"Finding Home," by Clare Diez
I am a freshman student studying elementary education, and I have loved reading for as long as I can remember, especially books set in the olden days. This short story, "Finding Home," is an abridged portion of a longer Christmas story I hope to write someday.
Hans yanked up his coat collar as high as it would go and tightened the wet scarf around his neck. His hat, although pulled practically over his eyes, did not shield his face from the flying bits of snow. The woods were darker than dark, and he realized he would have to admit to himself what he had been trying to deny for the last half hour: he was lost.
This was not how he had planned his Christmas homecoming.
Twenty-four hours earlier, he had been seated in the warm, comfortable passenger car of a train, his mind focused on seeing his family again after months of working a job in another town.
His parents, German immigrants, always planned the best Christmases. There would be a tree in the window adorned with shining candles, the aroma of Christmas stollen bread stuffed with nuts and fruit, and beloved carols. But when he arrived at the station where he was to switch trains, his daydreaming was interrupted by the sickening realization that the wallet containing his second train ticket and remaining cash was gone; someone from within that bustling crowd must have stealthily removed it from his pocket. One event led to another, until finally Hans made a daring decision: he would walk the rest of the way home.
In fine weather, the journey could be made easily by a young man in good health. But this was December. Furthermore, Hans had decided to leave the familiar but longer path to town and take a shorter way through the woods. Now here he was, disoriented from the sudden arrival of howling wind and snow. “How could I have lost my wallet? Why didn’t I just stay on the main road?” he berated himself.
He knew home was not terribly far away, but he no longer knew if he was walking in the right direction. Even the slightest deviation could send him walking miles without coming across a single house.
He stopped and stared up at the massive tree branches entangled with the sky. The snowfall and wind were lessening now, but the temperature had not lost its icy grip.
“I need help, God,” he prayed. “I just want to get home. I need a sign that I’m going the right way. Send me a sign!”
Nothing.
He heaved an exhausted sigh and stared down at the ground, his stiff, glove-encased fingers massaging his arms through his worn coat. When he glanced up, his eyes squinted and widened. Surely that star had not been there before. It was hardly a star, more like a speck. On clear Christmas Eve nights, his family used to find the brightest star in the sky and tell the little ones that it was the Star of Bethlehem. For Hans, this had always been make believe. But now... sure, this star wasn’t a glorious, shimmering spectacle, but maybe it was his star of Bethlehem! Either way, he didn’t really have any other options. “All right, little star,” he addressed it in his mind, “Lead on.” A silent prayer of thanks on his lips, he plodded onward.
*****
His steps fell faster as he sensed familiar territory. The woods began to thin, until... yes! He was standing on the edge of his family’s very own field! He paused to catch his breath and survey the land. The open field edged with trees, with the night sky for a ceiling, formed an outdoor cathedral, filled with reverent stillness. Positioned far away in the heavens, beyond the little brown house, was the tiny star, Han’s guide.
“I’m home,” Hans thought. “Praise God.” The tiredness seemed to leave his body as he broke into a run.
“I’m home!” he shouted at the sky, throwing up his arms like an exuberant schoolboy. His shoes sank into the unbroken mantle of snow, kicking up small sprays of white. The house loomed closer and closer, until he could see his mother through the window, seated next to the glow of a candle. He burst through the door and gasped, out of breath, “Ma, I’m home!”
The distress vanished from her face as she sprang toward him and threw her arms around him, saying in a tearful voice, “Oh, Hans! Oh, Hans!”
His father rushed over. “You’re home, son!” he exclaimed in his thick German accent, placing his large, callused hand on Hans’ shoulder.
Suddenly they were all there. The siblings came squealing downstairs in their nightgowns: Christa, Ingrid, Friedrich, Fritz, and little Louisa. They surrounded him, clinging to him, hugging him until he felt like he would drown in a sea of love.
He was home.
Comments