A New Year’s Miracle

If you were given one personal wish for 2026, what would it be? Would you forgo your dream job or all-expense paid trip to Venice for a few minutes with a departed loved one? I know I would. In this spirit of magical thinking, I’m sharing the true story below of events that transpired 13 years ago today in Pihtipudas, Finland. That town’s Christmas magazine is currently featuring the Finnish-language version, but this is the original English one. I hope you will find comfort and hope in my words. May the New Year be full of unexpected miracles for us all…

I first met Arttu Herranen in January 2004 as a new bride of several weeks. My husband, Otto Jämsén, and I had recently wed in Amherst, Massachusetts, and upon our return to Finland, he whisked me away to Pihtipudas as part of our whirlwind honeymoon. There, we celebrated our nuptials with his family and friends, most of whom I met for the first time. One was Arttu, then in his late seventies.

Arttu had been a close friend of Otto’s father, Artturi, since childhood, and as young adults they’d served together in the war. Unlike his friend, Arttu never married or had children. He lived alone and worked as a lumberjack on his family’s farm, Rinne, nestled in the woods with a breathtaking lakeside view in Alvajärvi. After Artturi died in 1976, Otto kept in contact with Arttu over the years, stopping by Rinne when he visited his mother nearby. It was at Rinne where Otto first introduced us.

Despite the chilly temperature that day, Arttu’s snug home was full of warmth—and not only from the heat generated by the stove. He exuded a calmness and caring that was most comforting. I struggled to control my tears, remembering my beloved father, who had shared the same fine qualities and died suddenly and unexpectedly six weeks earlier. I missed him terribly. Sadly, he had never met Otto and wasn’t around to walk me down the aisle at our wedding ceremony. How odd it then seemed that Otto and I, both fatherless, were showing our wedding photos to a man who’d never been a father, yet in his kind, gentle manner felt like a father figure.

As he and Otto discussed politics and shared long-ago stories (I only knew a few Finnish words, but it was a good guess), I sat in the rocking chair and stared at the Christmas tree gracing the picture window facing the lake. Decorated with delicate golden candy wrappers, soft white lights, and tiny silver bells, it was a vision from centuries gone by. This cozy idyll of two friends chatting, the tea pot whistling on the stove, the smell of pulla, and the glorious tree mesmerized me and stayed imprinted on my memory over the years.

After this initial visit to Rinne, I returned with Otto during our visits to Alvajärvi in all seasons, although winter remained my favorite because of Arttu’s very special tree. It was during another wintertime trip there years later that this tale begins. It is dedicated with much affection and gratitude in memory of our dear friend, Arttu Herranen.

X X X

As our car slides along icy Reisjärventie that New Year’s Eve, I watch the bluish dusk of Midwinter descent upon Alvajärvi’s now mute landscape. Gone are the roaring tractors ploughing the earth, the grazing cattle, the aroma of lilacs that tickles my nose in July. The oat and barley fields are now covered in snow crystals that shimmer like diamonds in the low light.

“We’re almost at Inkala,” Otto says, referring to my mother-in-law Paula’s home. “After this long, chilly ride, it will be nice to thaw out in front of the fireplace.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I say, blowing hot air into my wool mittens. “Let’s hope some cocoa is on the menu.”

“I’m sure my mother is already heating the milk.” We smile.

After passing Nikula Farm, Otto slows the car down to a hum and turns right onto the driveway. As we inch along toward the dainty yellow house, snow-laden pihlaja branches swoop down on each side of us, enveloping us in a friendly embrace. “Tervetuloa!” I imagine them welcoming us as they sway in the gentle breeze.

Otto parks the car near the barn, and we walk in the crunchy snow to the house, where Paula is waiting for us, her hands wrapped around two steaming mugs.

“You were right,” I whisper to Otto. He gives me a thumbs up.

Entering the vestibule, I take the cocoa from Paula in one hand and hug her with the other. Otto does the same. “Happy holidays!” we all say in unison.

“Now take off your coats and boots and warm up by the fire,” Paula says.

We remove our outer layers and move to the sofa while Paula takes her usual seat in the white rocking chair by the blazing fire. The birch logs crackle and sparks fly. Cheerful red poinsettia plants dot the spacious living room and festive candles light up the coffee table. The upright piano in the corner beckons; later I will play “En Etsi Valtaa Loistoa,” Otto’s and my wedding song.

After the three of us catch up on family news since last meeting a few months ago, Paula asks about our New Year’s plans.

