When the Heart Needs Home

A Store Bought Christmas

When I was a child, everyone called me Nora Beth.

It was the name my father gave me, spoken as if it carried a purpose that came from a belief he had for me—a belief about who I would be and who would guide me in this life. He spoke it as if the name itself would keep me close to him and anchored to God, no matter where life carried either of us. He didn’t know when he named me, that death would take him away before I realized how deeply family, faith, and memories would come to matter to me—or how the heart-ties to him would help carry me through a future of loss, pain, and the hard lessons only life could teach. But I believe he knew enough to know my name would hold me to purpose, to promise, to direction, to God, and to home.

Home.

It arrives differently for all of us. Such a small word, yet one that stretches wide inside each of us and touches us in its own way. For some, it’s a warm place—a face, a heart, a memory of many moments woven together into a story of beauty and belonging, of hope and grace.

 For others, it brings loneliness and pain. But no matter what home means to us, or what it stirs in us now- there is something tender we all share: a longing for warmth, for beauty, for small moments that reminds us, we’re still held and included in something good.

 So, for a moment, come with me.

Let me lead you into a softer place—a warm corner of memory where the light still lingers.

Set the weight you carry on your shoulders down for a bit. Travel home with me through the rays of light that cast upon the wall, high above my head.

Light and warmth. Two of my favorite things.

Those reminders come through a window now—a window I can’t reach or see out of—at a time of day that has always been my favorite: the golden hour. The hour that is filled with my happiest memories. Memories of glorious views of light spilling across the western horizon like a benediction. Those views had felt like a gift at the end of the day, carrying a message that no matter what difficulties had come, there was still good and beauty to be found; enough to feel and enough to share—before the sun would slip behind the ridge. And when it did— it reassured me that tomorrow its rays would come again, to fill my heart again- with new light, fresh hope, and more beauty.

 From where I am now, I only get moments of that light and can only feel the warmth when I remember. Moments when I can forget where I am and go back to where I came from. Once a day, I uncurl my weakened body and stretch out onto my back to see the golden light that begins to reach the window after it’s made its way across the sky. It seems like this window is the last stop of the day.

 As the window begins to glow as it starts to make its appearance- it feels like a gentle greeting that taps softly on the glass, calling out to me, “I am here, but only for a moment.” And as it has always done, it soothes me and reminds me of all that was good and light filled of days long ago.

In those moments, as the light begins to fill the room from the reflection of its rays draping across the wall above; I forget where I am, or what brought me here.

I let the light carry me home. Back to the ranch, surrounded by all that I love and all that loves me.

Come with me as I go back. There’s a story to tell that will warm us both. It’s not the ranch that I own now, but the one where my first dream of having land, a home, and making it ours, began.

 It was a sprawling, old ranch-style home that once belonged to a doctor. Sturdy in its bones but had long been abandoned. The electricity faded in and out in most of the rooms, as if it had long given up on the idea, anyone would ever need its light again.

 We weren’t fully settled in yet. I still had boxes I was unpacking, sand that still needed sweeping from every corner of every room. The floors throughout the house were covered with large faded white tiles, and every time the wind blew, a new layer of dust settled in, as if the desert was impolitely insisting on coming inside.

In-between sweeping floors, wiping down cabinets, and investigating the cause of a terrible smell coming from the lower cabinets in the kitchen; children and dogs flew in and out-of-doors, with Hank and Sadie following close behind. Hank, a gentle giant, was an English mastiff–yellow lab mix. Sadie- a very pregnant but happy border collie—was dumped at the foot of our driveway during a yard sale just before our cross country move to the ranch.

We came here so the kids could have their grandparents in their lives, and for me to have my mom.

We didn’t have much to unpack but we had what we needed. I had found this place while visiting my mom over the summer.

With some digging, I found the broker of the house, and since it had been abandoned, I was able to finagle a reasonable monthly payment with the option to rent to own after a couple of years. Admittedly… it was a little questionable moving in as-is. But I had vision.

 While I was carrying boxes in from the U-Haul, I was thinking to myself how happy I was that we were finally in a home of our own, and in time for Christmas. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted when the three oldest Samuel, Tess, Tara, Abby and little Amelia came rushing into the house to tell me how disappointed they were going to be, not able to build a snowman now that we had moved to the desert.

I told them with some ingenuity, I bet we can find a way to build one. They looked at me like I had suggested we could build a house out of clouds. I smiled and thought, well anything is possible.

There was no snow in the low desert where we moved to. The house was in the country on twenty acres. Surrounded by neighboring date orchards, vineyards, and lots of tumbleweeds. The only thing we had, that the neighboring ranches had… were tumbleweeds.

 I set the boxes down I had just carried in, and said, “Let’s go outside and build a snowman with what we have”. They looked at me very confused and asked, “what do we have?” “TUMBLEWEEDS!” I replied with a grin. Then we all started to laugh but I assured them I was serious.

