A Christmas tale

My Mum loved Christmas. Even though it was the busiest day of her year, she absolutely loved it. And rather than going to a relative and having it done for her, she preferred doing Christmas herself, at home. She didn't trust any of our relatives to cook the meal properly.

For her, the run-up to Christmas was spent happily writing out cards, buying presents and stocking the house with food and drink.

A ton of food and drink.

And every year, new decorations were bought. There was always something new that caught her eye. The truth is that a significant amount of money was spent, more than we could really afford. My Father grumbled but let her do it anyway.

My sister and I usually turned up home on the 23rd or 24th. Neither of us would have dared make other arrangements.

Christmas day itself was simply fun. Starting early and ending late,

I can't remember a bad Christmas. There was a near miss, when my Father and I got into an argument over the Archbishop of Canterbury of all things and my Father in his stubborn way decided he must be right as the Daily Mail said so.

A swift ticking off from my mum settled things.

After my Dad died Christmas changed, but the birth of her first and only Grandchild made it special for her in a new way. But now she had to share Christmas and have it at my home as well occasionally, and sit out the preparation.

And she was getting frailer. Much as she denied it. 

Then one year, the COVID year, it became clear that there would only be one more Christmas and we were all determined to ensure it was a good one. Her liver was failing, the problem missed because of covid and the Doctor's reluctance to meet face to face.

About ten days before Christmas, she went into hospital. Part of the purpose was to get her physically strong enough to enjoy the day. This year she had paid for the family to have our Christmas meal at a local restaurant.

Then everything imploded. A patient on the ward was diagnosed with COVID and everyone that could be was sent home, including my mother, who hadn't started her treatment.

So back home and nearly bed-bound plans changed. Christmas was still going to be at my mum's, but with my sister cooking. Hopefully we would be able to get her out of bed and settled to watch and enjoy.

Not great but at least we would be together as a family for one last Christmas.

Sometimes you wonder at how spiteful fate can be. Another lockdown was imposed and that was that. My mum, along with many others was denied their last wish. 

Yes, we zoomed, opened our presents, and talked, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the day we wanted for her. We all hated the day and wanted it over. But we smiled and pretended to be happy.

There was no happy Christmas ending for my mum. No Christmas miracle, no special memories for the family. It was a horrible day, with only sad memories.

But Christmas still has a potent meaning for my family. Not just the happy ones. But in all the busyness, my parents never lost sight that Christmas was and is about the birth of a child. Vulnerable, naked, born into the most humble of circumstances, but special beyond measure. Born to set man free.

In some ways, this tale also appeared to end unhappily. A violent, humiliating death. But this death, unlike my mum's came with hope and a promise;

"That God so loved the world, that whosoever believed in him, shall not die, but have eternal life".

Happy Christmas everyone. 

Something different! My Mum would not have approved. 

https://youtu.be/2h5YBrcbEHY?si=iZH6xuwTaskxAMqF