As a child, Christmas was a focal point for our family for a good portion of the year. I looked forward to the celebrations with great anticipation and excitement. In a large family, the idea of a benefactor like Santa Claus filled my mind and heart with thoughts of all the wonderful things that he would bring-if I was only a good girl. It was a perfect motivator that my parents used, well, perfectly.

We fought over the Sears Roebuck Catalog when it arrived in the Fall. We initialed the toys and clothes that we desired. We planned on them arriving mysteriously under the tree, delivered by a man arriving in a reindeer-drawn sleigh who came into the house by sliding down the chimney-even though we didn’t have a fireplace. My mother used the catalog as a means of determining what she could make for us to approximate our wishes. (My mother was a saint.)

In fairness to my parents, we knew the real reason for the season. We went to the local parish school and were appropriately trained in the Christmas traditions and practices. We had an Advent wreath. We gathered for family prayer. We knew the Christ child story. We participated in the Nativity Pageants. But Santa Claus was the hero of the season.

That is until one Night Before Christmas when I came downstairs after my sisters were asleep and found my mother alone in her bedroom wrapping the multiple presents that she had made or managed to buy to put under the tree that night. She was probably pregnant and definitely tired. I stood there with my mouth hanging open in confusion and anger. I was old enough to have heard the rumors about Santa’s reality, but young enough to want to hang onto the illusion.

Mom actually apologized.  She put her arms around me and held me close. She was sorry that I had to face this truth while still a child. And she needed my help. Would I be willing to wrap some of these presents with her? It would be a big help for her. Wrapping presents with her on the Night Before Christmas became a tradition for us until I left the house. There were little ones in the house all that time. My baby brother Pierre was 2 years old when I went off to college.

The Christmas season always brings Mom vividly back into my memories. My mother demonstrated the unconditional love of God in a human manner. She believed in a God of mercy and kindness who cared for His children no matter where they were in their life’s journey. He loves us-you and me-unconditionally. He always has and He always will.

I still wrap my presents on the Night Before Christmas and remember my mother, her love and what I learned from her about our God and His love.

Terri