The Greeter and The Grunt

“You be the greeter, and I’ll be the grunt,” my husband said as I juggled treat plates.

‘Twas the season. I had spent a whole afternoon with flour up to my elbows, my husband had been to the store for me more times than I imagined he would be nice about, and now we had treat plates to disburse to our neighbors.

“Load me up,” he instructed. I complied, and carried only one, myself.

My job was to knock on each door and hand a neighbor one of our plates. We struck out at half the houses, but caught up with the rest later that night. Knocking on doors, we interrupted card games and board games, grandmas holding grandkids, new mommies and daddies fawning over their babies, parents waiting for grown kids to come up the driveway.

I must insert that my husband is ‘way more social than I am, much better at chit-chat. He’s a good grunt, but he’s awfully friendly, too.

It blessed my socks off. Christmas, the time for families to get together – and families were actually getting together! We were invited in through all the doors we knocked on, invited in to share the smiles and the cuteness of the babies, introduced by name to kids and grandkids.

I’m pretty sure none of the households needed any of the treats we gave out. I commented to my husband, on the way back to our house, that the plates were really just an excuse to get out to see the neighbors on a cold, star-lit Christmas Eve, and wish them Merry Christmas.

The Greeter and the Grunt returned home with empty arms and full hearts.