A Tiny Dickens Village Grew My Grinchy Heart

In my young adult homemaking days, I turned up my nose at frou-frou things that lacked purpose or function. So when my thoughtful stepmother began gifting me porcelain Dickens houses for birthdays and Christmases, I thanked her politely while stifling internal groans. At first, I happily unwrapped quaint scenes of carolers, frozen ponds, and cozy shops, dazzled by the intricate details. But as my collection grew each year, Scrooge-like fatigue set in. Where would I display these wee buildings that kept demanding dusting and space? 

Finally, I confessed my struggle to appreciate properly the delicate houses overflowing my storage shelves. My stepmother shared she chose the Dickens village specifically for me, knowing my lifelong love of reading and British literature. She pictured me admiring these miniature worlds that would remind me of treasured stories as the years passed. Her intentions came from such a heartfelt place that I felt guilty for my apathetic reaction.

Rarely would more than a house or two make it out of storage onto my mantle or side table. Several especially industrious Decembers, I constructed the entire village display with streets and figurines for my young children who gazed in wide-eyed wonder. But by February, away it all went, back into boxes. For decades, I took for granted my stepmother’s thoughtfulness while avoiding the “burden” of so many dust-gathering decorations.

Now my stepmother has passed, and we have moved to a home with plentiful bookshelves. I decided this would finally be the Christmas I would unveil every single Dickens house as an overdue tribute to her memory. As I unpacked each structure and admired the sprawling Victorian world, nostalgia swept over me. I lingered over the blacksmith shop, the cathedral, the lamp-lit sweet shop. Each snow-kissed building re-sparked cherished moments from years gone by. Why had I allowed my inner Grinch to dismiss these thoughtful gifts for so long?

This year my grandkids can’t peel their eyes away from the Dickens scenes shimmering in the golden glow of Christmas lights. As I reflect on my stepmother’s loving gift that’s grown more magical over time, I feel moved by the spirit of the season. She just somehow knew these tiny houses could become an heirloom, even when I dismissed them. It took years before my walnut-sized heart grew enough to appreciate their hidden blessings. Makes me think we’ve all got gifts inside that need careful unwrapping before we see how precious they really are. We need patience and grace to reveal their beauty when the timing’s right.