St. Paul author Roger Barr continues a more-than-25-year Christmas story tradition with “Christmas Longings.” 

Author Roger Barr (Courtesy of Brad Stauffer)

The series began with “The Last Christmas,” which was published by the Villager newspaper in 1997, Barr says. With the exception of 1998, there had been a new Bartholomew story in the Villager every year until 2020, when the tradition moved to the Pioneer Press. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, Matthew Bartholomew clicked off his phone, distressed by what he had just read. Here it was the day before Thanksgiving and he had yet to find a shred of holiday spirit. He felt uneasy, restless. Nothing seemed to help, not even the inviting aroma of Deidre’s apple pies baking in the oven. The dreaded image that had haunted him since August flashed into mind and a sudden longing gripped him. He stood up abruptly and grabbed his coat.

“Going somewhere?” his wife asked.

“Just out to the Christmas shed. I need a dose of Christmas medicine.”

The Christmas shed stood in the backyard of the Bartholomew family home. Matt unlocked the door, stepped inside and switched on the lights. The room was packed with life-sized, lifelike creche figures that for decades had graced the front yard each holiday season. Matt’s late father, John Bartholomew, had built a wooden stable and created the figures of Mary, Joseph and the Christ Child in 1956, the year Matt, eldest of eight children, was born.  In addition to the Holy Family, the menagerie included a cow and donkey, shepherds and their flock, the Three Wise Men and their camels and a heavenly host of angels. Upon his father’s passing in 1998, Matt had purchased the family home from the estate. He displayed the figures each holiday season.

On the day after Thanksgiving, while others went Christmas shopping, Matt would use his father’s diagram to position the figures in the front yard and place the footlights and spotlights. He would set out barrels to collect food donations for the Open Cupboard Food Shelf operated by his old friend Handyman.

By tradition, next Saturday afternoon, the Bartholomew clan would gather here at the family home for a potluck — the one time a year when the entire family got together. At sunset, the creche lights would be turned on for the first time.

Normally, opening this door and seeing the beloved figures filled him with holiday spirit. Today, however, the dreaded image that he could not unsee persisted — endless narrow depressions in the green fields of Belgium — the remains of opposing World War I trenches separated by an unoccupied strip of land called No Man’s Land.

Here at home, the election was over, the results final. The country remained sharply divided, squared off in opposing trenches, just like the trenches that stretched across the Belgian landscape.

The troubling image of the trenches was a legacy of a summer trip he and Deidre had taken. To celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary, Deidre had suggested they attend the 2024 Olympics in Paris to cheer for local gymnast “Suni” Lee. They had combined the Paris trip with a visit to the beaches of Normandy, where Allied troops had landed on D-Day in 1944. From there they made the short trip to Ypres, Belgium, the site of the Christmas Truce of 1914.

One of the miracles of Christmas, the truce had been a spontaneous pause in the Great War which was already at stalemate. On Christmas Eve soldiers hunkered down in their trenches issued the usual insults, taunts and catcalls across No Man’s Land. But German and British soldiers alike felt weary from months of fighting and longed to be home with their loved ones. According to accounts, on the German side of No Man’s Land, burning candles and small Christmas trees began to appear on the parapets atop the trenches. The weary soldiers sang, their melancholy voices drifting across No Man’s Land to the ears of the enemy. To the British soldiers in the opposing trenches, the words were strange, but the melody was very familiar—Silent Night. As if in answer, they sang the familiar hymn in English, their voices blending with those of their enemy.

The catcalls, insults and taunts subsided, replaced by shouts of holiday greeting. From both sides, weary soldiers climbed over the parapets and ventured into No Man’s Land. There, they exchanged impromptu gifts of cigarettes, food and alcohol. Along the Western Front, more and more soldiers left the trenches. At one location, an informal soccer match began. Details of soldiers retrieved the bodies of their fallen comrades for burial. The truce had lasted through Christmas Day, longer in some places along the Western Front. Then, under orders, the fighting began again.

Here at home, no one was shooting at him, but like many others, Matt felt like the country was under siege, each side hunkered down in their ideological trenches, pointing fingers of blame, hurling insults and taunts at each other. There seemed to be no end in sight.