Guess what we did next? That’s right… we went outside and built a very large snowman made of tumbleweeds and propped him up next to the mailbox on our little country road. He had a hat and winter scarf, but instead of a top hat, a cowboy hat was placed on his head. We were so proud of our first Christmas decoration that was made with nothing but love, imagination and laughter.

That evening as we were gathered around the table having our dinner, the phone rang. It was my mom. She called to tell me that hers and my stepfather’s church was having a Christmas pageant and the kids were invited to be in it despite it being short notice. They knew we were new to the area and they wanted the kids to feel included in their Christmas celebrations.

The church was across the valley where my parents lived. It was a Lutheran church. My dad was a Baptist pastor, so I grew up in Baptist churches, but my stepdad was a Dane, and Danes were Lutheran he would always say with a grin. So I shared the news with the kids, and they of course were excited to be involved in something with other children. They were homeschooled and with us not having been here long, I thought this was a wonderful opportunity for them to meet other kids and be involved in some holiday activities in the community.

The following morning, Samuel and I walked into the kitchen and the smell that had been strong the day before was even stronger now. I told him to grab a hammer for both of us, as we were going to get to the bottom of this. Pun not intended. We opened the cabinets and began hammering our way through the bottom shelves all the way to the subfloor. What we discovered was the entire rat retirement community—the full AARP chapter of desert rodents—all long deceased, and for reasons known only to them, had apparently chosen our kitchen as their final resting place.

Samuel and I masked up and spent the better portion of the day knocking out the bottom shelves in the cabinets in order to clear them out—cleaning, gagging, sanitizing, laughing, and wondering how on earth this house hadn’t simply given up altogether.

  Later that day, I realized we all needed a change of scenery—and frankly, a break from the lingering smell of bleach that had overtaken the house. I decided it was time to take everyone into town for a while. The mall felt like the perfect escape: a clean, indoor space where Amelia could run around freely and burn off some energy. The rest of us would enjoy the cheerful atmosphere too, admiring the Christmas decorations that adorned the mall and the elaborate window displays in all the shops. It was nice to get away from the house for a while and take in the festive spirit together as a family. I really needed that time to shake off some of the stress and weight of moving us across the country into an old ranch house that needed so much work—and so much money for repairs.

As we were walking through the mall and had turned a corner, all of our eyes fell towards the same thing at the same time.

There sitting in a big red chair under a tall Christmas tree…. in all his glory…was Santa. The Christmas tree was sprinkled with fake snow, covered in dazzling bright lights and tinsel. Families with children were lined up to see him. The kids stopped all at once. Amelia’s little hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shining. The older four stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at him as if they’d stumbled into the North Pole.

And then I saw the sign.

“Photos with Santa — $24.99.”

My heart dropped. We were a bartering family that year. A making-do family. We had tumbleweed snowmen and volunteer-earned Christmas trees. We did not have twenty-four dollars for a picture with Santa — not even close. I looked at the kids and then at the sign. Then back at the kids and the sign again.

That familiar ache rose up — the one mothers know too well — trying to close the painful gap between what you want to give them and what you can.

 The kids didn’t say anything right away. They just kept staring at him. Hoping, but not asking. Wanting, but understanding.

 I must have looked from the sign to my children one too many times, because Santa’s eyes caught mine. He didn’t smile right away. Instead, he gave a small, knowing nod — the kind older men give when they recognize something without needing to ask. Then he leaned forward in his chair and motioned gently for the children to come.

They looked at me first. Even Amelia waited. I nodded. They went.

Santa didn’t rush them. He didn’t ask for tickets. He didn’t ask for payment. He just opened his arms, and my five children gathered around him — Samuel standing tall behind the chair, Tess leaning in, Tara settling with quiet confidence, Abby touching the fur trim of his sleeve, and Amelia climbing onto his knee like she belonged there.

I stood back, grateful just to watch. A woman I’d never seen before appeared beside me and pulled a Polaroid camera from her shoulder bag. “Let me,” she whispered. Before I could answer, she stepped forward and snapped a picture. The camera whirred, printing the small square photo. She shook it gently until the image appeared as it dried, then pressed it into my hand. “Merry Christmas,” she said, and walked away.

 My chest felt tight and heavy. The tears were wanting to spill as I was flooded with gratitude and shame at the same time. An emotional combination that stings badly—something I had felt often over the years as a single mom. I was grateful my kids got their moment with Santa. Sad that it didn’t come with the $24.99 professional photo. Like so many times before, I was embarrassed and sad for them that they had a mom who didn’t have an extra $25.00. I wanted that lump in my throat and the pain in my chest to go away—it was all too familiar. I wanted more for my kids.

I was teaching myself decorative painting and was just starting out. In those early years, my own design pieces took a while to sell, and custom work came in slowly. We walked away, they with a little magic in their hearts, and me with a deep ache in mine.

