, I’m certain, if not sooner.” Niklas Toivonen knelt beside the golden retriever curled up in front of a crackling fire. She seemed to prefer it there. Would she give birth right there on the reindeer skin rug instead of the whelping box he’d built? He gazed at his handiwork standing in the corner of his lounge, shunned. Perhaps she’d get used to it before she went into labor. Several days still remained. He could only hope.
Pressing his hand against her swollen belly, Niklas smiled. “Must be ten pups at least.” He leaned forward and rubbed the dog’s neck, nuzzling his face into the side of her head. Her soft fur tickled his skin. “Hyvää koira,” he whispered in her ear. “Good dog.”
As Mila turned her head upward and licked Niklas’s cheek, a whimper sounded from behind him. He turned to see Risto stretching his legs. “You jealous, boy? Or just concerned about your lady?”
Pushing up onto all four paws, a low moan accompanied the male retriever’s yawn. His golden fur, darker than Mila’s, swayed like wheat in the wind as he gave himself a good shake, starting at his head and ending with his tail which failed to stop moving. He zig-zagged his body toward Niklas, nails clicking against the wooden floor. The pasted smile across his lips lifted to reveal pink gums. He licked Niklas’s ear before giving a loud bark as he sat down.
Niklas patted Risto.
The dog gazed down at Mila, and let out two more barks.
“Yes, you have a lot to be proud of.”
Risto turned his head as Niklas scratched him, stopping the moment Niklas reached that special spot behind his ear. He licked the air.
“I’m excited for you. At least one of us has a family to show off.” Giving Risto a final scratch, Niklas pushed to his feet. Best get on with his chores. Wood needed to be chopped, fireplaces prepared for guests. And at this time of the year, the days were short.
He peeked out the window of his one bedroomed cabin. The Lapland landscape still dark, he checked his watch. Eight-thirty. In a few hours the sun would rise, just to set again soon after. He pulled on a pair of bright blue snow pants, and then slid into his favorite red jacket before wrapping a woolen scarf around his neck. Lastly, he stepped into the snow boots waiting at his front door. Hat and gloves on, Niklas headed into the white expanse, indigo washed with the haunting blue light of deep winter.
Fresh snow had fallen overnight, and Niklas sank knee-deep into the soft terrain. Lifting his legs high, he trudged through the powder to his snowmobile parked beneath a wooden shelter. Grabbing a chainsaw and ax, he threw them onto the sled before attaching it to the snowmobile. After allowing the snowmobile to idle for a while, he drove the short distance to the woodpile—yard-long birch logs stacked high in a neat pile. His handiwork.
Niklas grabbed the chainsaw, ready to slice the iron-toothed chain through the wooden stack. Holding tight, he pulled the chainsaw cord. The motor roared to life, spluttered, and then died. He tried again only to have the life and death sequence repeated. His humor failing him as the chainsaw had, Niklas finally gave up. He’d cut the logs the hard way.
Switching the chainsaw for the ax, Niklas brushed the snow from the chopping stump, and wrapped his fingers around the first log. It only took a few blows to slice right through. He placed the two shorter logs together on the stump and swung again. Soon he had four logs that would fit perfectly into the fireplaces of the cabins he owned.
The peak holiday season upon them, Rovaniemi was already overrun with tourists from all over the world, seeking out the Northern Lights and Santa Claus. As Christmas neared, the situation would worsen. Much as Niklas loved the magic of Christmas, the wonder in children’s eyes as they sat on Santa’s knee, he wished he could tell them all what Christmas is really about—the Savior’s birth. Still, he managed to spread the good news to a few people, young and old, each year—sometimes successfully, other times not. Nevertheless, he trusted God to bring the right people across his path who needed to hear the salvation message.
Business was good this year, like the preceding ones. His wooden forest cabins were rented for weeks, bar the one vacated yesterday. God’s favor rested on him. Strange there’d been no takers for that cabin for the balance of the season. But thirteen days remained before Christmas. He had faith for a booking long before then.
Niklas grabbed the next log, shortening it in the same manner. Despite the negative degrees, he’d worked up a sweat. He removed his jacket and selected a few smaller logs, chopping them into thinner pieces. They’d be good to get the fires going, although birch bark did the trick best. Tourists wouldn’t know that, however, and he couldn’t be around to start all the cabins’ fires.
By the time the sled was full, the sun had almost risen, the snow now a pale shade of blue.
His first chore done, Niklas steered the snowmobile toward his parents’ home. Time for that second coffee. He indulged in these morning chats with them. Who could blame him? His parents were every child’s dream. Especially his father.
Standing on the porch, he brushed the snow from his boots, removing them as he stepped inside. His jacket, snow pants, scarf, gloves and hat all landed up either on a hook or on top of the shelf at the front door. He’d deliver the firewood to each cabin and prepare the fireplaces for incoming guests after coffee and Pulla.
Niklas licked his lips, already tasting those freshly-baked cardamom buns.
“Mmm, Äiti, that smells good.” Niklas ducked as he stepped into the kitchen where his mother removed a tray from the oven. Most men could make it through the low doorway without stooping. Not Niklas.
“You’re a man of great stature,” Mother always told him. Her words never failed to make him feel good, especially after he learned that the word referred to more than physique, that it meant importance and standing, too.
He glanced at his father’s empty chair, and then at his mother.
“He’s not well today. He asks that you see him before you have coffee.”
Niklas nodded. Those buns would have to wait.
He ducked back through the doorway and headed for his parents’ bedroom.
First thing to catch Niklas’s eye as he entered the room was the freshly pressed red suit and hat draped over the armchair in the corner. Then he saw his elderly father curled up under the blankets, only his gray hair visible. This couldn’t be good. In all the years, Father rarely missed a day’s work. But he was getting on in years, and Niklas found himself frequently wearing his father’s suit. He didn’t mind. Father had taught him the business from an early age, so he always did a great job. There’d never been a complaint, the majority of people too busy enjoying the moment to even notice a difference.
“Isä?” Niklas approached the bed and knelt down beside it. “Are you feeling poorly again today?”
“I am, Son. I’m sorry. I know you have many chores this time of the year, but could you fill in for me? Perhaps tomorrow or the next day I’ll be well enough to return to my duties.”
“Of course I will stand in for you, Father. For as long as is necessary. You know how much I love what you do.”
The old man managed a chuckle before a coughing spell interrupted. “You will make a fine replacement one day, my son.”
“Thank you, Isä. It would be an honor to follow in your footsteps. You make so many people happy.”
Leaning over, he kissed his father’s cheek, the thick beard tickling Niklas’s face, making him smile. “I will drink coffee and eat Pulla now with Äiti. Then I’ll fetch your uniform, and after I sort out the fireplaces in the cabins, I’ll head to your office. You sleep, Isä, and get well. The world needs you.”
Father gave a slow nod, and then closed his eyes.