“Linda and I will stay in tonight, and tomorrow we will visit Arttu Herranen at Rinne.” Otto smiles warmly at me, and I nod. “As you know, it’s our tradition to spend New Year’s Day with him when we’re up here.”

“Oh, dear,” Paula says, covering her mouth. She stops rocking in the chair and leans forward. “Haven’t you heard the news?” Otto and I shake our heads. “I thought for sure Heikki would have told you.”

“Told me what, mom?”

“Arttu is dead.”

“What!?” Otto and I shout together and put down our hot chocolate.

“I’m sorry to break the sad news. He died some months ago. It took a while for word to get out because, as you know, he lived alone.” She points to the stack of Kotiseudun Sanomat papers on the floor. “His obituary was in Heikki’s newspaper.”

“How could I have missed that?” Otto, a devoted reader, asks.

“Oh, please no!” Tears well up, and I lean into Otto’s shoulder. “He was so sweet to me after my father died.” Otto hands me his handkerchief. “And he always had the most beautiful Christmas tree. I was looking forward to seeing it again.”

“This is a bit of a shock,” Otto tells Paula.

“I understand this isn’t the news you were expecting, but at least you don’t have to walk to Rinne now and wonder why Arttu isn’t there.” She gets up to prepare dinner. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.

When she’s out of earshot, I turn to Otto. “I feel awful. Arttu died alone, and no one told us? Was there even a funeral?”

“Let me call Heikki and get to the bottom of this. After all, as the newspaper editor, he should have more details.”

After a short phone conversation with his brother, Otto returns to the sofa and pulls me in for a hug. “It’s as my mother said. Heikki has no more information.”

“How very sad,” I say. “Maybe Arttu was ill when we last saw him in July and didn’t know.”

“I think he was just old, my dear. In his mid-eighties.”

I stare out the window in the direction of Rinne. “Poor Arttu. I’ll miss him and our visits. Just sitting in his company cheered me up.” I remember aloud the hours spent in the rocking chair sipping tea and sketching his Christmas tree in my diary.

“He was a unique person,” Otto says.

I empty my mug and put it down. “Well, this puts a big damper on New Year’s Eve. I think after dinner I’ll head to bed and call it a night—or a year.”

Otto looks up at the portrait of his father hanging on the wall. After a while, he tells me he has an idea. “Let’s celebrate Arttu’s life by making a final trek to Rinne tomorrow. I think that’s what my father would suggest.”

I shrug. “A nice thought, but I think it will make me more depressed.”

He takes my hand. “I think it will be healing. Since we didn’t attend Arttu’s funeral, this will be our way of saying goodbye.” I stifle another sob. “Remember, there may be a new owner soon.”

“You’re right, dear.” I pat his hand. “Okay, we’ll go tomorrow.”

Otto looks at the snow falling at a fast clip and blanketing the yard. “Let’s also make it a small celebration of his life. Why not bake some of those delicious scones that he loved and fill a thermos of hot tea?”

“That seems a bit much,” I say, although I did pack my scone pan.

“Maybe. But we can toast him properly one more time, as we have over the years.”

I consider Otto’s idea. While it’s a bit crazy because Arttu won’t be there to join us, I realize it’s important to have closure.

“Sopii,” I say. We shake hands in agreement.

“Thank you.” Otto kisses my cheek, and we sit in silence for a few minutes until Paula calls us to the dinner table.

X X X

The next morning I bake oatmeal-walnut scones, heat the tea kettle, and fill the thermos. Otto has warmed our snow boots by the bedroom stove. We don them and our heavy wool coats, bid Paula farewell, and head into the brisk -20C weather.

As we trudge through the thick snow, I feel frostbite on the tips of my fingers and nose. When we arrive at the turnoff to Seläntaus Road, I signal Otto to stop and take some sips from the thermos.

“Only a few more steps and we’ll be there,” my eternal optimist husband says.

With at least half a kilometer to go, I want to challenge him, but my lips are still too frozen to move.

We continue walking in silence until we approach Sillanmäentie, where Arttu’s mailbox is covered in snow. So is the start of Rinne’s driveway, which clearly hasn’t been ploughed. Otto and I move slowly, lifting one foot at a time, and trying to stay upright in the snowdrifts.

When I stop for a breather, I see smoke bellowing from Rinne’s chimney. “Look!” I point upward. “The new owners must have moved in already. Shall we turn back, Otto?”

“No, let’s find out who they are and introduce ourselves. We can leave the scones as a housewarming present.”