Among those hunkered down in the trenches on the other side was Matt’s brother Tim, his wife Lynda, their daughter Julianna, her husband and their family. He had invited Tim and Lynda over several times, but they were always busy, suggesting a next time that never came. The two families were on the most abbreviated of speaking terms, their communication reduced to graduation announcements, a birthday card containing only a signature. Matt’s siblings all said that they faced a similar situation. No one knew what to do about it and there the matter stood. He wished it wasn’t so.

As he reached for the light switch, Matt noticed Hope’s purple stocking cap hanging on a nail driven into the wall. Hope had placed the cap on Mary’s head back in 2016. That year he’d conceived the crazy idea of having the creche figures journey from various parts of the city to his front yard during the month of December. People had followed Mary and Joseph’s journey on social media. One night, a video appeared of Hope, age six, removing her stocking cap to reveal her bald head. She gently placed her cap on Mary’s head to keep her warm. A cancer patient, Hope had become an instant social media star, a beacon of hope. The stocking cap had remained on Mary’s head for the remainder of her journey to the Barthlomew front yard. Hope had never returned to reclaim her cap, but he’d saved it, just in case.

Whatever became of Hope, Matt wondered as he locked the shed door. Come to think of it, whatever became of hope in general?

Back in the kitchen, two apple pies were cooling on the counter. From the ceiling speakers, the honeyed voice of Andy Williams was proclaiming “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”  In the living room, boxes of Christmas decorations were stacked on the coffee table. Deidre was halfway downstairs, carrying the box containing the artificial Christmas tree purchased last year. She set the box down in front of the picture window.

“You’re back. I decided to decorate the house for the potluck on Saturday. Gimme me a hand?”

“Sure.”

“Just so you know, these will be part of the décor.” Deidre handed him a white cardboard poster. In large black letters were the words “Talking Politics,” surrounded by a red circle with a diagonal line drawn through the words. “One on the front door, one in every room.”

“Fine with me.” Matt handed the poster back to her.

“After all, it is the holiday season.”

“Whatever.” He slumped into one of the overstuffed chairs.

“You’re sure a Gloomy Gus today.”

“Sorry. I’m still waiting for my Christmas medicine to take effect. I keep seeing those opposing trenches we saw last summer in the back of my mind. I can’t decide: Do I follow the news and get depressed by how divided the country is, or should I just skip the news altogether and be uninformed?”

“Tough decision.”

“You seem to be in a festive mood,” Matt observed, pointing to the stack of boxes.

“Christmas is supposed to be a time of celebration. You know, like the Bible says, ‘peace on earth, goodwill to all.’  That’s the approach I’m taking this year, the circumstances notwithstanding.”

“Business as usual, in other words?”

“I didn’t say it was easy. I’ve been struggling between being depressed about the circumstances — the trenches as you put it — or enthusiastically embracing the holiday. Embracing the holiday won. So, while you’re setting up the creche on Friday, I’m going Christmas shopping. Anyone who invites me to a Christmas party this year — I’m going. I long for the kids to be home. I long to bake Christmas cookies. Get used to hearing Christmas music all day. When the kids do fly home, we’ll hang our special ornaments and exchange Secret Santa gifts like we always do. I’m planning a special dinner Christmas Eve. We’ll go to Christmas Eve services, see what’s in our stockings on Christmas morning and open our presents.”

At the mention of stockings, Matt glanced at the fireplace. Under the mantle were eight hooks. In his mind, a picture suddenly formed of eight stockings hanging in a row according to age, starting with his own on the left, followed by the stockings of Carol, Tim, Tom, Mary, Margaret, and the twins, Jim and Joe.

“We probably won’t need these posters,” he said. “Tim and his family have skipped the potluck the last two years.”

“Did you invite them?”

“Not specifically,” Matt confessed. “It’s a tradition. I mean, everyone in the family simply marks the Saturday after Thanksgiving on their calendars. Everyone just comes.”

“Maybe you should invite them.”

“Won’t do any good. He’s too stubborn.”

“You never know unless you try.”

Matt pulled out his phone and typed a text. “Are you all coming to the family potluck on Saturday? Hope so.”

The reply came seconds later. “Have other plans.”

He showed the text to Deidre. Before he could pocket his phone, another text arrived. “Don’t need any political lectures.”  It felt like a taunt hurled across No Man’s Land.

“Nor do we!” Matt typed. He pushed the send button and then regretted it.