 Suddenly, our bartering for Christmas gifts and trees, didn’t feel as amazing as the day I thought it up. It felt fun and creative when I was trying to figure out how to give my kids a Christmas, and now it felt cheap and tarnished. I knew what I needed to do to give them a better Christmas, but it would come at a cost for all of us. I needed to get a nighttime job when my mom had time to help with the kids. That would mean I would miss their Christmas performance. I wouldn’t even be able to be there for the practices.

 As we got home that night, I told the kids there would be no story tonight as they were used to piling into my room to read stories by candlelight as none of the bedrooms had electricity. I was tired and needed to go to bed early. Bed is where I let tears fall, where I felt my fears, and tried to make peace with pain, to make hard decisions. And that night, it’s where I decided Christmas Day and presents would be more important to them than me being at their play on Christmas Eve. Every child wants presents under the tree with store-bought gifts, not secondhand ones. I called my parents and explained what I wanted to do, and they agreed they would help out with the kids and take them to their practices and performance.

Samuel was one of the wise men, the three older girl’s angels, and Amelia watched with delight from Grandma’s lap while all the kids practiced their lines and rehearsed their songs at church.

Meanwhile, I was learning how to restock shelves and pick up after customers during the busiest season at our town’s biggest box store. I hated missing out. I hated missing out on them. Many nights while I was working, I would steal away to the dressing room and let the tears fall, breathing through the heaviness in my chest and reminding myself it would be worth it. They will be okay. They have Grandma and Grandpa, and I will be there for Christmas morning.

Christmas Eve came, the night of the pageant. I made it through my shift, and heard they did a wonderful job remembering their lines and singing their songs. I made up a pot of hot cocoa after getting home from work while they made their way across the desert valley to home.

It was late when they came bounding through the door, still in their costumes with eyes bright from all the excitement and cookies they had eaten.

With unrestrained enthusiasm, each one told me about their night, frequently interrupting one another while sipping their cocoa and wiping their mustaches with the back of their hands where the whipped cream had left its mark. As the night ended, the kids changed into pajamas as I thanked my parents and walked them to their car. Mom turned to give me a hug, and as she did, she looked in my eyes with deep understanding. She gave me a soft smile and said, “Merry Christmas Nora,” as she handed me the video tape of the kids’ performance. She too was a single mother after my dad died. She knew the tormenting ache of having to choose between providing for needs or being there. And as a daughter, I knew the disappointment of how a child feels when a parent couldn’t be there. I squeezed her hand and smiled gently in return while I looked in her eyes and sent the unspoken message, “It’s okay, Mom.” I wanted to reassure her. Even after all those years, and now as a mother myself; I knew she still carried guilt for missing some of my special occasions when I was younger. It didn’t matter how many years had passed or the simple fact that she didn’t have much of a choice. In those moments, we locked eyes not just as mother and daughter, but as two women who understood hard choices and the weight those choices carried. As I waved goodbye and stepped inside our dimly lit home, I saw the kids had gathered their blankets and pillows and were filing into my room. I went in behind them, lit some more candles, and picked up where we had last read from the classic children’s story Black Beauty.

As the candlelight softened the room and my voice wove its way through the stillness, the girls slowly began to slip into sleep.

I was about halfway through the chapter when we heard scratching… whining… and small, urgent sounds coming from the next room.

Samuel slipped from the foot of the bed to see what it was.

A moment later he called out, breathless:

“Mom! Sadie’s having her puppies! In my room!”

Suddenly, the girls’ eyes popped open, and we all scrambled out of the bed to make our way to my son’s room. On our way out, they grabbed their blankets and pillows while I grabbed one of the lit candles and some old towels from the linen closet. There, in the quiet warmth of his room, Sadie had found her place—curled into a nest of his clothes and blankets, already bringing her first puppy into the world.

The kids gathered around her in a circle—silent, reverent, glowing in candlelight and wonder.

One puppy… then another… then another.

Tiny squeaks. Little breaths.

Quiet energy filling the room.

Samuel whispered, “It’s like… Christmas magic.”

And it was. We stayed there for hours—watching, helping where needed, whispering so we wouldn’t scare Sadie or her babies. By the time the last puppy arrived, the kids had fallen asleep on the floor around Sadie, curled together like one big blanket of love.

 And there, in that shabby desert ranch house with its broken cabinets and dusty floors, surrounded by children and puppies and candlelight— I realized something:

This was home.

Not perfect. Not easy.

Not what I imagined.

But filled—overflowing—with simple beauty, and enduring love.

And that was enough. More than enough; then I too dozed off to sleep.

We all began to stir at the same time as the morning sun filtered its way through the doorway. My babies were nestled round me, and Sadie and her babies nestled round her.

As the morning light fell across my children’s faces, they woke, remembering where they were—and why they were there.

As they remembered, excitement bloomed. The girls had ten new puppies to love on, while Samuel’s affection for Sadie had somehow grown even stronger overnight.

I took in the beauty and love of my children and realized:
All the joy a child needs on Christmas morning was found in that room—
not under a tree.