Mom

Dear Mom,

Unearthing a few Christmas photos from the past, I realize today it’s a miracle you ever lived to see your 92 years, with all that your headstrong kids put you through…!

It was Christmas, 1957: you and Dad already had three children. I was set for birth in January but arrived in the wee hours of Christmas Eve instead. Your water broke on the way through the blizzard to the hospital. The freezing cold Minnesota winter broke the pipes in our home at the same time. Somehow Christmas went on without a hitch. And on my birthday two years later with two more babies, you still made it seem like life could be a piece of cake.

Christmas, 1963: Your eighth child was born in April, and Dad had lost his job. We were living in Connecticut on a shoestring, and you made sure we had a tree, even if it was a “Charlie Brown” found in the woods. You placed a candle in every window so the house would shine. Somehow you kept your sense of humor, like posing six of us in a living nativity with our latest baby Jesus.

Christmas, 1967: Now there were nine! How did you EVER manage to get us dressed up and outside on a chilly morning before church? Dad hoped we’d smile as he took the picture. (I managed a squinty one.) Somehow in the chaos, you led with hope and faith. Finances were still rough, but you and Dad took in an elderly homeless couple to stay with us until they could find shelter. Beyond the gifts under the tree, your example was the true meaning of Christmas.

Christmas, 1977: Ten years on – some kids in college – some cool – some in crisis – your faith kept us going. Christmas Eve dinner was always part of your Polish heritage, the serious, unfancy Wigilia. It included baked fish, cabbage with mushrooms, and potatoes. But it also had the Oplatek: a communion-type wafer shared around the table, dipped in honey, with blessings between each person there. You said the Wigilia dinner was to remind us of the lean times in life and the sweetness that comes with the hope of Christmas. It also gave us “cool” kids a real moment to tell each other how much we cared. And that would be crucial in years to come.

Christmas, 2017: Forty Christmases later, your family continued to grow through happiness and hardships with heart. Most of us had married, and there were grandchildren now to carry on your faith. Dad had passed in 2009. You didn’t like assisted living, but still loved everything Christmas! (Especially the white elephant gifts and beating us at Scrabble.) We did the Oplatek with you that night and went to midnight mass. I didn’t know this could be our last Christmas together. You never let on how much pain you were in. Instead you radiated joy, and as always, blessed us with laughter.

A Heavenly Christmas, 2023: Every day I thank you, Mom. For your honesty, compassion, zest for learning and love for God. The way you reached out to help others, and how your smile lit the room. Like so many Moms, you worked incredibly hard, and like many kids, we had no idea how tough it was for you and Dad to raise us. You exemplified for me the meaning of faith in action. I thank God for giving me life on that Christmas Eve in 1957, and for giving me you to be my guiding star. Like the candles in our windows which I light every year - your soul continues to shine bright.

God bless our Moms!

Love always,

Patrice