The Hum of Something Holy

It’s Christmas Eve and we’re shopping, piling rolls of paper and chocolates and candy canes, stopping now to let Mum rest, and then on to the rows of Pillsbury dough and eggnog. She’s getting that look, the one that says we need to go home so she can sleep, but we haven’t even started on main gifts, let alone dinner.

She laughs as we pull her to the rusted van, sister and I caring for 53-year-old mother who homeschooled us long and made us homemade bread, now confined to a seven-year brain tumor. The snow is falling. Mum reaches out, shaky. The flakes melt fast to her skin, making her sparkle. We sing carols in the car on the way home and Mum’s cheeks are red as Rudolph, her eyes like a robin’s egg.

Mum’s got a glazed look now, and I know it will be hard to get her out of the car and into bed. At home we pull covers tight, pray angels be near and dreams be kind, and may she wake to attend the candlelight service – the same service we attended as children with our other siblings, dressed in outfits Mum had sewn herself, too poor to buy anything new. I’ll never forget my red velvet dress with the white lace collar and how fancy I felt in my eight-year-old skin.

The front door shuts, Dad shakes snow from the hat he’s worn for 20 years and we watch him as he climbs stairs, tired. He looks at us and we say, “She’s down for a nap,” and he swallows.

“How is she?”

“A bit fuzzy,” I say, and he nods. Maybe we should decorate the tree.

But Allison insists on waiting for our sister and brother to arrive. I call up my husband and he brings the turkey. I baste it and stuff it and prep it for tomorrow’s feast, for as much as Mum is fuzzy, tomorrow’s Christmas, and I’m hoping for a miracle.

***

Mom sleeps through the service where Dad preaches about the long-awaited Messiah, and my brother and his wife and their children, sister and sister, my husband and kids, we all fill a long row, praying into the silent night, holy night.

Back home, Dad puts Mum to bed, brother carrying her legs, husband helping to lift, and we all silently beg her to be fine in the morning. But no one says anything. Instead we pop corn and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, and then we tuck in bed, too excited to sleep, for we all become kids on Christmas Eve. We pretend to close our eyes as Dad puts red boots beside our pillows. I want to hug him and tell him he doesn’t have to do this, he doesn’t have to pretend everything is okay, but I don’t because I know he does, because he’s our Dad, and it’s a tradition, us waking to red boots stuffed with candy.

***

Morning, and we trip upstairs to the hum of something holy. The lights are already lit, for we’ve risen too late, even though it’s still dark outside. The air smells of coffee, and Mum and Dad are in the kitchen. Mum’s eyes shine like tinsel as she touches my hair and says, “Good morning, beautiful,” and everything in me sings hallelujah.

Stockings are first, and for me, they’re everything, knowing Dad has wrapped each tiny gift – Mum thinking she has. We unwrap the deodorants and chocolates and toothbrushes we bought with her that day in the mall, and we exclaim because, at this age, the least becomes the greatest.

Dad pulls out his Bible and he reads the well-worn story. Mum fingers the nativity scene, the one that lights gold when tea light flames. And we sing the morning bright, blending altos and tenors and my husband’s wavering warble. Mum’s feet keep beat and brother strums guitar, and we’re a pajama-clad choir, the babies running underfoot on chubby legs.

Mum is pouring us more orange juice and I think of how we used to only be allowed half a glass each, how I would long to drink as much as I could. But now, all I want is for her to be like this every day of the year. I’d drink as little or as much as she wanted, just as long as she felt better.

Then she looks at me with the same eyes she’s always had and they tell me, one day she will be better, and all because of a Baby born in a manger. And her eyes, they tell me that she’s still my mom, who says yes to me by pouring me orange juice and smoothing my hair and calling me beautiful.

***

Later we serve turkey and stuffing and my head hurts from it all, and I wonder how Mum did it with four children underfoot. I’m miffed when Grandpa teases my supposed lemon meringue pie, and I want to run away, but Mum touches my hand and I’m reminded of grace and I smile. Smooth my apron. Do the dishes.

We walk now in the white of snow, our prints making small in the soft of winter. Mum’s dragging a little, but she’s hooked arms with Dad and with me and we’re singing again, “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We pass houses bright with lights, hills which sleds have slid, bushes frozen with December, and she’s bundled tight in blue scarf...and I can’t remember loving her more.

When we get back to the house, Mum unravels winter wear, serves us hot chocolate and turns on some holiday classics. Soon, she’s dancing. Dad swinging her this way, that, the string of Christmas cards rustling against their hair and the dim of dusk falling slowly outside.

Tonight will be crackers and cheese and It’s a Wonderful Life. Perhaps we’ll play a game and then we’ll tumble into bed, full, and tomorrow will begin the putting away and the packing up and the saying goodbye.

But right now, in this moment of dance and chocolate and babies eating paper and lights blinking white, green and red, and Frank Sinatra singing, in this moment, Jesus is born. And so, I squeeze my husband’s hand and sit as still as possible in a room full of motion. For this is my miracle. And I don’t want to miss it. Not for the world.

Image by Zen. Used with permission. Sourced via Flickr. This post is an edited reprint by Emily Wierenga, author of Save My Children: The Story of a Father's Love.

Editorial Note: The deadline for December's PhotoPlay, Do You See What I Hear? is in one week. Try to photograph what you hear, and upload your images by December 28.

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• caregiver
• caregiver role
• caregiving
• christmas
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• sandwich generation

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