A Sermon Over Superior

Short Christmas Story

December, the 24^th, how could I forget? Though I was young, the eve of my seventh Christmas still finds me by every lit tree, or smoldering fire. That night it snowed heavy against the windows of my Great-Grandfathers cozy, countryside house. But it still sends a chill down my back remembering that was my last night spent with him. Though it was the first time and only time I could remember sitting round the fireplace, warm with all my relatives. When I heard the legends of my Great-Grandfather, Otto.

Tall I remember him as— and thin. However, well able to put the star on the tree or to sit upright in a chair. Because of this vitality or pure stubbornness, the old patriarch that sat under lamplight commanded my siblings and I listened close, despite all the hardships with old age I could not yet see. And the somber vacancy of the chair next to him. As my brother, sister and both my parents sat before him.

“What a dense, cloudy night it is.” He began; in a weak accent of the Rhineland, he had been trying to kick since his immigration. “Cold, and better yet to warm ourselves over this hearth and to sit and listen to what story I have to tell you.” The light from the mantel’s garland mirrored off his glasses as he spoke to me and my family. All of us attentive on the warm worn couch. “Only one.” And the thumb he held up was still, I remember. And lit in a gentle glow, by the old lamp.

“I’ve been up and down the coastlines of the lakes, from Duluth to Buffalo. Sailing with those who now have found peace from their work of sailors and experiences which I’ve touched on nights before. Some of their stories I dare not speak openly whilst on those waters of Lake Superior, or even here…” Otto’s hand at last fell to his lap in a soft pad. “Now that I am well enough away from her shore, let me tell one right Christmas story that’s more so history.” And the fire crackled with a low pop in that brief pause.

“Of a priest, whose faith saved him from a cold, cold death. Who my late friend and captain’s father knew well in his later years. A daring heart who carried the frown of a man who’s seen this land in its wild state. He was—Father Baraga.” Then, he cut his speech quickly. As the wind blew over the open fields, with snow blasting against the window behind us. Like an ancient spirit of the wind trying to hush his coming words. “He converted and cared for the tribes along the shores of superior that sat quiet in their legends for ages. Legends that carried some truth concerning the spirit of the lake. One that coveted its mysteries and killed those unworthy to cross.” He continued, as the wind began to settle. “Learnt in Ojibwe, Friedrich Baraga traversed great miles from one village to another in nothing but snowshoes and a stick. One could only imagine—how eerily quiet he would’ve felt under all the timber weighed with snow. While the winds of November rolled on through the Christmas month. It’s torrents crossing the unfrozen waves like the crushing hands of the devil! That can capsize ships… Even today.”

I remember his words at the end were given after a long breath. And now that I know more with age I can tell with certainty, he saw those accounts himself. “And on one winter deathly cold, as they can be so often. Friedrich received word of one far off village in his need—across the lake. And immediately, his mind was made up to sail, no matter the distance and his lack of skill on water. All the while a storm gathered over the surface of the water. And Friedrich’s close friend, my friend’s grandfather Lewis; his name was. Knew sailing through the lake was to put it bluntly, idiocy. On account of the weather I described, rather than belief in such mysterious spirits of superior the locals still held with reverence. Not to forget, the dying of the daylight, that made it all the more hopeless…”

Then the wind gave soft and cold again against the window. Creaking the wood framing in between like a hand on every square pane.

“’It cannot wait.’ Said Friedrich. After his partner insisted, they traverse near the shore. ‘It is a seventy-mile distance, it’d be impossible in my boat. We’ll be lost before the waves drag us down!’ pleaded the sailor, and why not? Better sail another day, he thought. But he knew also—Friedrich would go himself either way for, they in that tiny village, barely noticeable by settlers or opposing tribes. Needed the father. So, on the boat they went, with much reluctance from Lewis.”

“Quite quickly, the winds sent them sailing into the dark clouds. Barely lighter than the water itself… They must have just lost sight of the lighter, winter shore when their view shrunk to lanterns, barely luminous amongst the mass of water before them I should guess. And soon enough, they met with the very eye of the storm. Even if they had just entered it.”

“‘Paddle on! Paddle on!’ I could almost hear Friedrich shout the words by Lewis’ account. Shouting onward in the indomitable wind as I speak of them. But I find that small fact hard to believe. Because in such winds—you wouldn’t be able to hear a gunshot… Let alone a scream. A terribly lonesome thing.”

Otto’s voice gave way a moment. And the lack of it made the whole house deathly quiet. Save his old grandfather clock, ticking each second down to midnight. And now I think, with that memory frozen in time. How the ticking of that clock was the only thing my Great Grandfather would listen to in the days after that night. On his last December.

