My Mother’s Example

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints members participate in something called “Light the World” each Christmas season. The purpose is to showcase the true meaning of Christmas for the month of December. They have a calendar with different acts of service for each day to help bring the spirit of love, compassion, service, and most importantly, Christ, into their homes. Today being December 2^nd, there is an activity in which we are invited to highlight an individual from our lives that exemplifies Christ-like service on social media. I immediately thought of my mother and decided I would share a very specific example from my childhood that has stuck with me. It also fits perfectly with the Christmas season. Apologies to my mother who is never one to boast and is the perfect example of humble service. I hope she is not embarrassed by this share. I love you mom!

When I was in the third grade, my family lived in Richfield, a small town in central Utah. My mother and father had purchased an old LDS church and had a vision to convert it into a bed and breakfast. As a result, we lived in the church while my parents hosted weddings out of the chapel and slowly earned money for remodels to make their dream come true. The home we had lived in prior was being rented by my father’s sister, her husband and four children.

One afternoon I was sitting in class, getting ready for a spelling test, when my mother came to the classroom door. She was checking me out of school to “go up north”. That’s what we said when we were going to go visit family that lived around the Salt Lake area. What I didn’t know, was the reason we were headed up north, and on such short notice, was the house my aunt was renting had just been raided for a methamphetamine operation. My aunt and uncle were in jail, their kids with my grandparents, and my parents, the legal owners of the home, were now responsible for the clean-up.

I remember walking through my early childhood home shortly after the dust settled, literally, and seeing what was left of it. Anything that had traces of meth had to go. That was the instruction of hazmat when they walked the house. Walls, floors, counters, cabinets, all gone. What remained were dirty, grime covered slabs that no longer resembled a loving home. The skeleton before me was not the same house that existed in memories of my childhood. I remember leaving the somber group of adults assessing the damage and going outside on the front porch and there, I screamed. I screamed because I was hurt, I screamed again because I was angry, and again because I felt betrayed.

We had to move back into that house. My parents couldn’t afford to keep up their dream in Richfield and repair the damage. So, once the “meth house”, we affectionately called it, was livable again, with running water, electricity, the walls and floors replaced, we relocated.

Before we knew it, it was our first Christmas season back in that house. A couple of weeks into the month, my parents called my siblings and I into their room. They had something to share with us. When we entered, there, on the bed, was a beautiful nativity set my mother had purchased. Complete with the three wisemen, shepherds, and stable animals. My mother had an idea and she needed our assistance to carry it out. My aunt, the one that was responsible for the meth lab, was out of jail and currently living with my grandparents. It was my mother’s idea that we take one figure from the nativity and deliver it anonymously to my aunt. One piece, each day, until Christmas, saving the baby Jesus for last. The baby Jesus was to be given to my aunt in person when we saw her at the family Christmas party.

There was no way I was participating in this atrocious act of kindness. My aunt didn’t deserve our affection and I made my opinions known! She was the reason my family had to uproot and move. She was the reason that my parents found them selves in financial crisis, struggling to make ends meet as they fixed up the house she ruined. I was not going to lay a finger on any single piece of that nativity and my mom couldn’t make me. My little 8 to 9-year-old mind was made up! What a ridiculous idea. Giving to the very person that hurt us the most!

My mother didn’t care about my opinion. Bless her heart. She assured me that I did not have to participate. If I didn’t want to give the nativity to my aunt, I didn’t have to, but she was going to anyway. And so, each day, for the next couple of weeks, my mother and siblings (not me, definitely not me) went to my grandparent’s and anonymously left different pieces of the nativity for my aunt. The day of the family Christmas party, I found myself at my grandparents with a tiny gift, containing the baby Jesus, addressed to my aunt. It was at the party that my parents asked if they could have a moment alone with her. They had something to give to her. My mother pulled me aside and asked if I would consider being the one to hand her the gift. I reluctantly agreed.

I faced my aunt in the quiet living room, separated from the rest of the party. My parents, siblings, and grandparents sat around us. I didn’t say anything, just held out the little package. She looked around at each of us questioningly as she took it from me. She opened it, and when she saw that it was the final piece to the nativity, the one she treasured, the one she felt she didn’t deserve, she wept. My aunt expressed how important the nativity had been to her. How she had strategically placed it where she could see it each day. She had wondered who loved her enough to do such a generous thing for her. She had looked forward to getting a new figurine each day and was so grateful for the gift each time. Not once did it cross her mind that it was from my family.

She wrapped me up tightly in a hug and my little heart melted. I then understood what my mother was trying to accomplish. She wanted us to experience the power of forgiveness and mercy. She knew the only way to move past the hurt, was to show compassion towards my aunt and let her know she was forgiven. Now, it was my turn to weep. Our families stood, embracing, tears flowing, as we expressed our love for one another. And that is what Christmas is about. Love. Love for our fellow man and for our Savior. How fitting that the last piece to be given was the gift of our Savior, Jesus Christ, the one that atoned for our sins and our heartaches. The reason that my aunt, myself, and every person on this earth has a chance to be forgiven and to find peace and joy through the hardships. Especially around Christmas. He was and still is the reason for the season.

Thank you for stopping by. Know that you are loved.