Long ago, and, actually, pretty far away, there was a magical Christmas. It was the Christmas before we were married, when we both sang in the choir at church. In the weeks preceding Christmas, at rehearsal, we sang so many beautiful hymns that I had never heard before. At least one in Italian, which I thought was particularly beautiful (I would sing it at nap time to the children for whom I was a nanny), and others with simple, elegant melodies and harmonies. I was a member of the alto section; Guy, a tenor. As a whole, the choir could sound quite lovely, and rarely did we have a soloist.
The week of Christmas, our director, Jim, listed for us the songs and hymns that had been selected for the special services. One in particular, I was surprised about. We had not rehearsed it, and I had no recollection of ever having heard it. Now, of course, I am surprised by this, but when I hear it on the radio, I can see why. It's the kind of song that was on the choral albums of my youth, and tends to remind me of "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" from The Sound of Music: a wonderfully meaningful message, but not terribly exciting to listen to as a kid. I probably had heard it a hundred times, and simply tuned it out.
I remember Jim giving us special instructions about this song, and I remember being relieved that it would actually be sung by a soloist. Somehow, though, I remember being a tad confused. Everyone else seemed to know what was going on, but not me. Later, I asked Guy if he understood the instructions; in all honesty, I was relieved that he didn't get it either.
Christmas night, however, I was amazed.
The song was "O Holy Night," and the presentation at our church could not have been more astounding. The song will never be the same for me. You see, at our pretty little church, "O Holy Night" was sung by Santa, in a strong, clear, and completely unamplified voice that reached every rafter, every corner, every church mouse. As the music began, Santa entered through the front door, singing from one end of the aisle to the other, bearing the Christ child to place in our Manger, under the altar. His bright red suit and shiny black boots stood out from everyone in the church, and were complimented by the poinsettias and the large Christmas tree adorning the area around the altar.
I was completely mesmerized. His voice was so beautiful, I could understand each and every word, and his personage added special meaning to all of them. Obviously, this was a well-rehearsed event, because the timing was impeccable. Who would expect any less from Santa Claus? As he reached the words, "Fall on your knees," Santa had arrived at the step to the altar, and did, indeed, fall to his knees. And at the words, "Oh night when Christ was born," he lovingly, gently placed the figure in the Manger.
That was the first time I had ever seen Santa elevated to the status of a religious figure. I know he started out that way, obviously, he is a saint and all, but I grew up hearing how "commercial" Christmas had become, and how all 'us kids' had ever cared about was what Santa was going to bring, rather than what Christmas is really about. I grew up feeling guilty for looking forward to getting Christmas presents, and yet feeling overjoyed at going shopping for others. And yet, I did understand where it all started; I did want to see a clear--or at least, reasonable--link between Santa, cookies and stockings, and the birth of Jesus.
Santa gave me that gift. And I will never forget.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
(loss of) clarity and vision
Helping my aging mother is hard. "Handling" her has always been difficult for me; we clash on everything, beginning with personality, and ranging all the way to lettuce. This is really nothing new, and I am truly not surprised, and I find myself--often--wishing.
Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).
Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.
And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.
Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--
"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"
Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."
Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.
Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.
She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."
And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.
And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.
And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)
The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.
After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.
Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).
Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.
And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.
Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--
"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"
Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."
Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.
Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.
She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."
And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.
And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.
And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)
The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.
After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.
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