“Now, it would not be foolish to say those moments were likely the most decisive of Father Baraga’s life of wandering. And in such a small boat—every second, still conscious above the waves was a miracle in of itself. Though it remains doubtful they saw it as such before the giant torrents of water that froze as it sprayed through the pitch dark. A blizzard of happenstance and nothing short of a cruel test of faith that, dare I say. Would match those of the testaments.”

He put his palms up, and out in front of him. Looking ‘round, ready to hear or see someone disagree.

“But after a short while. I’d assume due to the lack of account of their clothes being utter drenched. The violent storm began to settle down. Not enough for either man to be relieved. Because they were well and truly lost either way. And on top of this, both Lewis, and Father Baraga were pushed deadly close to askew formations of jagged rocks at either side… And it is a curious thing to think. If those winds and waves kept the way they did. Then their story would be no better than all the others beneath that deep grave of a lake.”

“So, Lewis had no other option than to ‘paddle on’ so to speak. And, even after the thought I gave it. In all my work I’ve never come across such formations as a path through any labyrinth of rock. Talk to anyone on that lake—all of them. If one were to enter those places. That was it for you, and that folly was all you’d ever be known for.”

“But Lewis and Baraga saw it through evidently. The sailor’s boat, more of a raft if I haven’t already made that clear.” Otto chuckled all to himself. “Made it to the other side, without a single notch! Nothing short of a miracle. Or a lie, to one who can’t believe off word of mouth alone. But I say the truth is on the shore, which I’ll explain soon. And after an hour or so, when the gloom of winter’s day rose in the west. The wind finally ceased, while there before them the cliffs and gravel shores came into sight, dreary but no less welcoming. Like the strobing lamp of a lighthouse in thick fog.”

“I doubt old Lewis had much to be ungrateful for once his feet hit land. Still, it was Baraga, more like a legend then and now, than ever he was a man before that seventy-mile journey. And his words to Lewis on that shore made that status more than clear. ‘Did I not say I was called across? That I must go, and thou which be safe with me?’ Were his most famous words, that swept aside any doubt Lewis had. And they spoke as loud as Lewis’ actions did on that night. Or all the previous missions Baraga took upon himself in all his years prior, or even after that morning.”

“As for the evidence on the shore. What Baraga and Lewis first built there was nothing but a rudimentary cross of logs. Though has become a memorial of stone overlooking the great lake. Letting all who visit know that faith might not move mountains or part seas. But keeps all that is within you fast against all that is within the world.”

And once the short story finished Otto ceased to speak as the house groaned in the night, calling for sleep. Looking at it now in clear memory, the tale was nothing more than a glorified history lesson. One I might fall asleep to in a history class. Although at that age, in that dimly lit room of Christmas lights it roused my curiosity for history than any textbook. And it makes it all the more endearing and solemn knowing it was the last I ever saw of Otto unquiet or not lying in bed.

Then he noted it had gotten late, with a full meal in our stomachs which only enforced the feeling. My parents got up, leading my brother and sister both to bed as I still sat on Otto’s last words. “You should go to sleep. Good tidings are rare after midnight.” He told me, as ash from the fire begun to burn my nose as it slowly died. “But on Christmas eve? I don’t think I can.” I said, and I think he smiled softly, but a small thing like that is a pain to remember.

Obviously, he knew my small plight, and more. For me, sleep was so hard to come by if it wasn’t in my own bed. “Then remember what I said at the end. Morning will come, same with all the gifts… Just keep the faith, always. And good night.” He gave his assurance so true that to this day, after the countless trials that this world threw my way. I still hold close, even if he himself is now far, far away from me.

At last, he gestured me to go up, and I did, even if reluctantly. Before I walked into the hall which led upstairs, faintly lit by the garlands on the banisters. I turned to look at him one last time. And he was like a shadow before the embers concealed by the smoke of his pipe. Who I loved in the time that I knew him. Even if he was more of a mystery of the past to me. And that was all he’d ever be.

FIN.

It took me a good while to think and write out this story. So, I hope you enjoyed! And I’m grateful you’ve read to the end, thank you.

And a special thanks to my subscribers reading this. I know how much of a pain it can be to read through countless works of so many people on here. And it means a lot that you’ve stuck around this far, (Even if your new). But I’ll say, there’s still a long way to go! Even if my endgame isn’t quite clear just yet. The journey so far has been interesting, and you all give me a reason to continue.

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