~ Christmas on Ice—The 20th Anniversary Edition ~
This inspirational Christmas short story was originally written in 2004 and has remained a holiday tradition on this site for twenty years. To mark this milestone, the narrative—previously shared as a three-part series—is presented here for the first time as a single, consolidated story. Set against the backdrop of a Tennessee winter, it remains a timeless exploration of solitude, community, and the enduring spirit of the holiday season that has resonated with readers for two decades.
Chapter One
She gazed out the window at the winter landscape blanketing the surrounding hills as a small gray cat with white markings wound its way around her ankles, shivering even as she smiled. It was a breathtaking sight through the frosted panes: ice crystals catching the faint light that pierced the clouds, fresh snow dusting the ground and the glittering trees like powdered sugar.
Turning from the wintry view, she added another log to the fire and settled back into her chair, pulling a blanket woven with snowflake patterns over her lap. The wool still carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from the hearth. Christmas music drifted from the radio, and the small two-foot tree in the corner blinked its lights on and off.
She was glad she’d impulsively draped a strand of colored bulbs along the bookcase; that corner now held a touch of holiday cheer. On a side table, a miniature tree fashioned from red and green ornaments reflected the flicker of candlelight as the dim outdoor glow faded. Sprigs of evergreen filled a basket, and a single stocking hung from the mantel. Her home was not without these quiet reminders of Christmas, each one chosen deliberately this year, small acts of defiance against the emptiness.
It had been years since she’d known a true Christmas. Caring for her ailing parents over a decade had turned those holidays bittersweet—each one blurred by sadness, forced merriment, and the shadow of impending loss. Losing them two years apart had plunged her into deep grief, from which she was only now beginning to emerge. But emerging brought its own sorrow and disorientation. The world had moved on in those twelve years: friends had married, had children, relocated. She remained single, alone.
Even the church she’d once attended faithfully every Sunday felt foreign now; caregiving had made regular visits impossible, then nonexistent. The world had changed, yet she felt frozen in time—as if preserved on ice, only now thawing back into the woman she’d been twelve years earlier. “I’m an anachronism,” she thought, as an old familiar carol finally broke through the modern holiday playlist on the radio. “I’ve become Rip Van Winkle.” She let the song’s familiar melody linger, its words about shepherds and angels stirring something long dormant.
A man had flirted with her earlier that year. Others had tried during the bleak days surrounding her parents’ deaths, but she’d scarcely noticed, shrouded in grief. This time, she had noticed. Nothing came of it, yet something inside her shifted. The isolation she’d accepted—even welcomed—no longer felt like refuge. It felt like chains.
“Now is the winter of my discontent,” she murmured aloud, startling the gray cat now curled contentedly in her lap. She smiled ruefully at the line and how perfectly it captured her life, then reached for her book.
Snow fell thicker outside. The wind howled softly. The little tree blinked, the gray cat with its four white paws resettled into a warm ball, and a woman sat alone in her chair, reading the second chapter of Luke—pondering the birth of a child long ago and all the promises it carried. Then she added another log to the fire and welcomed its warmth.
“Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Phil 1:6
Chapter Two
Christmas Day dawned cold and bright, brimming with quiet promise. She stirred awake to a small white paw gently batting her nose. Smiling sleepily, she drew the gray cat beneath the covers, stroking its soft fur as thoughts of the day ahead drifted through her mind. Then her eyes flew open. “It’s Christmas!”
She threw back the covers and reached for her warm plaid robe, the one she wore every winter. The cat led the way to the kitchen, eager for breakfast, and soon the rhythmic crunch of kibble filled the air. While her companion ate heartily, she set water to boil for tea. Once the cat was satisfied, she opened the door to let it out. A rush of icy air swept in, making her pull the robe tighter. Outside, fresh snow had fallen overnight, transforming the landscape into the perfect White Christmas. She sighed contentedly and began humming the familiar tune.
Back inside, she plugged in the lights around the bookcase and the small blinking tree, flooding the living room with soft color. Though daylight was strengthening, she lit a few candles and laid wood in the fireplace to chase away the lingering chill. After letting the cat back in—its fur dusted with snow—she poured her tea, turned on the radio and heater, and settled into her chair by the fire. Tucking the snowflake blanket around her, she blew gently on the steaming cup.
