Keeping Holiday
Keeping Holiday
Keeping Holiday
Starr Meade
CROSSWAY BOOKS
WHEATON , ILLINOIS
Keeping Holiday
Copyright © 2008 Starr Meade
Published by Crossway Books
a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers
1300 Crescent Street
Wheaton, Illinois 60187
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a claretrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except as provided for by USA copyright law.
Design and typesetting by Lakeside Design Plus
Cover design and illustrations by Justin Gerard, Portland Studios
First printing 2008
Printed in the United States of America
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4335-0142-5
PDF ISBN: 978-1-4335-0436-5
Mobipocket ISBN: 978-1-4335-0437-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Meade, Starr, 1956–
Keeping Holiday / Starr Meade.
p. cm.
Summary: Each year Dylan’s family visits Holiday, and this time his determination to bring home the feelings and experiences of that special place leads Dylan and his cousin Clare on a journey through such places as the Forest of Life and Winterland as they seek the Founder and the true Holiday.
ISBN 978-1-4335-0142-5 (tpb)
[1. Faith—Fiction. 2. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 3. Christian life—Fiction. 4. Allegories.] I. Title.
PZ7.M483Kee 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008010449
VP 15 14 13 12 09 08
9 7 5 2 1
Contents
T
he car, already barely moving, came to a complete stop. Dylan looked out his window at the car in the next lane, then at the car on the other side. Neither of them moved either. “Guess we’ll be sitting here for a while,” Dad said, but he wasn’t complaining.
“It’s just like last year and the year before that,” Mom said, and she wasn’t complaining either.
No one ever complained about the traffic jams going into Holiday. Everyone knew they would occur, but no one seemed to mind. Traffic jams anywhere else caused tempers to boil like overheated radiators, but motorists stuck in traffic on the way into Holiday whistled and smiled at one another, waiting patiently for their turn to go.
Dad rolled down his window and stuck his nose out. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and smiled. “Ah,” he said, “those wonderful Holiday smells. I’ve been looking forward to this vacation all year.”
Everyone looked forward to going to Holiday, at least everyone Dylan knew. The town drew the same devoted visitors year after year. People never grew tired of it. For months in advance, they would busy themselves with elaborate preparations, planning to get the very most out of this year’s stay in Holiday. For several weeks now, Dylan’s neighbors had all been greeting each other with, “Are you all ready for your trip?” or “Do you have much left to do before you go to Holiday?”
Mom turned to Dylan, winked, and smiled. “Wonder what souvenirs you’ll find this year?” she said.
“Whatever they are, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Dylan answered.
“Well, that’s a switch,” Dylan’s father said. “I remember when it seemed like the only part of the vacation you cared about was the gift shop!”
“That’s because I was little,” Dylan replied. “When you’re little, you don’t appreciate all the other stuff.”
“Like . . . ?” Dad prodded.
“Like the food,” Dylan said. “And how pretty everything is. And how much fun it is to be with everybody—playing games and singing and laughing. Why can’t it be like that at home?”
“Are you sure it can’t be?” Mom asked.
“Well, it isn’t, anyway,” Dylan answered. “And I don’t see
why
it isn’t. You can eat the same food with the same people and try to do everything just the way it’s done in Holiday, but it’s never the same.”
“I suppose that big pile of last year’s souvenirs I saw in the garage marked ‘give away’ is part of what you mean,” Dad said. He chuckled. “And after all the time it took for you to choose those. Good grief ! I thought we’d have to spend our entire vacation in that store!”
Dylan felt a touch of embarrassment, but he bravely admitted, “Well, yeah, that’s what I mean. The souvenirs always seem so wonderful in the gift shop. But once you get them home, they just become more stuff to sit on the shelf.”
“You’re not tired of going to Holiday, are you?” Dad asked.
“No,” Dylan said. “But I think there’s more to it than souvenirs. More to it than food and pretty things and people, too. Because none of those things are ever the same at home. There’s something to the town of Holiday that makes things different, better than they are anywhere else. I just don’t know what is.”
Mom glanced at Dad and said, “Our little boy’s growing up.”
Dylan scowled to himself and thought,
What’s that supposed
to mean?
But the thought flew from his mind as a space finally cleared for their car and it inched ahead, through the city gate into Holiday. Dylan sat up, stirred by that same old Holiday excitement, and watched out the window to see what had changed since last year.
“Ah, those wonderful Holiday smells,” Dad said again, taking a deep breath. Dylan copied
him, and breathed in a great cloud of sharp pine fragrance. Full pine trees and tall, dark green firs lined both sides of the road.
They’re like old friends,
Dylan thought to himself,
welcoming us back.
