Writers In The Storm

We celebrated Christmas at my grandmother-in-law’s yesterday. Ninety-three-years-old and still living independently. Family members lined the walls, lounged on the floor, and grabbed places on sofas and chairs when someone relinquished their spot in search of more chocolate truffles.

I remember when she first moved to this home. She announced to everyone she didn’t want to clutter it up like her last home. She had plenty of decorations and housekeeping items. She didn’t need anything.

Made it hard to shop at Christmas.

Twenty years ago the options included consumables, restaurant gift cards, movies, and books. Jewelry. Photos tucked into albums or exchanged with older photos in already-displayed frames.

Today she has a limited diet and driving isn’t an option, so restaurant gift cards are out. She can’t fasten jewelry anymore. Retrieving photo albums from the shelf is a major undertaking.

Most days she sits in her lift-chair and watches the trees across the street blow in the wind. Her mobility is limited; she can’t raise her arms above elbow-level. Each step requires monumental effort. Relatives of her generation and siblings have already passed away. Most of her friends from church have gone on to glory. Her daughters visit on a daily basis to check on her, and grandkids stop by occasionally. A neighbor takes her to church; it isn’t the church she fellowshipped in for more than fifty years, but it’s still a blessing.

Before we showered Grandma with presents, we all played the familiar Chinese gift exchange. Five-dollar gifts aren’t a lot to get excited about, but watching Grandma was-she giggled like a child when a gift was stolen and complaints were offered about losing a coveted bottle of lavender bath soap. We stole gifts from Grandma just to give her the fun of opening new gifts (she never has the heart to “steal” a gift from anyone else).

After the game, it was time for Grandma to open her gifts. She made eye contact with each gift-giver and politely thanked them. Trash bags were filled with boxes of ribbon and discarded wrapping paper. As the afternoon wound down and we hugged her goodbye, she said to each one of us with tears in her eyes, “Thank you for coming-it means so much to me.” And I was reminded that the gift we so carefully selected and wrapped wasn’t what she cherished this Christmas.

Spending time with family was her gift.