Merry Christmas, Mom

I had significant complaints about the man my mother was married to when she died. I could probably still stoke a lot of anger about some of them, if such had any productive purpose.

But he also showed me some of the purest, most honest, most heart-rending grief I’ve ever seen.

My mom’s last week was the longest, least pleasant five days of my life. I couldn’t sleep. Nothing would touch my headache. I ate, but not much and wholly without joy. I started smoking again after a year and a half on the wagon. We hung around UAB, waiting for news. Most of the time it was a push, or it was bad. But sometimes, it was hopeful. So we kept hanging around. That’s how that works.

Our hope ran out that Thursday night. Her cardiologist came and told us that her body was systematically shutting down, and that it was probably time to say goodbye. Indeed, she lived about another 17 hours after that.

As we sat trying to get this news in a box—ever noticed how desperate human beings are to compartmentalize?—her husband, after the worst of his tears, told me that he knew she was the one at their first Christmas together. They didn’t have a lot of money, but my mother was spectacular on a limited budget because she was smart and creative. She bought pomegranates and painstakingly stuck cloves into every square millimeter of the fruits. They smelled amazing. They looked amazing. And they lasted for several Christmases after that, too. No idea how.

She took several old glass Christmas ball ornaments and patiently stripped every bit of paint off them, making them transparent. Then, she refilled them with…things that looked good and made sense. I remember one full of birdseed. I remember another full of allspice. How’d she know to do this stuff? This was the early ’90s. There was no Pinterest.

Do you have any idea how special my mother could make three cinnamon sticks tied up with gold ribbon?

This past Sunday morning, Scott asked the congregation if there was a single person who embodied Christmas for any of us. I thought of my mother immediately, for just these kinds of things.

I went to our church’s Blue Christmas service last night, mostly to remember her in a sustained way. I’d never been to one before and wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m glad I went. I certainly knew it was a substantial risk of my composure. I cry easily and am more likely than not to tear up even in a normal service, and this was one that was subdued and sad from the outset.

And I did. I wept all the way through it. I lit a candle for my mother on the altar. Then, I cried all the way home. But I think I feel better this morning, and better able to enjoy our more traditional Christmas Eve service this afternoon, for it.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you. I miss you.

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