"You can't lose me..."

"You won't be lost if you believe
You can't lose me..."
- Faith Hill*

March is National Women's History month.  So, off and on, for the rest of the month, I would like to share what I have learned from women, like you and me,  who are doing...and have done... things that profoundly inspire me.

The first, not surprisingly, is my mom. 

My mom, Nancy Rosetta Clark McCullough, is the most inspiring woman I have ever known...personally.    And since this series is about what I have seen and experienced, I will not be sharing stories of women I have heard about, or love historically...but, women I have actually known and watched.   So that said...

Okay, so try to imagine your 38 year old self waking up one morning, and suddenly, you are a grieving widow with eight children under the age of 19.  The youngest are 2 year old twins.  You don't own your home. You have no family to depend upon.  You haven't worked in 20 years, and there is no money in the bank to pay bills with.  On top of that, there is no life insurance policy or pension payout to look forward to for the financial support of you and your children. 

What do you do?

Well, if you are Nancy Rosetta Clark, you pray...and then you pray some more....and then you rally your eight children around you into an army of love. 

You refuse to be broken by sorrow or fear.  You challenge despair like a prize fighter, and you pray. 

Did I say you pray? 

I have asked my mother about this time...many times.  Especially when I felt overwhelmed by the prospect of raising, and caring for, three children as a single mom...I couldn't imagine eight!

She said that she was pretty darned terrified...especially during those first few months after the initial covered dishes and caring friends naturally drifted softly back into the demands of their own busy lives...assuming mom had other back-up support in place.  When in fact, there was actually no money, and very little food.  But, mom always explained that when she saw how the love she felt for each of us was never exhausted or diminished, she knew there was a source of supply that was even more reliable than a salary or a job.  It was as infinite as the breadth of her love, and came from a well of goodness that was, in fact, as fathomless as her hope.

And it has always been there...for over 40 years now. 

My mother's love for each of her children, grandchildren, and now, great grandchildren...has never been reduced by the demands placed upon her,  as her large family has continued to expand.  In fact, it has only grown.  Her love goes beyond the boundaries of what we have asked of her.  Her ability to listen without judgment, to share generously, to stretch the borders of her heart without reaching its limits, and to forgive...anything...has only grown more diffusive,  as we have grown in numbers. 

I know that she still faces some of the same financial concerns we experienced after dad's passing, but she never lets them distract her from wisely distributing the real riches of her life's purpose...those of her heart.  She shares her gifts richly, generously, and freely with anyone who needs a kind word, warm hand, a strong shoulder, a gentle voice, and a life that is rich with experience and wisdom. 

Her history in trusting God's care for her children, is breath-taking.  And the more demanding the times, the more she seems to give.

Mary Baker Eddy promises that:

"A mother's affection cannot be weaned from her child,
because the mother-love includes purity and constancy,
both of which are immortal.
Therefore maternal affection lives on
under whatever difficulties."

So, what did my mother teach me?  So, so, so much. But as I sit here writing tonight, I think the lesson I am most aware of is this:   that I can lose money, I can lose my way, I can lose a race, or a bid for a house...but I can never lose her, or God, or my right to love -- my way through....well, anything.

She is my hero.

Love you momma...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS


*Enjoy this video of Faith Hill's tribute to motherhood, "You Can't Lose Me."

[photo credit:  Lila June Jones..child number 6...2009]

"Thank God for you..."

"Thank you,
thank you,
thank God for you,
the wind beneath my wings..."

Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings" says it all.  My siblings would probably agree that without our mother's courage and grace...we would not be who we are today.  She has always been content to let us shine. 

