MOTHER'S LAST CHRISTMAS GIFT

MOTHER'S LAST CHRISTMAS GIFT
© Charlene Elizabeth Fairchild
It was Christmas 1994. The residents of 22 Glenn Avenue, Dad, my brother Martin and my Mom, found precious little to rejoice over, precious little to celebrate.
Just weeks earlier the doctors had delivered their diagnosis. My mother, 68 years old, was stricken with the rare dementia Pick's Disease. The family now had an answer to the perplexing question of what was happening to Mom.
The answer fell like a lead weight upon our hearts, pressing us down. But it was even worse for Dad. His partner, his best friend, was gradually leaving him, fading away. Before our eyes we witnessed the loving playful personality disappear.
Even Mom, lost in the mists and short-circuits of her disease, recognized that something wasn't right. While she was still able to talk she'd tell us she wouldn't be here long. We were devastated;
Dad even more so.
Like many families in North America, the offspring had fanned out across the country to live. We kept in touch with each other with that most Canadian of technological marvels, the telephone and with letters. It was not difficult to keep up with the ongoing drama of Mom's illness; the weekly and daily changes,the indignities caused by Pick's that had claimed Mom.
Dad reported being unable to rally any Christmas spirit. He just couldn't do it in the face of Mom's illness and without her help. Christmas spirit had been theirs, in abundance, while we were growing up. Together they had created a magical atmosphere in our home. Together they had honoured the Christ in their worship and in their attitudes. We grew up singularly blessed by their witness and their counsel. Christmas was a treasured high spot in the year.
But not this year. Dad's grief was just too raw; his loss too great; his
helplessness in the face of something he couldn't fix, too shameful.
Our brother Martin, who still lived at home, was just as deeply enmeshed in the pall of misery that had engulfed the family home. In a spirit of defiance, Martin tried to recapture something that wisped like smoke through fingers.
He rebelled against the "grinch" who was not just stealing Christmas but our mother as well. Seeking to recapture a semblance of the joy that had been ours every year through Mom's "making Christmas" in our childhood home, he bought a tree and trimmed it. Then he proceeded to decorate the house, trying to emulate Mom's sense of "just right." It was a brave thing to do and, he reported,
it felt good to have tried. But, Mom was still leaving us, disappearing into a place none of us knew nor dared follow. In the end, it seemed such a pointless gesture to him.
So it was that, on Christmas Eve, Dad and Martin both went to bed with heavy hearts, dreading the morning. They would gladly have slept through the entire day to come if they could have. After all, what was there to get up for?
Then came the gift.... Unexpected, unbidden. Just as surprising as the angel hosts on the hilltops and the angelic announcement to the Shepherds.
Christmas came. The Christ was announced. "For unto you is born this day...." (Luke 2:11)
Early Christmas morning, my mother Elizabeth got up. Quietly. Softly she stole downstairs to my brother's room. She shook him gently. "Get up! It's Christmas!"
Just as quietly she turned and went back to her room and shook my Dad saying once again, "Get up! It's Christmas!" GET UP! IT'S CHRISTMAS! Despite the difficulty in speaking, despite the mists of her disease, the Lord chose her to bring the announcement. The Christ has come. For the first time in weeks,
Dad and Martin got up with anticipation. Oh, there were tears alright. Tears of sadness mixed with joy. Through their tears they both recognized the immense gift they had been given. Mom was still here, still able to receive their love, still able to love. And it was Christmas morning, the morning we celebrate
God's gift to us, Emmanuel.