“Good idea.”

Arriving at Rinne, we see the quaint red home at the edge of the snow-covered lake surrounded by thick forest. As Otto approaches the front door, my heart leaps in my chest. “Are you sure about this? Maybe we should turn back. The owners might think we’re trespassing.”

“No, my curiosity is aroused.”

As Otto knocks loudly, I hold my breath. No answer. He tries again without success. “That’s odd.” He scratches the top of his pipo. “Who would build a fire and then leave the building with it burning?”

“Maybe we should peek inside the windows.” I take his hand. “Here, follow me.” I guide my husband to the back of the house. After we move the snow aside in our gloved hands, Otto stands on his tiptoes to look inside.

“Well, this is a mystery.”

“What do you see?”

“There’s a Christmas tree in the exact spot where Arttu always placed his and decorated with the same sparkly candy wrappers and silver bells.”

“How’s that possible?” I jump up to get a look but am not as tall as my husband. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure going to find out.” Otto tells me to wait by the front door while he searches the barns and sheds on the property.

“Be careful! If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m calling you. And maybe the police.”

“No worries. It won’t take that long.”

After ten minutes, my toes begin to freeze, and I pull out the thermos to take a few sips of tea. I notice the chimney still gushing smoke.

Soon Otto joins me, and I pour him a cup. “No signs of anyone,” he says. Then he knocks on the front door again, but to no avail.

“I think we should walk back to Inkala before the darkness descends,” I say. “Plus, it’s getting bitter cold.”

“You’re probably right,” he says with disappointment in his voice.

We tighten our scarves, shake the snow from our hats and coats, and move down the driveway. When we get halfway, we see movement through the pine trees. We stop, frozen in our tracks, and hear the sound of someone—or something—thrashing through the forest.

“My God, a bear!” I scream. My heart thumps in my chest, and I drop my backpack. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Not yet, Linda. Stand back!” Otto stretches a protective arm out in front of me.

Our eyes are transfixed at the sight of a tall figure appearing at the edge of the woods. It’s not easy to see in the dim light, but whoever—or whatever—it is seems to be wielding an ax. An ax that suddenly flies through the air and lands in a snowdrift next to the figure. As a blur of blue slowly emerges from the forest, I resist the urge to run. Or maybe my legs are too shaky to move.

“It’s clearly not a bear,” Otto reassures me. “They’re hibernating now. It’s a man… a man who’s hunched over and carrying logs.”

We both strain our eyes for a better look. “Arttu?” we say together, our foreheads creasing in disbelief.

I pinch myself and Otto as proof that I’m not dreaming.

“Tervetuloa, Otto and Linda,” our friend shouts as he walks toward us. “I’ve been expecting you. Happy New Year!”

Too shocked to speak, we stare as Arttu puts down the wood and approaches. Only after he pulls us in for a hearty hug do we find our bearings. Otto snaps the suspenders on his friend’s snowsuit to make sure he isn’t an illusion.

“It’s good to see you two again,” Arttu says.

“You can’t imagine how wonderful it is to see you again,” Otto says.

“And how!” If he only knew.

As we enter the house, I wonder how this mix-up could have happened. Arttu dead? He seems more alive than ever. I sense Otto is pondering the same question. I raise my hands in a “Shall we tell him?” gesture, but he shakes his head and puts a finger to his lips.

“What will it be today?” Arttu says, slipping out of his snowsuit and moving to the piping hot stove.

“The usual,” I say. “Your tea always tastes perfect.” He smiles.

“And black coffee for me. Kiitos!” Otto adds.

After Arttu serves our drinks, I reach for the backpack and remove the scones. “I made the oatmeal-walnut scones you like especially for our New Year’s celebration.” I wink at Otto.

“That was mighty kind of you.”

“And if today is any indication, I think the New Year is going to be amazing,” I say.

After Arttu pours himself a cup of coffee and joins us at the small table, Otto raises his mug for a toast. “Here’s to friendship!”

“And blessings!” Arttu adds.

“And miracles,” I say as we clink our mugs together. For what else could it be when someone you thought gone forever is suddenly back in your life? A New Year’s miracle indeed.

THE HAPPY END

Postscript: Otto and I later learned that the Kotiseudun Sanomat had announced the death of another local man with a Herranen surname. Arttu lived several more years and died at age ninety. Last week on Christmas Eve 2025, we lit a candle at Arttu’s gravesite in Pihtipudas Cemetery, where he rests near his long-ago friend, Artturi Jämsén.