On a winter’s eve almost 2000 years ago, a young couple, the wife big with child, knocked on doors seeking refuge from the night. “Have you room for us?” he asked time after time. The answer was the same, and the couple plodded onward. As darkness wrapped the world, the hand of the young man’s wife tightened around him. Through time and space the young couple traveled and, over the centuries, they took on many forms. But their question remained the same: “Have you room for us?”

DECEMBER 1989

In her small white house on Brookline Avenue, Sophie glances out the window at the darkening sky. She brushes back a stray strand of hair and smiles as flour falls from her hand back onto the white enameled kitchen table. The sweet smell of baking bread fills the air and spreads throughout the rooms, past the walls lined with photographs and greeting cards.

The front door is ajar. Through the passage from the front hallway to the warmly lighted kitchen they come, barely tangible in the winter twilight — young, frightened unwed mothers; struggling, weary interns; bishops and immigrants; laughing children and care-worn parents. Sophie believes in neither closed doors nor closed hearts.

Sophie stirs slightly and feels the cool smoothness of the sheet beneath her hand. Life had been so good. Many heartaches, it’s true and in recent years, this confusion that has clouded her mind. But so very much joy, too. Music and laughter and the love of her children. Generations of children. She could see them dimly now, gathered around her bed. In a few more days it would be Christmas.

In her heart she sighed. It was always Christmas somewhere. And still, too many of the world’s doors remained closed. Too many Marys and Josephs could find no room to live and bring new life in peace. If there was one last gift she could leave behind it would be her open door and the promise of fresh bread.

Sophie’s hand relaxed on the sheet. Through the hallway and into the kitchen, her eyes bright once more and filled with more life, swept over the cheerful curtains, the familiar baking utensils, the well-worn linoleum. It was time now. Her children would understand. Her love knew no bounds and could not be contained in one heart or one body forever.

Dusting the flour from her hands, Sophie hung her apron on the peg behind the door. Her baking wasn’t quite done — is it ever finished? She smiled, and her brown eyes sparkled. There was one last nut roll in the freezer.

The young couple would be at the door soon. She had to put the porch light on. How she loved a birthday! And this birth — the promised one. She could feel life coursing through her whole being, and the porch light became brighter and brighter.

Sophie turned once at the door and glances up the stairway behind her, should she …? No, she had taught her children well. They would find the nut roll in the freezer and know what to do. The world was so in need of sweet bread … and open doors.

Her step as free as her heart, Sophie walked towards the light.