Traditional carols filled the room today, a welcome shift from the modern mixes. Sipping her tea as warmth spread through the space, she let memories of Christmases past surface. Setting the cup aside, she retrieved her photo album and turned the pages slowly. There were her parents’ beloved faces, photos of herself as a curly-haired infant, grandparents, aunts, and uncles—all gone now. Tears stung her eyes.
“This won’t do at all,” she chided herself, closing the album with resolve.
Putting the album back in its place, she decided to try to pray. Her recent spiritual life had been erratic to say the least. A decade of praying for her parents’ recovery had impacted her abilities in supplication, so she had resorted to her own rendition of “The Lord’s Prayer.” Closing her still damp eyes, she prayed:
“Our father, in heaven, may your name be praised. May your church grow and flourish and may your will be done here on Earth like it is in heaven. Please continue to provide for me, and forgive me for all the many ways I fall short. Forgive my sins, my selfishness, my depression, my lack of faith and trust. And help me to forgive those who have hurt me and sinned against me. Help me to forgive them like I want to be forgiven. Please help me to not give in to temptation and keep me away from evil. Deliver me from the seductions and temptations of the Evil One. Thank you for sending your Son to be born as a baby in Bethlehem and to die on the cross for us. For yours is the kingdom, and the power and the glory forever. In Jesus name I pray. Amen.”
The prayer brought a measure of peace, although it fell far short of the passion she used to experience in her conversations with God. And she knew she wasn’t addressing her real needs, the loneliness, the feeling of being out of place and out of step with time, the solitude of being forgotten and somewhat left by the wayside. Still, she felt a little closer to the Holy One whose day mankind had named this day–Christmas Day, and she once again found herself humming along to the Christmas music as she began to do a few household chores. Soon the kitchen was clean, a load of laundry had been done, and the odds and ends were dusted and put up.
The phone rang as she was fixing lunch. The voice of an old friend who had moved away greeted her when she picked up the phone. “I just called to wish you a Merry Christmas and to tell you I love you and miss you,” her friend told her, keeping the call short and sweet to avoid long-distance charges. After reciprocating, she hung up the phone. Misty eyed, she realized she had teared up for a second time that day, but she felt no regret for these tears. Her friend’s call was a reminder not just of her friendship, but in a small way assured her that she was not forgotten, not by her friend and not by God.
The call also reminded her that she had not checked the mail since the ice storm hit two nights before. She had mailed her small batch of Christmas cards early but had not received any yet other than a couple from businesses she dealt with. Donning a Christmas sweater over jeans, then her coat, scarf, boots and gloves, she proceeded carefully down the steep, curving drive to the mailbox below. To her delight she found the box full of mail.
Hiking back up the drive, she sorted the Christmas cards into categories as she climbed: friends, work, other. By the time she reached the house, she had four small bundles of mail – the fourth stack was miscellaneous – anything that didn’t look like a Christmas card. Hurrying back to the warmth of the fireplace, she barely took the time to kick off her boots and lay her coat, gloves and scarf aside before opening the envelopes in her hands.
She opened the mail in this order: first, the miscellaneous pile – bills and ads. Then the other group – cards from her dentist and local merchants. Then the work stack – people she didn’t know well, but looked forwards to seeing at business events. Last, like dessert, were the cards from friends. Each of those cards carried the same basic sentiment: “although we may be far apart, we are not separated in the heart.” A few fond words and a signature graced each card, and the dear words warmed her heart as much or more than the fireplace warmed the room. “I miss you.” “We think of you often.” “You are in my prayers always.”
“Not forgotten. NOT forgotten. NOT FORGOTTEN!” The words ran through her head in rapid, joyous sequence. “How wonderful to receive the cards on Christmas day!” she thought, smiling as she contemplated how special it made the day. It is true, she realized, sometimes the little things and the small kindnesses really do make all the difference.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:1
Chapter Three
With the glow of her friend’s call and the treasure of the Christmas cards still warming her, Carol pondered the possibility of attending the Christmas night service at the nearby non-denominational church. She had toyed with the idea before, but every year the weather, illness, or some other convenient excuse had kept her from any Christmas Eve or Christmas Day services.