At midafternoon on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, members of the extended Barthlomew family began to arrive. Matt stood inside the front door and directed traffic. Crock pots, covered dishes and carrying bags were to be dropped off in the kitchen. Coats were to be piled on the bed in the master bedroom upstairs. Beverages were in the coolers in the kitchen — help yourselves. The air vibrated with holiday energy. In deference to Deidre’s posters, Matt didn’t hear any mention of politics in the snatches of conversation. Listening to the buzz of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter, he felt his spirits rising. Deidre was all smiles. He welcomed everyone, offered a grace and declared it was time to eat.

Deidre had organized the food into a buffet line. Each guest made their selections from the long line of breads, salads, entrees, side dishes, hot dishes, and desserts. The cousins and their families gathered in groups at the kitchen and dining room tables; the Bartholomew siblings and their spouses took seats in the living room, their plates resting in their laps.

“I’m so glad one of Carol’s girls brought her mother’s Swedish meatballs,” Margaret said. “Wouldn’t feel like the potluck without Carol’s meatballs. I still miss her. What’s it been, ten years since she passed?”

The mention of her passing unleashed a passel of Carol stories — the year she made pillowcases for everyone with their names embroidered on the flap — pink for the girls, blue for the boys; how after their mother had died she made a mincemeat pie every Christmas for their father.

Sitting next to the fireplace, Tom reached out and touched Carol’s hook under the mantle. “I can’t remember when these hooks weren’t here.”

“As long as I live here, those hooks stay put,” Matt said. “The four of us still hang our stockings on the middle four hooks.”

“Remember all of us creeping downstairs early one Christmas morning and catching Santa Claus filling our stockings?” Tom asked. “Instead of a pipe he was smoking a smelly cigar, just like Mr. Morris across the street. The smoke turned the air blue.”

“How I long for the good old days,” Mary lamented.

“Not all of them were good,” Matt reminded her. “Remember The Christmas Without Cash?”

“That was 1970,” Margaret said. “The year the fire destroyed Dad’s insurance office. We all got underwear, socks and tennis shoes wrapped in Christmas paper.”

“But Mom and Dad still took us all out to eat on Christmas Eve,” Mary recalled.

“If you call White Castle going out to eat,” Tom broke in. Laughter erupted.

“Wasn’t that the year we got the ‘The Clicker’?” Jim asked.

“The Clicker,” Joe echoed. “Stupidest toy ever made.”  Heads nodded in agreement.

“Tim was the only one who could make the Clicker operate,” Jim added.

At the mention of Tim’s name, the room fell silent. “Did I say something wrong?” Jim asked.

“So, has anyone talked to Tim lately?” Tom asked, acknowledging the elephant in the room. “I haven’t.”

Margaret pointed at the poster above the mantle. “No talking politics, Tom.”

“I’m not talking about politics, Marg, I’m talking about our family. He is our brother, after all.”

“Matt, did you even invite him?” Margaret asked.

“I did. He had other plans.” He left out the part about exchanging texts. He glanced at Deidre and saw a frown creasing her face.

“Last time I talked to him, he said the country was under siege,” Joe said. “Every time I talk to him, I get a lecture, a laundry list of what’s wrong with the country. I don’t know where he comes up with some of the stuff he says.”

“You tell me,” Tom said. “We grew up in the same house, slept in the same room upstairs. You know how he is. We’ve always sparred about the issues. I always thought it was a philosophical discussion, that it was all in fun — at least it was for me. He did, too. At least he used to. Our differences didn’t really matter. Then something changed. I realized it wasn’t fun anymore. It had turned personal. For both of us. I backed off. So did he.”

“So,” Jim asked, “has he abandoned us, or have we abandoned him?”

“What’s the difference?” Joe asked.

“We all should be able to get along,” Mary declared. “Why does it have to be him, Tom? Couldn’t you, couldn’t we all, I don’t know, bend a little bit to get along?”

“Tim doesn’t bend,” Joe said. “It’s up to us.”

“How far are you willing to bend?” Tom demanded. “You keep bending and bending, finally, you reach a point where your core values are ready to crack. You either break, or stop bending.  I stopped bending.”

“You sound just like him!” Mary cried. She wiped tears from her eyes. “You always judge people so. No wonder he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“When was the last time you talked to him, Mary?” Tom asked.

Mary’s answer was silence.

