A Gift to Call My Own

What should have taken about 20 minutes quickly stretched into an hour. The chance to run freely through a dimly light church sanctuary was irresistible, and the task at hand, selecting a gift tag from the altar tree, was sidelined en lieu of exploration.

Mary was immensely curious about all the candles, and the statue of Mary (the Mary, not my small one) looming over the candle area. Together we lit a candle and I talked to the girls about remembering those who have died. For my grandmother, a very old soul Catholic, the Virgin Mary was the mother of all and the one to whom you appealed for help in any situation. My Mary nodded, very focused and interested.

Mary knelt down and I stepped away, over to the tree but still in hearing distance of her quiet, church appropriate, voice. She blessed herself, "Father, Son, Holy Spirit, amen" crossing her chest from right to left.

"Hello Mary, this is Mary. For Christmas, could Mimi and Grandaddy come back from heaven, just maybe for the day? That would make my mom really happy. Thank you".

She stood quietly, blessed herself again, and then promptly threw one small leg over the top of the kneeling bench. Wiggling furiously she managed to get her entire body on top, as if on a grocery store mechanical horse. Grabbing one leg, I pulled her down, just before she rode her horse into row after row of lit candles. Sitting on the step, I then said my own blessing, for this child, for her kindness and her spirit; and for the circle of life that brought her to me. 

Originally written several years ago, when Mary was six, this was the perfect story to share after reading The 13th Gift, this month's From Left to Write book selection. A holiday memoir, writer Joanne Huist Smith shares how the kindness of others helped her family come together and celebrate Christmas, after suffering a great loss. Join From Left to Write on October 28th as we discuss The 13th Gift.  As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Charitable Giving

As a general rule, I don't give money to people with extended hands. Years ago, during the holiday season, I thought it clever to drop a small candy cane into the cup; festive, refreshing and somewhat practical. Assuming those asking didn't have ready access to money, and food and dental hygiene, peppermint was a true gift back to the community, until the teeth began to rot from the sugar. My holiday generosity was halted when the candy cane was hurled back at me in protest of its non monetary value. To note, candy canes are hard and when cold and thrown with force, weaponry.

In my early commuting days soliciting was allowed on the trains. One long and cold ride home found me between a man selling candy bars for his church group and a very smelly man who honestly admitted he wanted money to buy beer. With thoughts of only the greater good, and just a bit of dreamy silence, I bought a candy bar, sent an underprivileged kid to church camp, and handed my purchase over to the smelly guy looking for an Old Style. He threw it, with an arm that could be used at Wrigley this summer, he wound up and projected that Snickers the entire length of the train, and then called me a name, not my given name, not a nice name. My years of selfless giving were over.

Now, once a month, the girls and I make sandwiches for the homeless lunch program at church. Still recovering from all the confectionery launched at me over the years, I prefer to make my contributions in a safe environment, with things far less lethal, and noticeably softer, than propelled candy. Sandwiches made by five year old children are inconsistent and loaded with everything they can get their hands on, assumably quite delectable to those who may not have had many a good, and thick, sandwich in recent days. I have visions of them opening the bags and finding not one slice, not seven, but a bizarre amount of turkey and ham and cheese, the most wonderful pile of food ever assembled, and I think of those who have shunned my goodwill in years past, and I smirk, rather unkindly.

Last month, as we delivered the sandwiches, Kate asked if she might ever be one of the recipients of our lunch generosity. In classic Mother over think, I rambled on about the uncertainty of life and the true meaning of giving. While it is less than likely that she might ever find herself in a place where a sloppily crafted pile of lunch meat eaten outdoors in truly cold weather might sound appealing, for unknown reasons I thought it best to prepare my five year old for the possibility that she may find herself out of work one day, or without health care, or social security, that there are no guarantees, and that we must always be grateful for what we have and the opportunities we are given.

"Oh, I just thought those sandwiches looked pretty good".