Cracker Barrel Christmas

2019

On a rare day when the holiday chaos loosens its grip, I leave work on time, without rehearsing tomorrow’s troubles. The drive home feels unusually quiet. No radio, just a hush of eager anticipation.

Pulling into the Cracker Barrel parking lot, I shut off the engine and flip open my Italian leather journal. A gift from my sister Krystal last Christmas. Three names stare back in my hurried scrawl:

1. Grandma

2. Aunt Lisa

3. Uncle Norman

The task is simple: scour the gift shop for something quirky to send north, to the family I miss. I imagine their faces lighting up, realizing a piece of me has arrived across the miles.

Time slips away among embroidered sweaters and whimsical ornaments. I ignore the cold seeping through my broken heater as I load up and hurry home.

There, I transform into my inner child, surrounded by a sea of tape, scissors, wrapping paper, and sheer willpower. The thought that this small act will make them feel my love, from all these miles away, keeps me going long into the night.

At dawn, my five-minute morning routine stretches to include a stop at the post office next to the local pizzeria, joining the line of fellow holiday shippers.

Back on my usual commute, a wave of excitement wards off the seasonal depression that usually settles in. Days later, amid another ill-timed meeting, my phone buzzes. For a brief, priceless moment, my jaw relaxes, the knot in my stomach eases.

“We got your package! Here is Grandma opening hers. Thank you and Merry Christmas! 🎁”

I watch the video: Grandma mumbles about recognizing the packaging, then her eyes light up as she pulls out the sweater. The one with the embroidered farm pig, the last in her size on the rack. Her belly laugh fills the screen. This is why I do it.

2021

Two years later, I pull into the same Cracker Barrel lot, same stubborn broken heater, same leather journal in hand. The quiet eagerness returns.

But the list has new names now. Ones I’m still learning to understand.

Billy: girl dad, handyman with a dry sense of humor, lover of beer and karaoke. He also happens to be my dad.

Michelle: free spirit, self-proclaimed phoenix rising from the rubble (tattoo and all). She also happens to be my sister.

We found each other recently, thanks to at-home DNA tests that make such discoveries almost casual. As our relationships bloom across miles, my little postal ritual evolves with them.

This love language of mine persists, like any good tradition: an action, a feeling, an intentional spark of bliss. Just as the glittering tree stands in the living room on Christmas Day, just as we gather for Secret Santa revelations year after year. My postal joys remain.

The names may shift, as heartbreaking as that is. The only part I control is doing what I can, for who I can, while I can.

I wrap a funny ornament and beer koozie for Billy, cozy socks and perfume for Michelle.

And I wait.

2025

Today, I spot a box on my porch. Confused, I ask my partner if he’s expecting anything. Inside: two board games.

I smile. On a recent call, I’d mentioned wanting to play games with friends. Billy, my dad, remembered and sent them.

The ritual itself is the only constant as everything else shapeshifts. Each year, it’s a unique experience because the relationships, lessons, and forces in my life are ever-changing.

If the ritual is the window (steady, structured, framing the view), then I am the landscape: shifting with seasons, vulnerable to storms and sun. Each day different from the last.

Yet through this small act of choosing, wrapping, sending, and waiting, love travels. It arrives unexpectedly, like a package on the porch, reminding me that connection isn’t bound by blood or distance. Only by intention.