Our dad passed on when I was 19, and the youngest of her eight children were toddler twins.  Here is the story of that first Thanksgiving, and just one of the reasons why she is, still, my hero.  If this story seems familiar, it was written for the Christian Science Sentinel as a children's story in 1988 and was told from my grade school-age sister, Lila's point of view.  TMCYouth (this link will take you to a special Thanksgiving page with a number of stories of gratitude...mine is just one of them) recently requested that I write it from my own point of view for their website.  I share it here with my love and gratitude:

Unrestricted Giving

I was 19 that autumn. My dad had been killed in an accident, and I'd just given up on the dream I cherished for longer than I could remember-and had worked so hard to make come true. I was walking away from a full-ride scholarship to the Ivy League university of my choice, so that I could work three jobs, go to school at a local college…one class at a time, and help raise my 7 younger brothers and sisters. This was not in any long-term plans I'd had for my life.

Dad's passing that summer was heartbreaking for our family. We'd gotten through the memorial service and the early weeks of grief, surrounded by extended family and church friends. But by the time late fall rolled around, we were really on our own.

The aunts, uncles, and cousins had returned to their homes in other states, and the church my family attended was almost an hour away in another city. We were living on a leased farm in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch country, eating the last of that summer's home-canned harvest and watching the pantry empty out faster than a grain silo with an open door.

My sister, Nancy, was working at a local fast food restaurant after school, I worked three jobs, my sister Linda babysat, and the boys did odd jobs when they could. But we were barely able to pay the rent on the old stone farmhouse, and keep the utilities on. Mom still had toddler twins to care for and the station wagon that had been my dad's pride and joy a few years earlier, was now a gas-guzzling behemoth with more than 100,000 miles  under her sequoia green exterior.

I could barely breathe some days as Thanksgiving drew closer. We had a large bag of rice, and a few remaining mason jars filled with green beans and red beets to look forward to, rather than the turkey, stuffing, cranberries, and pie with ice cream we'd enjoyed just the year before.

And it wasn't the food itself I worried that we would miss.  It was the joy of preparing it together as a family. The steamy kitchen, the scent of sage and nutmeg, the boisterous rebuke dad would get from our mom, when he tasted the stuffing before it was its time...and mom's "can you believe it, right out of the back of the bird" as soon as she heard the oven door creak open...knowing it wasn't because he was basting her masterpiece.

I felt sick as the days tumbled towards that most loved holiday. Some days, the fear of disappointment, seemed greater than the fear of starvation and homelessness looming over me each night as I tried to fall asleep under the heavy quilts next to my mom.

The weather the week before Thanksgiving was glorious. Bright blue Pennsylvania skies haloed the pristinely painted, and cared for, red Amish barns dotting our winding country road. As my school-age siblings ran from the school bus stop, I could hear the squeals of joy and crunch of leaves that preceded a their burst through the kitchen door.

Mom greeted them, as she'd been greeting each of us since I'd started Kindergarten 14 years earlier, with the eager curiosity of a child. "What was it like?" "What did you learn?" "Did you bring me a picture drawn (or a story written, a note from the teacher)?"

Their answer that day made my heart sink like a lead stone. right to the pit of my stomach. There was going to be a food drive, Lila, Ricky and Wayde explained, and every child that brought in something would be able to sign the big card that would be given, with the food, to a needy family.

"Great," I thought, as my mom did what I knew she'd do from the minute the children started telling her about the project. She went to the pantry and took the last three mason jars full of beans and beets off the shelf and brought them to the kitchen table for wrapping in brown paper she already had the children decorating with colored pencil and crayon drawings of turkeys and pilgrims.

I pulled her aside and in my most grown up "hiss" of disapproval I reminded her that we had no money left to purchase food for our own Thanksgiving dinner, and that if she gave the children those vegetables, our own meal would consist of nothing more than rice...and more rice. I'd had it.

I was angry at Mom for being so clueless about the direness of our situation. I was angry at Dad for leaving us without insurance, pension, or a house of our own, and for leaving me to clean up this mess. I was angry that I'd given up my dreams of attending university full-time, in exchange for waitressing at night, and typing all day. I was angry at God for not sending anyone to help me navigate a sea of debt and fear. I was way over my 19 year old head and beginning to drown.

