The Christmas Jar

                       

 

I knew it would be hard for her this first Christmas away from home. After all, Mom is a giver. When my uncles or cousins visited during the holidays over the years, she literally emptied her cupboards trying to give them gifts. There were even times when she pulled out something I had given her to re-gift to a special someone. Mind you, the tags were still on that pastel nightie or cottony- soft robe. She’d look at me as if to say, “I didn’t really need this anyway. It was far too lovely for me to wear.”

 

This Christmas, I took a box of ornaments to the assisted living facility for her to hand out as gifts, along with boxes of candy, but I knew she was still struggling. What would she give to us, her children?

 

Mom and dad always bought gifts when we were younger, then later, gave us checks for the holidays. The amounts altered a bit over the years, though their sincerity never did. My brother, sister, and I urged Mom to stop the check writing many times since Dad died 8 years ago, but that was a bitter pill for her to swallow. This year, my sister wrote cards and included small checks from mom to our kids, just so they would know their grandma remembered them, not that they needed that reminder. 

 

After we had eaten our December 26^th Christmas meal in the café we borrowed at the facility, I wheeled mom back to her room. She was carrying the soft pink nightie we chose, along with her other presents. After hanging the nightie in the closet, I turned to see her holding a glass jar in her lap. Her eyes were filled with tears. 

 

“I know it isn’t much,” she said humbly, “but I thought you might like it.” It was clear cut glass, not expensively made, but all the more dear, for it held my mother’s love.

She won the jar in a contest at the facility when she guessed the number of candies it contained.

 

Of course, I told her I needed a jar just like that one for my tea bags, and held her a little longer than usual, saying, that her continued presence is the only gift I truly need.  

 

Since that day, I have kept that jar on my counter.  I lift the lid each day, saying a silent prayer for my mother. I wouldn’t trade that gift for anything. 

 

The other night, I asked Mom if she’d worn her new, soft, pink nightie. There was a slight pause before she answered, “No. But it might come in handy.” I had to smile. 

 

Yep, that’s mom: still a giver.