Growing up in an apartment that did not have a fireplace, I always yearned for one.  I wanted it to be a rustic stone one with a nice mantle.  And I was always concerned about how Santa was going to come.  When I got married and we bought our home the first thing I fell in love with was our white rock wood burning fireplace (“Austin stone” if you want to be pretentious.)  It’s not huge but I do not like the idea of burning a ton of wood; I really try to leave a low environmental footprint.  This was our first fire of the season and outside our Holy Nativity glowed while the sweet scent of pinion filled the air.  We were supposed to go to an annual Winter Ball but I am still really sick.  So we snuggled up as a threesome instead and I introduced our little one to my parents’ favorite movie, “A Christmas Story.”  Mama and Daddy were both little in the ’30’s.  I wasn’t sure she’d like it but she laughed when the hounds made off with the turkey and watched the whole thing.  The Dutch Post-Impressionist painter Vincent Van Gogh once said:

“One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it.  Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.”

I do not think most people look past the wisp of smoke.  But tonight, under chenille blankets instead of glittering chandeliers, I know we all shared a blazing hearth.