Last year, on the first Sunday of Advent, we celebrated our Mom’s 90th birthday. Having been born in the early days of December, quite likely she unknowingly celebrated her birthday at the beginning of Advent more than once. This year, for the first time in my life of 59 years, the Christmas season will be without her presence. She is and will be keenly missed.
We did not grow up with an awareness of the Advent season, but Christmas was cherished and important. As a child, the arrival of the Sears Wish Book marked the beginning of the season. I would pore over the pages of toys located towards the back of the catalogue and imagine “if I had the pick of any toy on this page, which would I choose”. I remember thinking that the rock tumbler kit would be amazing to have because I liked collecting stones. In later years, as a mother to my own brood, I would pick up the Wish Book at the Sears office in town for my own children to pore over. Some time ago, I came across Sears catalogues being sold as vintage collectibles at a thrift store, but nostalgia did not seem like a valid reason to purchase them.
Recently, our 4-year-old granddaughter told us that in France, the children set their shoes outside the door on Christmas Eve for Père Noel to fill with candy and an orange when he comes by. This same girl was on her knees, looking in at the creche sitting on an old table board resting across the open trunk in our living room. We named the various characters and noted that the figure Mary is holding baby Jesus but that there is also a baby Jesus in the makeshift manger. The baby in the manger is a pen-drawn, paper figure added to the scene by a grandson because he thought the manger wasn’t complete without an infant. The 4-year-old did not think it was accurate to have two Jesuses.
My Mother’s practices around Christmas were less about pondering and more about practicality. Lucky, loved us. The feast she prepared was so good. Jars and tins filled with homemade candy and cookies in the weeks leading up to Christmas. An old-fashioned turkey dinner that was done to perfection and savoured by us all. Mennonite-style dressing (stuffing) with just the right consistency and drizzled with browned butter. Fond memories…
During Mom’s last hours, with my sister and I keeping watch, I got word of a horrific accident resulting in the death of a woman in our community – a friend from afar for me. A few years younger than myself, she left behind a husband and family in the prime of living. I carried the roar of that ending in the edges as we bade Mom a sorrowful farewell and went into the days of mourning and planning that ensued immediately following.
A couple of months later, when I met with my spiritual director, I told her about the tension of these two deaths. My mother’s life, a life lived full and fulfilled in years that came to a close in a seemingly timely and orderly fashion… But another mother’s death, abruptly ended in an untimely and disordered event… My spiritual director asked me how I’ve held or processed the juxtaposition of these two disparate deaths. All I had to offer was awareness.
There was a Sunday in November, when we were invited to my cousin’s place for dinner. She and her husband had also invited my Mom’s two younger brothers (Mom’s only surviving siblings) and their wives. We gathered around the table, feasting on an old-fashioned chicken meal with dressing that an uncle declared was “just right”! Shantz-style kibitzing and heartfelt conversation seasoned the time together. I wore one of my Mom’s sweaters, and her brothers teared up as they spoke of her with affection.
On another Sunday evening in November, our Old Order neighbours came over for tea and cookies. They now live in a more northernly community but were back in the area to help prepare and host their youngest daughter’s wedding. We sat with them at our kitchen table and heard about life in their new community. Conversation wound its way around grandchildren, farming, catching up on other neighbours, and wedding preparations. I was deeply honoured to be invited over to their farmhouse a couple of days later where I was given a tour of sorts to see all the details of how they make ready for a wedding.
Then there was this November’s book club facilitated and hosted by my sister. We gathered around the table with incredibly delicious ordered-in Palestinian food followed by equally delicious Israeli desserts made by my sister. The bodily nourishment was followed by conversation that nourished our hearts and minds as we discussed our book. Thoughtful dialogue that was compassionate, curious, and lively left us wondering what it would be like to live in the middle east. After lingering talk at the door about life without Mom and washing the china plates, I drove home and heard on the news that a conditional ceasefire had been declared between Israel and Hezbollah. May it be so.
And so, as the first snowflakes fall on our old farmhouse, this is the hodgepodge collection of musings that I will to tend to as we enter Advent – Loss and empty places at the table. Child-like wonder and learning. Awareness and reflection. Curiosity and compassion. Family and feasting. Neighbourliness. A hope for people in war-ravaged homes to be able to tend to their own odds and sods in quiet and safety.
Hope. Lighting a candle in hope.