But it was as if Mom didn't even hear the tone of my voice. She smiled gently as if she were brushing off a teenager's "whatever."

Later that evening, she proceeded to remind us all of how Jesus had fed the multitudes on the hillside. She pointed out that Jesus hadn't produced loaves and fishes from mid-air, but that he had asked the disciples what they had to give, had taken it, blessed it, and then had given it back to the disciples, to give to the multitudes. She then, in her most mother tiger-like voice-the one you didn't mess with-said that nothing, and no one, would deprive her children of their right to be generous. To be givers.

And that was that.

The children wrapped their precious canned goods in the homemade wrapping paper, and the next day took their contributions in to add to the school food drive, and to sign the big card for the needy family.

When Thanksgiving Eve arrived I felt cynical, bitter, and yes, so terribly disappointed I could barely stand the bile in my throat and the ache in my chest. I missed it all. The smell of pumpkin cooking on the stove for pies, the sound of pans clattering, the small yellow box of Bell's stuffing seasoning on the counter as mom pinched it into the bowl of stale bread we'd have been tearing into little bits for weeks.

I was beyond crying. I was tense with fear, and sick with anguish, for myself and for my siblings. I couldn't imagine we'd ever know another happy Thanksgiving again.

When Mom happily suggested that we all gather around the big table in the kitchen to prepare for Thanksgiving in a fresh, new way that year, I has so thoroughly resigned to just getting through the next day without collapsing that I actually joined them, with arms tightly folded at my chest and a look of disgust on my face.

Mom explained that she wanted us to go around the table and tell each other what we were grateful for. I am sure, even now almost 40 years later, that I rolled my eyes in derision. Ricky was grateful for his bicycle. At that Mom stopped us and clarified the goal a bit more. We were to think of things we were grateful for that you couldn't see with your eyes or touch with your hands. Hmmm…it was quiet for a bit.

And then Lila said that she was grateful she had finally memorized "The Lord's Prayer" from start to finish (see Matthew 6:9-13). It had been a Sunday School assignment and she'd worked hard to accomplish it.

Mom thought that this was a great thing for us all to be grateful for, and suggested that Lila lead us in saying The Lord's Prayer aloud. With another eye-roll of exasperation at my mom's spiritual idealism and unwillingness to acknowledge how desperate our situation was, I complied.

We began:

"Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
In earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread…."

Just as we got to the part about the daily bread, the doorbell rang. Faster than Mom could get up, the younger children were up from the table and out of the kitchen, running down the long hallway to the front door. Nancy got there first, and when she opened the door there were at least twenty parents, children, and teachers from the grade school.

We were all so surprised, me especially. Surprised and humbled. We lived in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Amish farms...and these "plain and simple" neighbors had ventured beyond their quiet isolation, to care for our needs. Our visitors had boxes and boxes of food. And there, in the hands of a tiny kindergartener, was the card that Lila, Ricky, and Wayde had signed at school, earlier in the week,  once they'd placed their carefully wrapped mason jars next to the other donations.

Mom was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes. Today I know that her tears were those of gratitude. What she'd wanted most for her children that Thanksgiving was some assurance…a real reason to believe…that they could trust in the power of giving, and the right to be generous, no matter what your human circumstances are. And of course she invited everyone to come in and celebrate.

Later, as she was putting on the milk to make hot cocoa (milk and cocoa that came from the donated food in the boxes), Mom called me in to help her with getting out the cups, pouring, and serving. While she stood at the stove stirring cocoa and sugar into the pan of hot milk, she asked me to take her copy of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy down from the kitchen shelf where she kept it, and read the passage marked by blue chalk and a slip of paper.

I read aloud:

"Giving does not impoverish us in the service of our Maker,
neither does withholding enrich us"

  Then Mom gently explained that she believed -- with her whole being -- that the best way she could serve God, was to trust Him...to trust His tender, unconditional care and infinite supply, not only for her family, but for all families. I didn't know what to say. I just hugged her, and then I helped my little sister find the marshmallows for the hot chocolate.

