One afternoon two weeks before Christmas, the first guests arrived at our Hurricane, West Virginia, home for the annual family get-together, stomping their snow-covered boots on my freshly mopped hardwood floors. I put on my holiday game face and nudged my husband, Roger, and my daughter, Lindsay, to flash their most welcoming smiles. After all, some of our relatives had driven more than an hour from Charleston for the party.
Aunt Frieda sashayed in with the same outrageous pronouncement she made every year: “Jesus couldn’t be here, so I came in his place.” My young cousin, Mary Beth, rolled her eyes, and Uncle June huffed with impatience at the time it took the other dozen family members to wrangle off their boots. Now it begins, I thought. Only a few…