Matt felt the festive mood slipping away. He noticed that Deidre had disappeared.

“It’s getting dark,” he said. “I think it’s time we all put our coats on and go outside for the lighting ceremony.”

“Leave it to Tim to ruin a family gathering,” Tom said. “Even when he’s not here.”

That evening, Matt went outside at bedtime to tuck in the creche figures for the night. He checked each figure to be sure it remained securely staked against any wind. He placed the food donation barrels at the end of the driveway, saying a silent prayer that visitors would be generous this year. In the days to come, he would take each day’s donations to the Open Cupboard. He stood on the boulevard sidewalk to view the scene as a visitor. Through the years, how many times had he stood here in troubled times to draw inspiration and hope from these figures?

With Mary and Tom squared off against one another, the potluck had ended on a sour note. Shortly after he had switched on the lights, people had gone back inside, gathered up their dishes and called it a night. He had issued an apology to Deidre who shrugged in answer.

Now, as he stood here, longing for inspiration, he felt that Mary and Tom were both right. Why couldn’t they all bend a little to get along with the other side? But, like Tom said, how far can one bend before one’s core values are threatened? At what point, he wondered, did upholding one’s core values turn into simple stubbornness? What to do? He turned to the Wise Men.

“My wise friends,” he said, “What is the answer?”

The Wise Men remained silent. Matt turned and walked up the driveway. He turned off the creche lights, pushed the button that sent the garage door rattling down and then followed the sidewalk around to the front door, where he paused to remove the poster.

True to her word, Deidre embraced the holiday with determined enthusiasm. Her no politics poster remained above the mantle. Christmas music played endlessly on the stereo. She baked Christmas cookies by the dozen, followed by an assortment of candies. After they attended “A Christmas Carol” at the Guthrie, she searched online for a Christmas pudding recipe like Mrs. Cratchit prepared for the family feast. She wrote personal notes in every Christmas card she addressed. She FaceTimed with Allison and Christopher to make plans for activities while they were home. Christmas presents appeared under the tree.

Matt envied her industriousness. He put off his own Christmas shopping. When the others asked him what he wanted for Christmas, he had no answer, knowing that what he truly longed for could not be purchased online or in a store. There was no end in sight to the division that gripped the country.

Every day after lunch, he transferred food donations into the back of his SUV and drove them to the Open Cupboard. He usually spent the afternoon stocking shelves and helping clients with their selections.

In the evening, after dinner, he often joined Deidre in the den to watch a Christmas movie on the Hallmark channel. He could hardly tell one movie from another.

“Why do we keep watching these?” Matt asked one night, “They all have the same formula.”

“Because they all have a happy ending.”

“Happy endings are in short supply,” he agreed. “No happy ending in sight to this political mess. I keep hoping our leaders will negotiate a truce, but all you hear from them is taunts and insults hurled at the other side.”

“It was the soldiers who initiated the truce back in 1914,” Deidre reminded him, “not their leaders. What made the soldiers venture out of their trenches that long ago Christmas?”

“Their longing overpowered their fear,” Matt said. “Stepping out was an act of faith that the enemy, feeling the same longing, would not open fire.”

She laid her hand on top of his. “Tell me, what would it take for you to talk to your brother?”

Caught short, he struggled to answer. After all, Tim did not bend. “I’d have to think about that,” he stammered. “A sign of some kind?”

The question gnawed at him the rest of the evening. At bedtime when he tucked in the creche figures, he turned to the Wise Men. “What is keeping me in the trenches, besides my own stubbornness?”

The Wise Men remained silent.

One afternoon as he was transferring food from the barrels into his SUV, a young voice called out to him.

“Hello?” On the boulevard sidewalk stood a man, a woman and a teenaged girl, bundled against the cold. The girl stepped forward.

“I’m Hope,” she said. “The bald girl? These are my parents.”

“I remember,” Matt said. “It’s been a long time. You’ve grown up.”

“We moved shortly after that Christmas” her father explained. “I accepted a job transfer to Rochester, so we could be nearer the clinic where Hope was being treated. But we’ve never forgotten how excited she was to follow Mary and Joseph on their journey. The doctors told us much later that her recovery was a miracle. They never expected Hope to survive. We’ve always believed that her faith in Mary and Joseph saved her.”

“I was six,” Hope said. “To me, Mary and Joseph were alive.”