But that night something softened in me. My anger started to dissolve and my own trust started to grow.

Mom (and God) taught us all one of the most important lessons of our lives that year. She taught us that nothing could deprive us from being generous givers. Neither numbers in a check register, the barometer of an ever-shifting economic climate, a depleted job market, or an empty pantry could inform us about our right to give. We were givers, period.  And we were generous givers. It was our divine right.

And the food our family received that Thanksgiving eve, it lasted until my dad's social security benefits started to arrive 6 weeks later.

Over the course of the ensuing 25 years…through my youngest sister's graduation from college…Mom got up each morning, prayed, made breakfast, then set about the task of raising, feeding, clothing, educating, and modeling generosity for her eight children.  She taught us to rely on God's love for our support in every situation.

Eventually we all went to college, and one day, many years later, I found myself at that Ivy League dream school sitting in a classroom, having already learned the most important lessons of my life…not from college professors…but from a woman who trusted God. A woman who defended her children's right to be generous with others, no matter what the circumstances.

She is my hero.

Thank you Amy (and the TMCYouth team) for prompting me to rewrite this story...it has been quite a journey down a leafy autumn lane...full of light and gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone....with unbounded love,


Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Photo is of my mom, Nancy Rosetta Clark McCullough, with her granddaughter, Desi.

"...you are the apple of my eye..."

"You are the sunshine of my life,
That's why I'll always stay around,
You are the apple of my eye,
Forever you'll stay in my heart

You must have known that I was lonely,
Because you came to my rescue,
And I know that this must be heaven,
How could so much love be inside of you?"
-     Stevie Wonder

My grandmother used to tell me that I was, as Stevie Wonder sings, "the apple of my eye" to her.  I can't remember when it started, but it always made me feel special.  And in a family of eight children, feeling special was...special.

I remember a birthday card I received from her the year I turned ten, it was a big red apple with some kind of fuzzy red flocking, a green stem, little green leaves, and a worm sitting on the top holding a sign that said "Happy Birthday" and inside it said, "to the apple of my eye." And,  "Love, Dee Dee." My mom found it among some special cards and letters she had been saving all these years and gave it to me last year. For a moment, I was ten again, and felt...special.  

She was never Grandma, Grandmother, Granny, Nana, or Oma...she was DeeDee.  She had bright red hair, wore stilettos at 70, and her lipstick always matched her nails.  She couldn't have been any more unlike my mother if she'd had purple skin...and that fascinated me. 

My mother was the quintessential "earth mother."  She was warm, cozy, funny, childlike, and loved the outdoors.   My grandmother was sharp, smart, crisp, intellectual, and European.  Along with the apple-themed birthday card that year, she sent me a leather poodle, with mink ear and tail puffs, and a small bottle of Chanel No. 5 between his paws.  I was  smitten with her, and the sheer impracticality of that gift.  Like the pointy toes on her 3-1/2 inch red patent leather pumps, it made no sense.  To anyone...except the two of us.  She somehow knew that I needed to feel grown up and extravagant that year.  And I did.

No, she was not very grandmotherly in a traditional way, but she was my grandmother.  She would send me Margaret Tsuda art reviews she'd clipped from the Home Forum section of The Christian Science Monitor, long after I'd decided my spiritual journey was going to take a few side trips through other religious practices and spiritual philosophies...and I read them.  There was something about receiving them from her that made me feel connected to something wonderful and magical (our mutual love for art, history, and NYC). And I somehow knew it made her happy to think of me reading them.  It never occurred to me...at the time...that by sending those clippings, she was building bridges that connected me to something that was just as critical to my sense of who I was, and where I came from.  By sending those articles, she'd found a way to keep those words, "Christian Science" in my vocabulary, not in a religious way (since she knew I was exploring many different faiths and philosophies at the time), but in a way that was more comfortable for me to engage with, and appreciate on. And to be honest, one that I was proud to be associated with.  It's reputation for journalistic excellence was unparalleled...and I knew it.

