The Festive Stump (with apologies and thanks, to P&A)

My friends posted a picture of their house and yard all aglow with Christmas lights. And right down at the corner where the yard meets the street and driveway, there's a squat mass all wrapped up and glorious in a tangle of brilliant colours.

Guys.

They have a Festive Stump.

They wrap it in lights like a favourite tree. No matter that it's short and branchless.

No matter.

Thirteen years ago, in one terrible summer, Patrick and I lost our jobs, lost our apartment, and miscarried our baby. On moving day our family was busy, but these friends showed up at our door. 

We had packed up most of our things, but I hadn't been able to deal with the room full of unused and unusable baby things.

They came in and started helping. My friend gently and kindly helped me choose the special things I wanted to keep, while her husband and Patrick moved the furniture. They were so helpful and spacious and ready to laugh and ready to cry with us.

Truly, my heart was not prepared for happiness that day. But the thing that stands out the most was after we had worked and sweated and worked some more, we sat down on the floor in the empty apartment and scavenged snacks from the mostly empty fridge. We ate pepperettes and drank ciders and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

That day echoes with joy, because they were with us.

They've got a history of wrapping heartache in beauty. 

It looks like a Festive Stump.

It looks like love.

Tomorrow I'm going to find the ugliest part of my house and put some lights on it. I'm going to make like Peter and Angela, and make it special. 

Merry Christmas, friends. 

Xo.