The Refugees

For many years I have written a Christmas story to send to friends and family in lieu of cards. Though I wrote this some time ago, it seems particularly appropriate for this moment in history and this season of hope.

For the Believers–what might have been

by Janice Leavitt Voorhies

She was so tired. She had been packing and sorting for hours. It seemed like it had been dark forever. She and her cousin had put the boys to bed just after the sun had set, and her own son’s fitful breathing accompanied her work, a sound which even now–after more than two years–still astonished her. Wondering as always what the boy dreamed about which made his rest so uneasy, she leaned back against the well-used wooden rocker her cousin’s husband had built her as a baby present, closing her eyes in exhaustion. The light from the fire had dimmed, and the room was laden with shadows. But acutely aware that dawn would soon break outside, she roused herself and scanned the room for tasks yet undone. She could sleep tomorrow.

There were small heaps of clothes and household goods stacked in neat piles on her bed, on the shelf by her son’s cot, and a cloth bag of odds and ends leaning against the outside door. She hadn’t bothered with much food for the trip, choosing only easily packable items like flour, a cruse of oil, some dried fruits. The travel through the hills and the long desert would be arduous, especially with two young boys. Any added weight would only slow them down. Weary and still grieving her husband’s loss, the woman felt a moment of mistrust steal across her heart. What if the Great God in Heaven had abandoned them, and they were doomed to crawl across the earth for the rest their lives, never to find shelter or rest again?

But the despair was driven abruptly away when her boy twisted in his sleep, and the locks of his thick, black hair spilled across his face as he turned. He was a beautiful child. Despite the weariness deep in her bones, she remembered how many times during her pregnancy she and her cousin had laughed together over the irony of them both being pregnant at the same time—one so old and one so young. They knew that they were each items of neighborhood gossip. But when they were together sewing tiny clothes and swaddling blankets or sharing the secret worries of a difficult delivery or an ailing baby which all women had hidden in their hearts since time began, they were overjoyed at the prospect of what they were certain would be exceptional children.

Those first few months after her baby had been born were the happiest of her life. She and her husband had waited and prayed for so many years that when the miracle finally happened and she gave birth, neither of them could bear to put the little sweet-smelling bundle down even to sleep. One or the other of them could almost always be found rocking the child and whispering to the baby about the generations of family members who had rejoiced when he became a member of their circle.

He was a vigorous child, climbing onto the bench and staring out the front window of their tiny home, watching the neighborhood children play long before he was old enough to walk. And his laughter had rocketed through the house–the atmosphere of which had heretofore been contemplative silence. She smiled as she recalled when he was only about eight or nine months old having sat him in the middle of the table while she folded the laundry next to him. She’d given him an old spoon to play with, and he’d accidently bumped it against the prized pewter pitcher which she used as a centerpiece. His eyes had widened, and he’d stared at the spoon in his hand, trying to figure out how to reproduce the clanking sound. When his little hands had mastered the knack of striking the metal jug, the noise of his laugher attracted even his father in from his work in the garden. Over and over the baby wielded spoon against medal until his peals of merriment combined with those of his parents burbled into every corner of the house.

She glanced again at the sleeping boy curled around his younger cousin, surprised to find her cheeks filled with tears. Those days were gone forever now.

A quiet tap at the door told her it was time. She lifted her cloak to her shoulders, and striding across the room, she lifted the latch. The tall body of her cousin’s husband filled the doorway.

He greeted her with an enigmatic smile as his calloused hands reached toward her and enveloped her in a crushing hug. Staring down into her eyes, he asked, “Are you ready?”

She nodded. “The boys are asleep still.”

Her cousin and her husband had arrived unexpectedly late in the night the day before yesterday carrying stories of political unrest which had swept from the capitol into even the smallest of villages. Violence on a scale unheard of in any of their lifetimes had been unleashed, they had told her. No family was safe from its reach. But, of course, she knew that. The trauma of that brutality had still clung to her every waking moment; it had left her alone to raise a son in her old age.