When those thickly stuffed envelopes would arrive with her very uniquely vertical handwriting on the front, I would save each packet...sometimes just sitting propped up on my desk at school all day...until I had a moment to savor the beauty of what I knew would be inside.  An article about a beautiful painting, drawing, sculpture, or photograph written by someone she knew I admired and felt a connection to. 

Tsuda had hosted my cousins and I one autumn afternoon for tea at her apartment, and then given us a guided tour of the Guggenheim at my grandmother's request.  I was 15 years old and I can still remember how grown up and sophisticated I felt in my pleated skirt and Bass loafers with navy blue knee socks, as we felt our way along the spiraled walls to the sound of Margaret's hushed guidance and snippets of history about each piece of art we were experiencing. 

Today I realize what a gift that day was to me.  It honored my life-long love for art and gave my grandmother and I a point of reference for a special connection that would endure over the ensuing three decades.  It was a thread that extended from her heart to mine and it never let me get too far from who she knew me to be...a young woman who loved beauty, history, and being treated as a vigorous spiritual  thinker.

Those hand-clipped art reviews from the Home Forum page always seemed to include the nearby "Monitor Religious article" and today I can admit to having read everyone of them.  Articles about what it meant to be spiritual and how to make that spirituality practical in our lives.

Although she often spoke of her love for God, my grandmother never mentioned religion, or that daily religious article, in her accompanying note.  But as a Christian Science practitioner herself,  I have no doubt that she sent it with the hopes that if, perchance, I was ever hungry for an inspiring spiritual idea...one that would be familiar and healing in a dark hour...I would have something at hand.

In this way she and my mother (her daughter) were very, very much alike.  They were both practical and loving in ways that really mattered.  My mother always made sure I knew how close she was if, and when, I ever needed her...even when she lived thousands of miles away and had six other children to care for.  And my grandmother never let me forget that the most important things in the world were already within me.

I once asked my grandmother why she called me the apple of her eye, and although I thought her answer was pretty "hokey" at the time, I never forgot it.  She said, "because you ripen into something more beautiful and sweet each time time I see you."  I knew she meant it.

My mother and my grandmother were like the angels Gabriel and Michael on either side of me.  My grandmother fought the war for holiness in my life.  My mother was the constant, gentle presence of ministering love.  Together, one on each side, they held my hands as I navigated my spiritual journey from sense to soul.   I needed both of them in order to become the woman I am today.  Their example helped me remember what really matters...modesty, beauty, family, generosity, honesty, faith, temperance, and hope...lots of hope.

They still do.  My mother's example reminds me that it is good to be soft, that nothing could deprive me of my right to be generous and charitable, that it is important to take time and play with my children, that a woman is most beautiful when she laughs hard, and to forgive myself, and others quickly...and to love God with my whole heart.  My grandmother's voice..singing through my heart...never, ever, lets me forget that I can do anything through Christ, that intelligence is truly beautiful, and that Love is not just a good feeling, but a law to rest one's case on.

With women like this on my side...either side...I have been supported, blessed, and loved into womanhood. 

I am so thankful to be the apple of one's eye, and the other's first (of many) cherished baby, beloved child, precious girl, adored daughter.
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit:  Hollister Thomas 2009]

"I'm fifteen for a moment..."

"...Halftime goes by
Suddenly you're wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
the sun is getting high
We're moving on...

15 there's still time for you
Time to love and time to lose
Oh 15, there's never a wish better than this,
When you've only got a hundred years to live..."
- Five for Fighting

This song, "100 Years" by Five for Fighting, grabs me and doesn't let go.  Whenever I hear it on the radio, or recently on my friend, Liesl's Facebook page, I remember being 15, and it was magical...for a moment.  Then the next moment,  I was 15 and 20 seconds, then 15 years and 3 days, 17 minutes, and 45 seconds...you get the picture. Today I am 55...for a moment. And I really feel no different today, than I did at 15. I feel love deeply, I long to make a difference in the world, and I want to know the presence of God in my life. 15, 55...they are just numbers that come and go.  Each one of these numbers is as full of value in marking life milestones as those same numbers are in helping us count apples in a bowl, measure a room for wallpaper, or reconcile a check book.