The truth was, she barely knew anyone there beyond the pastor, his wife, and a couple of deacons. When she did visit, she slipped in at the last minute and hurried out the moment the service ended. She had discovered that it was sometimes easier to be lonely alone than lonely in a crowd. Still… the idea of being with people this Christmas suddenly felt more appealing, with the warmth of her friends’ words from the cards whispering encouragement.
The roads remained icy in patches, but the afternoon sun had set the icicles hanging from the eaves to drumming a steady tap, tap, tap. “If the driveway melts, I will go,” she promised herself.
By 5:30 that Christmas evening, the sun’s last rays were only faintly decorating the darkening sky, and a chill breeze had slowed the icicles’ thaw, but the driveway was nearly clear. Keeping her Christmas sweater on, she hurried to change into a skirt and boots, then climbed into her aging vehicle and headed down the hill. All Souls Church was almost full when she arrived, yet she slipped into a seat near the back just as the first song began. As the piano sounded its opening notes, she took in the altar decorated with greenery, candles placed in strategic spots, and small boughs of pine tied to the ends of the pews along the center aisle. The little church glowed with simple beauty.
The song leader had selected several beloved carols to start the evening. “O Come All Ye Faithful” welcomed the gathering to be joyful and triumphant, and she found herself singing whole-heartedly. “Away in a Manger” brought visions of the newborn babe and his humble birth. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Joy to the World” drew her into the glory and joy of the season.
By the time the pastor began reading from Luke 2, the familiar verses felt more vibrant and alive than when she had read them alone the night before. Part of it might have been the piano accompaniment, but she knew her heart was more receptive now; she drank in the words. She felt them resonate anew with the reality of the message—a Savior, born this day, for her. Jesus was not merely a babe in a manger or a man on a cross; He had been born to be her Savior.
As the pastor concluded the sermon, he invited everyone to stand and greet those seated on either side. A young mother to her left offered a shy “Merry Christmas,” but the older gentleman on her right grasped her hand and pumped it energetically. “I’ve seen you here a time or two, but Rose and I never had the chance to meet you,” he said, nodding toward the shorter, plump woman beside him. “I’m Mark Shelton, this is Rose, and… what’s your name?”
“Carol,” she heard herself answer. “My name is Carol.”
“Well, we’re having a covered-dish supper at our house after the service, and we’d love to have you join us as our guest if you have no other plans. We don’t have children of our own, so we like to borrow as many as we can for Christmas,” he laughed. His wife beamed expectantly at his side. All the polite refusals she had used in the past surged into her mind and hovered on her tongue. Carol opened her mouth, the well-rehearsed no already formed in her mind. “I… I… would love to,” she stammered instead.
“Great!” Mr. Shelton boomed. “There’ll be a caravan leaving the church in about ten minutes. Just follow us, or we can give you a ride! We’re not far, and someone can bring you back if you’d rather not drive.”
Speechless at her own audacity and wondering when her mouth had turned traitor, Carol could only nod. Forced to abandon her habitual hasty retreat, she became the recipient of more enthusiastic handshakes, more introductions, and felt a rather silly grin spreading across her face.
And so it was that Carol heard her name spoken aloud on Christmas night after too many days of silence. Surrounded by people she did not yet know but with whom she felt oddly at home, she sang hymns, ate turkey and ham, sipped boiled custard, and shared the evening with other seekers—other pilgrims on the same often-tearful journey. Yet she realized the journey is easier when there are others to share both the joyful moments and, perhaps, the painful ones the future would assuredly bring.
Insight came to her then: what seemed to have begun with a friend’s call that Christmas Day had truly started some two thousand years ago, when a Baby was born on a starry Bethlehem night—a Savior who promised never to leave or forsake her, a God who held a plan for her life. The encouragement and love of her friends were only reflections of the greater love God had for her—a love she promised herself she would explore fully in the new year and beyond. Turning to the young woman seated beside her, she smiled and said, “I’m so sorry—I’ve forgotten your name. I’m Carol. What was yours again?”
“…and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen”
Matthew 28:20
From our archives 12/24/04
Related Articles & Links:
- Letter: Christmas on Ice
