Christmas in Combermere

by Catherine Doherty

Catherine’s first winter in Combermere was a difficult one. She and her husband Eddie had little money, the cold was bitter, and except for Grace Flewwelling, or “Flewy,” as she was called, it would be a long time before others would join them.


The first Christmas of Madonna House was in 1947, and Lady Poverty dwelt with us in her all-shining reality.

Madonna House then was just a little six-room house with an outdoor toilet. It stood rather lonely, in what then was a huge, five-acre expanse of white, sparkling snow.

Nature provided us with many splendid evergreens to decorate the house (which we did) with fragrant greens and a freshly cut Christmas tree.

But absent were the usual shining baubles, the kind that bring delight to the hearts of children (both the real ones and the ones whose heads might be gray with age).

There were just Eddie, myself, and Flewy (our first member to join us). Flewy’s hands worked wonders with the little humble things that we had for decorating our tree which stood in the corner of the little room with the fireplace, overlooking the river.

A few walnuts had been donated to us, about a pound or so, and Flewy, who was an artist, painted them with some old gold and silver paint, which she’d brought with her from Harlem. We put hair pins into them and hung them on the tree with black threads.

Flewy then cut a roll of donated tinfoil into artistic shapes, mostly liturgical symbols such as the Infant and his mother, St. Joseph, oxen, donkeys and stars.

Those we hung on the tree too. A few other little donated odds and ends we fashioned into ornaments and topped it off with candles since we had no electricity.

I was reminded of our trees in Russia, which were always lit with candles. There is nothing to replace the soft, wonderful glow of candles, as long as one is careful and watchful of them.

Flewy’s ingenuity—and the lovely, fresh greens, little bits of ribbon and whipped up “snow” made from soap—completed our decorations. I think we did very well, although decorating in the usual fancy, delightful Christmas style we were accustomed to was impossible.

Flewy put a little statue of the Madonna with a Baby in her arms which we had around the house into a small alcove. Then she lit a votive light before it. In its soft glow, the tender little bit of tinsel we’d found in a carton just glowed, and its bluish-silver color came out, giving the whole room a real Christmas feeling.

Flewy and I made wreaths. They were very simple, and we decorated them with pine cones, painted laboriously with some donated red, green, and white paint.

Those were the only decorations for that first Christmas. But words cannot express how great was the love that went into it.

How tremendous that first Christmas was, when, after our humble but loving preparations, we went off to Midnight Mass, walking across the road to the church, on a starry night that was rather cold.

The crunching snow was a song in our ears; sweetly it sang its carols to us. The ice on the river reflected the stars, and the snow reflected thousands of sparkling stars.

As we approached the church, which was softly lighted with kerosene lamps and candles, it glowed like a jewel in the night, and the sound of the choir singing carols greeted us.

It was a Mass I’ll never forget, because it was a Mass of joy and great thanksgiving for the gift of the vocation, for the coming of poverty, for the sharing in the life of those we had come to serve, and for the beauty round about us and the charity of God and his tenderness.

It was wonderful to return home and to have our little collation—the Christmas foods that had been laid out on a table in what we called, “the little library.” As we ate, the logs in the fireplace were crackling and singing their carols, too.

We had no turkey. We had no roast. We had hamburgers and French fried potatoes, warmed in the oven, and a little plum pudding that I had made—just enough for three.

There was no wine, so we drank tea. But I think all three of us were drunk with joy and gratitude and love.

The gifts we exchanged were nothing in themselves—silly, little, funny things—but lovingly wrapped in beautiful parcels, as beautiful as our love for one another could make them.

We didn’t have many items of clothing, so we took from the second-hand pile a sweater not too much worn, a pair of socks for Eddie without too many holes, a warm shirt for him and some warm underwear for us.

All had been washed, cleaned and wrapped up very well. The wrapping was our little carol of love to one another, since the rest was given by Our Lady through the charity of others.

We had great joy and much laughter opening our gifts. Flewy received a brooch, not very new, in the shape of a teapot, because she was always going around saying: “That last meal we had was not very filling. How about filling our tummies with a nice, hot, strong cup of tea?” She sure was a great tea drinker.

And the little brooch she gave me was in the shape of a kitchen spoon. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks, because I was forever stirring up some “gook” or other, a creative mixture of unknown leftovers. And we gave Eddie a little one-inch hatchet because, in those days, he was dealing with the splitting and carrying of wood.

I think, amidst our laughter, we were very mature that moment, for we were very childlike and simple. And the spirit of Madonna House with its love for little things was palpable and could have been touched at that moment on that first Christmas—like a living thing—like a living flame among us.

This is how traditions and family customs are established—out of something intangible, out of laughter, out of a joyous minute or hour, out of the wonderment of a human soul at the tremendous gift of childlikeness.

That state of soul, that state of mind, that state of emotion is a gift of God. This is his way of making thin the veil of faith. This is his tender manner of bringing us to Bethlehem, to the manger, to the stupendous, awesome mystery of Jesus Christ—God-made-man!

A family may not have much this Christmas. But the ingenuity of love, the joy of giving yourselves, each to the other, will far outshine any silly baubles bought with money alone.

For the love of Christ is what Christmas is all about, and loving one another will please the Infant inestimably more than any other gift you could possibly dream of.

We didn’t have much for ourselves, that Christmas in Combermere. But we had been able to beg a few gifts for our neighbors, though we didn’t know many of them the first year here. The closest families to us received our humble, begged gifts of love.

Yes, it was a good Christmas, that first Christmas at Madonna House.

Adapted from Donkey Bells, (2000), pp. 123-127, available from MH Publications


It was not after a great mass of people had completed something good, nor was it the successful result of any human efforts that Christmas came. No. Christmas came as a miracle, as the child that comes when its time is fulfilled, as a gift of the Father which he lays into those arms that are stretched out in longing. In this way did Christmas come and always comes anew, both to individuals and to the whole world.

Eberhard Arnold