15 was a space that marked an important time in my life.  It was sweet and full of learning...and I loved it.  I have enjoyed the bookmarks that were 23, and 35, and 48...placeholders that make it easy to reference those chapters when recalling a shared experience of joy, sorrow, triumph, or transitions with others.  I can say to my daughter, "when you were 11 and we lived in Colorado..." and we both know where to land as we remember events on our shared timeline. The number doesn't define her, it only serves as a valuable reference point in cataloguing our experiences together.

As I bookmarked tonight's milestone I couldn't help but write my own verse to 100 years:

"I'm 55 for a moment
No longer waiting for a reason to love
And I'm just grateful
Counting the blessings I have known..."

I will only be 55 for one moment.  But that moment will be rich with spiritual substance.  It will be teeming with the opportunity to be generous, kind, patient, good.  And although Life blesses me with an infinite number of moments, each one...including this 55th year, 8th hour, 33rd minute, and 27th second of this chapter in my eternal life book...is precious, treasured, and worthy of celebration. 

I will try to count every one of my moments as dear...sacred as that first moment I looked into my daughters' eyes, heard my mother's voice, tasted my first bite of pear, or felt the sweetness of true love.

In the last year I faced a health crisis that made me even more aware of how very precious each moment of life is.  Every moment.  Not one is disposable. Each is a gift.  A moment of life can be filled with beauty, movement, joy, affection, wonder.  Isn't it amazing!

When I think of the gift of life, I think of my mom.  No matter how many times she has faced seemingly insurmountable odds, she lives her life vigorously, and with a clear purpose.  She lives to bless, and every day she blesses the lives of the children she nannies.  She lives her life with such exuberance and hope...she always has. Her childlike joy and eager generosity have taught me that youthfulness is experienced in each and every moment that we choose to fill our hearts and minds with love.  My mom has always made me feel as though her life is more wonderfully rich because we, her children, are in it with her.  I hope she knows that we feel the same.  

"I'm 99 for a moment
I'm praying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are..."

15 there's still time for you
Time to love and time to choose
Oh 15, there's never a wish, better than this
When you've only got a hundred years to live..."

I hope your very next moment is a precious to you as the sound of a loved one's voice...and that it is filled with gentle friends, exhuberant joy, and a profoundly God-sent sense of purpose...and always with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Don't miss this precious "Peter Pan" moment from when I was six years old...it broadcast on television each year...what joy it brought to us all...i liked being six...I still do!!  Watching this today I am six again...for a moment!!

love, Kate

"What then can I give Him..."

This past Sunday my husband, daughters, and I went to the Christmas show at our son's high school.  There were classical and contemporary works sung by the choir, band performances, a lyrical dance number and opportunities for the audience to sing Christmas hymns and carols together.  The most memorable act for me was a skit that our son performed in with his Advanced Theater Arts class.
 
It was the story of a cobbler who had a message from God that He, God, would visit him on Christmas Eve.  The cobbler stayed at his bench throughout the day waiting for God's arrival.  A beggar, a crone and a lost child come through his life that day in great need, and as the day wanes on he helps each one by offering shoes, a loaf of bread, warmth, guidance and direction, but is saddened that God had not arrived, as promised, as the day grows dark.  He calls out to God asking if God has forgotten His promise and God answers that he had visited that day as a beggar, a crone and a child and that the cobbler had served Him well.  It brought tears to my eyes remembering a Christmas that God brought out the best in my family through acts of kindness and unselfishness.

"What then can I give Him empty as I am?