“Some photos from that year popped up today as a Facebook memory,” her mother said.

“Hope said she wanted to see Mary and Joseph again.”

“All the figures,” Hope added.

“Everything is so unsettled these days,” her mother continued. “We decided spur of the moment to drive up.”

“I’m glad you did,” Matt said. “By the way, I have something that belongs to you. Wait here.”  He hurried to the Christmas shed, retrieved the purple stocking cap from its hook, and returned to the front yard. “Hope, you put this on Mary’s head to help her keep warm,” he said. “I saved it for you.”

“Oh, my!” the mother said. “I don’t believe you kept that all these years.”

“I remember this hat,” Hope said. “Thank you.”

“Would you like to come in?” Matt asked.

“We need to head home,” the father said apologetically. “We only drove up because Hope longed to see Mary and Joseph again. It was so nice to see you though.”

They wished each other “Merry Christmas.”  Matt watched them leave and returned to his work. So, Hope was alive and well. He suddenly felt like he had been visited by an angel to remind him that Christmas was a time for miracles, a time when things that weren’t supposed to happen happened. As he worked, he nursed a hope that hope in general was also alive and well.

During the week before Christmas, Matt left the creche lights on all night. In the wee hours of nights he couldn’t sleep, he often sat by the bedroom window and looked down into the front yard. From this vantage point, he could see the shepherds and the Wise Men facing the stable in worship, their faces lit by the footlights. On the night before Christmas Eve, as he sat at the window, a crew cab pickup truck drove very slowly down Pinehurst Avenue. At the end of the block, the pickup made a U-turn and stopped across the street in front of the house. After a few moments, the driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. The man opened the pickup’s back door and lifted out two brown grocery bags by their handles. His posture and movements seemed familiar as he crossed the street, bags in hand. When he passed under the boulevard streetlight, Matt recognized the man as his brother.

Matt felt his heartbeat quicken. He smothered an outcry. He pressed his hands and face against the cold window glass.

Tim carried the bags to the end of the driveway. He raised the lid of one of the barrels, carefully lowered the bags into it and closed the lid. Slowly, he walked along the boulevard sidewalk, stopping to gaze at the shepherds and their flock. He took in the host of heavenly angels, then continued walking, stopping at the front walkway to study the Holy Family. His gaze shifted toward the Wise Men and their camels. He rested his gloved hands on the top rail of the split rail fence and stared ahead intently. He seemed to be looking past the creche figures at the house itself. After a long moment, he folded his hands and briefly bowed his head.

Just as Matt stood up to hurry downstairs, his brother turned away from the house and headed toward the street. At the curb he looked back into the yard. Halfway across the street, he stopped and pulled his phone from his pocket. He snapped several pictures, then slid behind the wheel of the pickup and drove away.

Stunned by what he had witnessed, Matt dressed and went downstairs. He pulled on his coat and slipped outside. He walked to the same spot where his brother had stood. He studied the creche figures and the house itself. What had drawn Tim, the man who did not bend, to his childhood home, bags in hand, in the wee hours of the night? Had he been overcome by a sense of longing and obeyed his heart? Like the soldiers so long ago, he seemed to have placed the equivalent of a candle or little Christmas tree on the parapet of his trench.

Matt rested his hands on the fence rail. He felt his own heart soften amid a rush of warmth toward his brother. What to do in return? What had the soldiers done so long ago after seeing candles and little Christmas trees appear on the parapets across No Man’s Land?  Their taunts and catcalls had given way to their own longings, and they had called out Christmas greetings to those on the other side. The answer seemed clear: On Christmas Eve, he had to call his brother and wish him a Merry Christmas. It was not a solution, just a small step.

For the first time in the holiday season, Matt felt the Christmas medicine taking effect. Christmas was a time for miracles, a time for hope. Maybe Tim’s visit was just one of many such candles that would appear, lights that expressed a deep longing that would somehow awaken the longings of those on the other side of No Man’s Land. And maybe, just maybe, people on both sides, longing for something they could not put into words, would venture out of their ideological trenches to meet in No Man’s Land and offer each other small gifts.

In the morning, he would share the hopeful news with Deidre. He would contact Tom, Mary, Margaret, Joe and Jim and urge each of them to light a candle or place a small Christmas tree on their parapet where it could be seen by all.

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