The car moved slowly on, and Dylan caught new fragrances mingling with the scent of pines. He smelled sweet spicy smells and scents of woodland herbs and, over and underneath it all, the pungent odor of wild green plants growing.
As the car inched through the crowded streets, other fra-grances floated in the window: meats roasting, breads baking, sweets simmering.
“Oh, look at how pretty it is!” Mom exclaimed. “I didn’t think it could possibly be better than last year, but I do believe it is.”
Though the streets were full, they were spotlessly clean. Houses wore fresh coats of bright paint, their doors and windows cheerily accented to match. Open shops beckoned. Each store window tried to outdo the last with its inviting display of the wonders to be found inside. Ropes of lights, strung back and forth across the street, twinkled with promises of magic. Glittering decorations climbed up or hung down from every available space.
Visitors thronged the sidewalks and stores. Some wandered into shops, coming back out again with additions to their already huge piles of packages. Others sat with their friends at the many little tables in café windows and on sidewalks, tables loaded with roasted meats, breads, fruits and nuts, and sugary cakes. From somewhere nearby came strains of fiddle music. When Dylan thrust his head out the car window to hear better, a warm glow from an upstairs window caught his eye. Happy dancers whirled in and out of view in the window. A little farther on, a group of happy vacationers walked by on the sidewalk, arm-in-arm and singing at the top of their lungs.
Dad turned the car into a parking lot and pulled into a space. Carrying their bags, Dylan’s parents headed toward the entrance underneath the sign that read, “Welcome to Your Holiday Home Away from Home.” Dylan looked at the sign for a moment and thought,
Holiday feels more like home than home
does
. Then he picked up his bag and followed his parents.
Dylan swallowed his mouthful of cinnamon bread and washed it down with a gulp of milk. “Why don’t we ever have this for breakfast at home? Can’t you buy it there?” he asked.
“I could probably order it at the bakery,” his mother answered.
Dylan considered. “But I’ll bet it wouldn’t be the same,” he said. “Why
is
that? Why are things we do at home never quite as good as when we do the same things in Holiday?”
Dylan’s parents glanced at each other, with the expression that usually made Dylan say, “What?” But just now he was too intent on his question. “Yesterday, for example. That party was so much fun!”
Mom nodded and Dad said, “Wasn’t that great?”
“But what did we do?” Dylan continued. “Nothing we couldn’t do at home. We played games, we sang songs, we ate. We hardly ever play games at home and when we do, they’re boring. And no one ever sings. Plus, all the people at the party are people we could get together with back at home. But we never do. And if we did, I’ll bet we wouldn’t really get along very well. Why does Holiday make everything we do so different?” A sudden idea occurred to Dylan, causing him to set down his milk glass so hard that some of the milk splashed out. “Hey! Have you ever thought of moving to Holiday to live?”
“Holiday’s a vacation town,” Dad replied. He poured himself another cup of coffee. “Everyone’s here on vacation. There’d be no job for me if we lived here.”
Mom passed Dad the sugar and said to Dylan, “You’ll just have to look for a way that you can
keep
Holiday, even when we go home.” She glanced at her watch. “Done with your breakfast, Dylan? Better run off and get ready. We need to leave for church in five minutes.”
At the church, a middle-aged man, already sitting in the pew Dylan’s family selected, smiled at them. “Hi, there,” he said, nodding cheerfully. “My name’s Mr. Smith,” and he shook hands with Dylan and his parents. Mr. Smith’s chubby face beamed as he said, “I just love going to church in Holiday, don’t you? I never go at home, but I wouldn’t dream of skipping church in Holiday.” The music began then, cutting off the pleasant little man’s comments. He didn’t seem to mind. He opened his songbook with a flourish and nodded his balding head to the beat. He sang loudly, and though he took an occasional peek at the page through his glasses, he seemed to have these particular songs memorized.
Dylan sang too, but he looked around as he sang. The old stone building was full. This was odd enough, since Dylan was used to seeing churches at home half empty. But even more than that, almost everyone in the church was singing with enthusiasm. Not many people sang at home. Dylan himself would prefer not to sing in church, but his parents always insisted. In fact, the comments of his neighbor in the pew made complete sense to Dylan. Like him, Dylan would probably skip church at home too, if his parents did not require him to go. And yet, just as the pleasant-faced man had said, he wouldn’t dream of missing church in Holiday. He even felt perfectly content to sing. Dylan puzzled over what the difference could be. Church in Holiday was just
more.
More what? Dylan asked himself. More full somehow. There seemed to be more
behind
it all. Church here was more joyful too and, at the same time, more serious. Dylan shook his head to clear it of all these busy thoughts and turned his attention to the candles being lit up front.
