Today we welcome Carol Swift
who tells us a
Christmas story from her childhood.
Read more about Carol at the end of her
story—
she’s a lady with a tender heart,
a lady dedicated to helping those in
grief and mourning.
I awoke to my first Christmas morning away
from home, not as an adult celebrating Christmas in my own newly established
home or as a college student spending the holiday abroad, but as an eleven-year-old whose father had died suddenly of a massive heart attack
only two weeks before Christmas.
Memories from that morning are both blurred
and distinct. Strings and strands of Christmas lights, squeals of young
children opening their gifts, paper strewn everywhere serve as a hazy backdrop
for a clear and compelling image I can still recall.
My sister Janet and her husband had invited my
mother and me to spend
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in their home, knowing that it would be
difficult for us to be alone in our home so soon after my father’s death.
At ages twenty and twenty-one, they had
married two months before I was born. Their sons were more like brothers to me,
and their home was always a place where I experienced love and fun and
acceptance that was not based on any similarities Janet and I shared, but on
our acceptance and love for each other despite our different personalities.
Janet was passionate about sports, all kinds
of sports. She loved watching them, participating in them, and having grand
discussions about them. Their back yard became a place for neighborhood
families to gather for volleyball and whiffle ball games. Children were
encouraged to join the sporting events, but I always opted out and chose to sit
under the shade of my favorite tree surrounded by books and pets.
Janet approached life in practical and
straightforward ways and, at times, she grew weary of my whimsical ponderings.
I remember one day she asked me, in an older sister's exasperated tone, why I never could see things in simple
black and white terms.
My response to her was, “I don’t try to see
things differently than you do. Where you see black and white, I can’t help but
see pewter and charcoal and silver.”
She could have viewed my words as smart and
sassy, but she chose to view them as truth, truth that was woven through all of
our years as sisters, and truth that is illustrated in one of my most vivid and
distinct memories of that Christmas morning.
Back when I was ten years old, my sister had
first allowed me to be part of the secretive gift wrapping for their sons’
presents. and I quickly learned how her practicality seeped into her wrapping
techniques. Precise paper measuring, carefully folded corners, and perfect bow
placement were important to Janet, and I followed her gift-wrapping
guidelines as best I could, grateful she had invited me to be part of her
Christmas preparations.
The following year, when my mother and I awoke
to the many presents piled under their Christmas tree, it was no surprise to me
to see the beautifully wrapped gifts awaiting us.
In the frenzy of children unwrapping their
treasures, I hadn’t noticed one gift that was tucked among the many boxes.
Janet eventually reached for it and eagerly brought it
to me.
The gift was not in a box but was instead
wrapped in the shape of a cylinder with multicolored ribbons creatively tied on
each side. Its stark contrast to the other wrapped presents captured me, and I
opened it hesitantly, wanting to hold on to its uniqueness for a few more
moments. Eventually, my curiosity won out, and I unfolded it to find a simple
but frilly white blouse, a gift I had hoped for and adored, a gift from a
sister whose closet held mostly tailored and dark-colored apparel.
At the time, her gift brought a momentary
sense of joy and love to me in a time when my broken and shattered world felt
confusing and empty.
Decades later, as I reflect on Janet’s gift,
it evokes a memory with far deeper meaning for me. Joy and love were surely
something I desperately needed that Christmas morning, but hope was what I
unknowingly needed even more.
Its impact has reached across the years from
that Christmas long ago to every Christmas I experience as I savor and embrace
the gift of Jesus, God’s hope for all humanity.
Carol uses her roles as educator, speaker, and
writer to heighten awareness of the dimensions of grief and mourning. She has
written materials for use in church studies, seminars, and retreats. She and
her husband are currently facilitating a six-hour workshop for use in church
studies, seminars, and retreats. They are offering Shared Sorrow: A Faith
Community’s Response to Grief and Mourning to churches throughout Pennsylvania.
Carol earned her M.S. in Education at Johns Hopkins University and received
training in Death and Grief studies from Dr. Alan Wolfelt, the founder of The
Center for Loss and Life Transition.
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