I was ten that Christmas in 1964.  It had been a very hard year for our family.  My parents had both been hospitalized, at different times,  my dad had lost his job...and we had lost our home...because of his extended illness. My mother had given birth to her sixth child that year and had been so weak following my sister's birth that she was unable to return home from the hospital for some days.   Hospital bills had mounted and debts had taken away all that we owned.

My dad had finally found work driving tractor-trailer cross-country hauling one of the most dangerous cargoes..."wide load" modular home units.  The roads between our home in the southwest and the destination for his last load of the year, on the East coast, were particularly treacherous that December.  My mother, left at home with her six children...ages ranging from my baby sister at 9 months, to me at 10 years...tried to do her best to prepare for the holidays in the house that was assigned to us by a local philanthropic organization which provided needy families in our city with food, clothing, and shelter.   We were grateful for the 50 pound bags of rice and pinto beans that were delivered regularly, but we had to wait until dad was paid following the conclusion of his delivery of his outgoing cargo and his return with another load, to purchase anything further. 

My mom did everything she could to make Christmas wonderful for her children.  She helped us make Christmas tree ornaments for the tree (that the Optimist Society had delivered to all of its recipient families) a week before Christmas, out of newspaper, string and tempura paint.  She helped us learn a version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" that we five older children could sing and perform for dad when he made it back from his delivery.  She took us to every possible free Christmas activity she could unearth in our community...activities that often included free hot cider and Christmas cookies made be loving volunteers.  Christmas cookies that would replace the ones we wouldn't be baking that year without butter, eggs, and flour to spare. 

As Christmas approached we children were oblivious to the heartache she faced each day.  Without a phone (this was a luxury that was not provided for) or a car (ours had been lost along with our home when their financial security disappeared with dad's job) and no money for a baby-sitter, she was housebound much of the time unless a kind neighbor offered to watch the children so that she could run errands.  Each of those occasions found her rushing off to the busstop and returning an hour or so later with a couple of large paper grocery sacks.  We never thought to ask her where she had been or what she brought back.  Late at night, after we children were snugly tucked into bed, she could be found out in the garage..her breath making small puffs of steam in the cold air...busy as one of Santa's elves. 

She didn't know if our dad would make it back from his latest run in time for Christmas morning.  Refusing to be daunted by a lack of money and reports that icy roads and winter storms were standing between dad and his children's dreams of presents under the tree, she set her heart and her mind on the tasks at hand.

My younger sister had been searching the Sears catalogue with her friends for the perfect Christmas gift to request in their letters to Santa and all had settled on child-sized kitchens made out of painted tin, replete with miniature stove and refrigerator filled with small pans and plastic fruits and vegetables.  Not to be hindered by dollar signs mother spent her few hours away from her six children, in those weeks leading up to Christmas, scouring the local junkyard for orange crates, old stove knobs and cupboard handles with which she filled those shopping bags and brought home to her workshop in the garage. 

The boys had set their sights on a train set and mom was going to make that dream come true as well.  She found an old piece of plywood on which she painted a birds-eye-view of the small New England town she had grown up in.  Discarded ends of two-by-fours painted with windows and the names of cargo companies hosted large buttons glued on for wheels and were tied together with pieces of ribbon.  Branches from dead trees became miniature trees and bushes and discarded milk container, rinsed and covered with construction paper became houses, churches, and a fire hall. 

The baby was given a small stuffed bear that mom had made from an old furry jacket that she really needed herself to keep stay warm. Instead she could be found in one or two of dad's old flannel shirts layered for warmth after ears and legs were cut out of the back and front sections of her own jacket and its small black buttons became eyes and a nose.

But night after night she agonized over what she would do for her two eldest daughters, my sister Nancy and I.  We had our hearts set on the same dream as all of our 4th and 5th grade friends.  Bikes!  We had torn the pictures of our favorite models from the Sear catalogue and had them tacked to the bulletin board in our bedroom.  Blue bikes with baskets on the front for carrying books from the library or our lunch sacks to school.  We had dreams of riding our bikes to the local pool in the summer time and even offered to carry groceries home for mom if our dreams came true that Christmas. 

