House of Memories; Where Time Stands Still

The distinct scent of cloves and nutmeg gently wafted in the cool morning air. A thin mist still enveloped the hills of Tomohon, as if reluctant to leave the beauty of this small, tranquil city. In a traditional wooden house on stilts, typical of the Minahasa region, the warmth of Christmas could be felt since dawn.

In the kitchen, Grandma Ebe, with her neatly styled white hair, was busy stirring a large pot of steaming, fragrant Manado-style porridge (Tinutuan). On the porch, Grandma Mace and Aunt Etty were giggling while frying cucur cookies and making klappertart  in beautiful boxes. Meanwhile, in the yard, Uncle Altin and Uncle Ading were busy arranging a long table covered with banana leaves under the house, where the tradition of a big family meal would soon take place.

Every Christmas, a deep longing stirred in the hearts of family members scattered across the archipelago. From bustling cities in Java, green highlands in Bali, and remote villages in Papua, each one felt the magnetic pull of Grandma Ebe’s home in Tomohon. With the approach of Christmas, this yearning grew stronger—an eagerness not only to celebrate the birth of the Savior but also to cherish the family that God had so graciously blessed them with.

As December arrived, the anticipation was palpable. Flights were booked, suitcases packed, and inside were not just clothes, but special gifts and delicacies from each region—fragrant coffee beans from Java, crisp rengginang from West Java, colorful Balinese sarongs, sweet purple-potatoes crispy from Papua, and savory smoked fish – ikang fufu- from Sulawesi. These offerings were lovingly exchanged around the long table, stories and laughter mingling with the aroma of Tinutuan and cucur cookies.

The homecoming was always alive with conversation. “Look, I brought Bali-Luwak white coffee for everyone! You have to try it with Grandma’s klappertart,” called Aunt Syane, her eyes sparkling. Charis responded with a grin, “And these sweet Purple-potatoes crispy are straight from Ilaga, Papua—save some for the kids before they disappear!”

Under the stilted house, the table was covered in banana leaves, laden with delicacies from every part of the country. Stories flowed as freely as the warm ginger tea. The uncles recounted tales from their years working in the far-flung islands, while the aunties compared the taste of cucur cookies from Tomohon to those made in Jakarta. The older cousins shared how Christmas in the city never felt as genuine as it did here, surrounded by the laughter and familiar faces.

In this joyful gathering, gratitude filled each heart. Together, they sang hymns, giving thanks for the birth of the Savior—the reason for their reunion. The presence of family was the greatest gift, a reminder of God’s abundant love. The air was thick with affection, nostalgia, and the simple happiness of being home.

By nightfall, decorative lights twinkled gently, casting a warm glow over the smiling faces. Children darted between adults, clutching bits of rengginang or slices of sweet purple-potatoes crispy, their giggles echoing into the cool air. In quiet moments, whispered prayers and heartfelt wishes rose to heaven: “Thank You, Lord, for bringing us together. For family, for memories, and for the joy of Christmas.”

In Tomohon, every Christmas became a tapestry woven with longing, gratitude, and the vibrant threads of Indonesia’s rich heritage—where home was not just a place, but the embrace of love and legacy.

I, who had long settled in the remote parts of Papua, always felt my heart flutter every time I set foot on the soil of Tomohon. It felt like returning to a warm embrace, to a place where all the fatigue and burdens of life instantly melted away. Returning to the land of my birth and where I was raised.

Memories of my childhood with my mother in this house came flooding back. When my mother was still alive, the excitement of Christmas would begin a week before December 25th. We would help my mother and grandmother clean the house, decorate the Christmas tree, and prepare a variety of delicious cakes and dishes. One of my mother’s traditions that I miss the most is the “Family Sing-Along” on Christmas Eve. We would gather in the living room, singing Christmas songs accompanied by a guitar and a keyboard. My mother’s melodious voice, which was once the lead singer in the church choir, was always the most beautiful part of that evening. Her voice always touched my heart, filling it with peace and tranquillity. My mother’s smile, which was as sweet as the cucur cookies, was a gift that I always treasured.

My mother passed away three years ago. Her passing left a deep void in our family. The first Christmas without her felt so empty. The house, which used to be filled with laughter and songs, felt silent and lifeless. The aroma of cucur cookies and Tinutuan was still there, but it didn’t feel the same without her presence.

But, as time went on, my family and I learned to accept her passing. We decided to continue the traditions my mother had started, because we believe that by doing so, her spirit will always be with us. This year, all the family members came home again. My cousins and I worked together to prepare the food, and the men set up the table in the yard, just like my mother and Grandma Ebe used to do. Everyone was laughing and chatting, as if time had stopped in this house of memories.

This afternoon, everyone gathered around the table, enjoying the delicious dishes with gratitude. The laughter and chatter filled Grandma Ebe’s house once again. My grown-up cousins were busy telling stories about their experiences far from home. The little children were running around the yard, occasionally stealing cakes from the table. Grandma Ebe, despite her old age, was still full of spirit serving her grandchildren.

Night fell. The decorative lights twinkled, adorning the yard. The keyboard, guitar, and kolintang were played melodiously. Beautiful voices harmonized, singing Christmas songs that brought back memories.

Amidst the cheerfulness, I slipped into the backyard. Under the star-studded night sky of Tomohon, I closed my eyes, letting the cool breeze touch my face. In my heart, I prayed for my mother.

“Mom, even though you are no longer with us, the beautiful memories of you will always live in our hearts. Thank you, Mom, for all the love and affection you have given. This Christmas, we celebrate it with gratitude, remembering you, and continuing the family traditions that you loved.”

Tears fell on my cheeks. But they were not tears of sadness, but tears of gratitude and eternal love. I know, somewhere out there, Mom is resting peacefully, waiting for a bright morning when He comes to pick her up and us too.

Home, where the heart returns, will always be the most comfortable place, where love and memories never faded away…

Kreator : Vidya D’CharV