Nine decades ago, sometime around the first Sunday of Advent, a woman gave birth to a dark-haired infant girl in a draughty farmhouse on the 3rd of Peel. An older and only sister of this wee one must have been delighted to have a baby sister after a clutch of brothers. That old, yellow-brick farmhouse (said to have been built by a doctor back in the day) though cold and draughty, was a safe and happy home for that little girl, her older sister and older brothers, and eventually two younger brothers. She recalls, among other things, the high ceiling in her bedroom glittering with frost like a starry night sky in the deep of winter. She has many fond memories of the Christmas season with her own mother’s homemade candy, the boxes of oranges and grapes they had for the occasion, and the sound of the sleigh bells when they went by moonlight to the Christmas concert at the little school down the road where her dad played the part of Santa.
That dark-haired girl grew and thrived and raised a family of her own and we, her family, had our own delight and joy in celebrating her day of birth on the first Sunday of Advent this year. At ninety years of age, her once-dark hair has lightened into a soft grey and her once-strong hands tell a story of hard work and many years. On our day of celebration, she settled into a chair with her cushions just so to support her achy and stooped back, and like a queen in her court, received her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, her remaining siblings and spouses of her family of origin, and her remaining in-laws. There was cake and ice-cream, popcorn bags and ginger ale. Our own draughty farmhouse brimmed with people who were all in some way intertwined with the life of this diminutive lady. Children played underfoot as cousins, aunts, and uncles milled about with drinks in hand, catching up and conversing with each other.
Ninety years of living is a lot of years of living. Mom has had the mix of love and loss, adventure and mundaneness, acceptance and resistance, and change upon change that comes with a long life. There is much that diminishes for everyone with ageing – strength, size, hearing, etc. But as I live and move and sit with the darkness of these days and nights of the Advent season, something I see that hasn’t diminished within Mom in spite of ageing is her light.
Her light shines with her wit and humour, a wit and humour that is often linked to her Shantz-ness. She is sharp as a tack and intuits with a spry mind. There is attention to detail, and she is a self-proclaimed “fussy ‘mommy'” ( “mommy”, pronounced with a short y sound, is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for gramma). Her light is steady in her prayers for each of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She has held to her faith with a flexible tenacity and will often express a desire to trust God as new things come her way. I see her light in her joy with each season of her life and in her acceptance of the passing of those seasons. One of my siblings noted that Mom has a leading presence within our family, nevermind that we are all middle-aged and beyond. That kind of presence is light.
As I watch the curved etch of light that is the waning moon in the east sky on these dark mornings and attempt to learn of the moon and her cycles simply by paying attention, I think of Mom and her light and the cycles of the seasons. Like the moon, her light is a thing of beauty. Like the moon, her light is reflective of Love. Unlike the moon, her light is also inherent, something that is unique and particular to herself. And for her, our Mom, I am truly grateful.
Happy birthday, Mom! Thanks for your light. I love you.