You see, mother had made our Christmas...no, our lives...so full with her creativity and joy that we were clueless as to the desperation or the financial mountains she faced each day. 

As reports of more winter storms were forecasted for dad's route, and no hope of knowing his whereabouts without a phone mom made a decision on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.  She asked the next-door neighbor if she would invite us children over to watch the bubble lights on her Christmas tree and sing carols while she ran an errand. 

Later that night she tucked us all into bed and went to her workshop in the cold garage to put the finishing touches on a miniature town, a small kitchen made of orange crates and old dishtowels for cupboard doors and tied the piece of pink ribbon on the bear for her youngest before she brought it all into the living room to put under the tree. 

We tossed and turned in our beds.  Mother having finished every last detail climbed onto the sofa where she and dad slept each night and turned out all the lights but the Christmas tree.  When we woke up the next morning and ran down the hall there she was curled up in dad's arms.  He had arrived home sometime in the middle of the night and crawled in behind her amazed at all that she had done. 

We were so happy to see him and each knew our part.  We lined up in the hall from youngest to eldest and to the tune of "Chopsticks" we marched out singing "'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house...."
Dad woke up and smiled up at us and I will never forget the look on mom's face when she realized that he was there.  She had been so tired that she hadn't even felt him tuck himself in behind her on the open sofa bed. 

After our song we all welcomed dad home and went to the tree to see all the beautiful gifts that my mother had made.  Nancy and I didn't say anything when we realized that there were no bikes for us to ride to school that year.  Dad had brought home small gifts for each of us, including a small bottle of "Windsong" perfume for mother.  

We went to the kitchen and were thrilled to see small bright orange tangerines, an assortment of tiny boxes of cereal  (we would keep those boxes for Linda's child-sized kitchen cupboards), and cocoa powder for hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows to float on top of each cup.  Cereal boxes were opened and the pot came out of the cabinet for cocoa but there was no milk.  At least until dad told Nancy or I to go out to the back porch and bring it in from the cold where he had left it to stay cool...why we didn't question the wisdom of it not being in the refrigerator escapes me, but we didn't.  We obediently went to the back porch and there standing side by side with red bows on each of the handle bars were two shiny blue bikes. 

We were so happy....it wasn't until later that year that I noticed that my mother's left hand was bare.  She had pawned her wedding and engagement rings to purchase those bikes and when she went back with her claim tickets to retrieve her rings it was too late...they had been sold.  My mother never complained.  She never mentioned her empty finger or the absence of rings that she had loved. 

Three months later my parents were reintroduced to the study of Christian Science (my mom had grown up going to a Christian Science Sunday School as a child but had left it her religious roots in the past when she married and my dad didn't know anything about it) and its practice of Christ's law of selfless charity, compassion and love.  I have always believed that my mother's unselfishness that Christmas opened the door of our home for the Christ Spirit to fully enter and transform our lives and our hearts with abundant grace and vast opportunities for gratitude. 

By the next Christmas my dad had two great jobs that allowed him to be home with his family at night and we had moved into real home of our own in a lovely neighborhood.  We had a Christmas tree that we picked out at a local lot, there were presents wrapped in colorful paper, and Bing Crosby singing from a record player in the living room.  Our lives had changed and our tradition of little tangerines and tiny assorted boxes of cereal had been born.  We would never forget the BEST Christmas ever.

Seven years later I would try to relive my mother's lesson of love by replacing her engagement and wedding rings with a simple gold band....but that's another story...

How are your acts of selfless love, kindness, compassion, generosity and charity opening doors for the Christ to enter into the hearts and homes of loved ones, neighbors and strangers this Christmas? 

"What then can I give Him
Empty as I am?
If I were a Shepherd
I would bring a lamb.
If I were a Wiseman
I would know my part.
What then can I give Him
I must give my heart."

"In the Bleak Midwinter"
Christina Rossetti

Katie