She had ushered them onto the small couch near the fire and offered them a warm drink against the chill of the night. Her cousin’s eyes were ringed with cold and weariness, but they never left her husband as he had gone back outside and lifted his sleeping son from the weary donkey’s back. Gently he settled the child on the cot next to his young relative. The two boys had shared a bed many nights over the last two years while their parents visited. But this was the first time her cousin had come unannounced so long after the moon had risen. The older woman had felt a chill of her own despite the warmth of the cheerful fire in the hearth.

As the boys slept peacefully, her cousin had explained that an unimpeachable messenger had come to her husband late in the night, warning him to take his wife and his son far into the hills and perhaps beyond. His family was a risk. There was no other choice, the messenger said. Go now. By the time the messenger had left, her cousin’s husband had already awakened his wife. They began preparations to travel immediately, packing most of their simple possessions into the cupboards of their house, taking with them only enough clothing and food to begin their journey. And his tools, of course. They would need them if he hoped to find small jobs along the way.

Once they were ready, they had come directly here, refusing to abandon her and her child to face the escalating danger alone. She had not questioned their story. Her cousin’s husband was a quiet man, but time and experience had proven to the older woman that he was a man to be trusted.

She glanced at the boys now nestled in sleep against each other for a second night, unaware of the turmoil that had invaded their lives–her son with his angular features and his sturdy body; her cousin’s son with the piercing eyes and the wisdom beyond his years. Once again, as she often did, she felt a momentary burst of gratitude that the two boys would have one another long after she was gone.

She and her cousin began gathering up the small piles she had so carefully chosen for the journey. Warm clothing for she and the boy, eating utensils, blankets, the meager supply of food she’d managed to set aside, and her husband’s prayer shawl wrapped carefully in the folds of the quilt she had made for the boy. It’s all she had left of the boy’s father. Someday it would belong to his son.

Outside she could hear her cousin’s husband whispering quietly to the donkey which held their possessions packed tightly upon his back. The animal pawed the ground and snorted. She could see the steam of his breath through the open door. A pang of fear shot through her. What was she doing, exposing her child to the dangers of an extended trip on the road? Surely, there was another solution? But the fear dissipated as though swept aside by the wave of some powerful hand, and she was filled with peace.

Once their belongings were all stowed in the saddle bags of the animal, she lifted her sleeping son one last time out of his little cot, tucked his blanket securely around him, and carried him outside. He shifted in her arms, smiling in his sleep. A good omen, surely?

She could see the silhouette of the donkey and his burdens just becoming visible in the rising light. There was an odd serenity in the image of her cousin’s husband securing straps across the animal’s back, her cousin murmuring to her own small son already settled in the little crib his father had put together to carry the boys when they slept, and the village around her not yet engulfed in the activities of the day. She wondered how long it would be before she saw it again?

She turned back to her home, pulling the door shut a final time. Clenching her eyes, she rejected the tears that threatened. There would be time for that later. Not now.

Her cousin’s husband finished tying off the last rope end and turned to her. “It is time,” he said.

“Are you certain?” she asked. “The boy and I will slow you down. I can get by with very little to eat, but the boy . . .” She left the sentence unfinished. Reaching into the fold of her cloak, she pulled out the tiny pouch in which she had regularly placed the few pennies she earned each month from the sale of eggs from her chickens. “It is not much, but I want to help.”

Her cousin’s husband nodded, taking the pouch, and securing the latch of the small crib which now carried both their young sons. He lifted the flap on the saddle bag beneath and slipped the pouch into its depths alongside its other contents. For just an instant, the older woman caught a flash of gold and the faint whiff of some sweet incense. Frankincense, perhaps? Or myrrh?

“Blessed be the Everlasting God,” her cousin’s husband murmured, and he smiled again at her as he refastened the straps, pulling against them tight against the flanks of the donkey–the precious cargo it carried on its back ready at last for the long journey ahead.