A Guest Post by Jill Renee (Ton) Stollenwerk
It was the Saturday before Christmas. Carmen and I had just collapsed on the couch in front of a roaring fire. We had just celebrated Christmas with our two-year old Grandson Braxton, our son JT, and our parents. We had “just settled down for a long winter’s nap”, when just to my left there arose such a clatter…ok, it was my cell phone vibrating to alert me to a text message. It was from my sister, Jill.
Within moments, my phone rang (or rather vibrated).
The Story of Jill and The Little Black Lamb
As I entered the Christmas season this year, I became keenly aware of my mother’s absence. She passed away in July, 2013, but this year I have missed her anew so much. Mom was the tapestry of Christmas as I grew up and even as I was an adult with children. Mary Ellen, Mom, Mimi brought Christmas to life for her family and friends. She could do Santa magic, holding on to the Sear’s Christmas catalogue until after Thanksgiving for her children to dream Santa dreams that she knew they couldn’t afford. Yet, observing her, you knew how strongly she embraced the Christmas story of Jesus coming into the world.
I was a PK, preacher’s kid, and was used to our family life reflecting the liturgy of the time of year. I didn’t appreciate as a child the impact our family rituals would have on me. This year, I have been looking for Mom. I wanted to experience her in the ornaments she and Dad had given us kid through the years. Dating back to 1973, they had given me an ornament each year, in keeping with the tradition given by Mom’s parents.
My precious ornaments had been packed away for several years. Many circumstances in my life kept them from view until this year when my boxes had been moved to my new home. I unpacked the boxes of ornaments, hungry for a glimpse of my mother. I reminisced childhood Christmas memories with my new husband. One strong memory was how my mother pulled four active children together many evenings during advent each year. Somehow she managed to slow us down enough to light the advent candles, read a scripture, read a story and perhaps even sing a song together. My initial memories of those times were how we kids fought over the honor of lighting a candle or reading a passage. My memory now is of a very patient mother who was determined to bring the light of Jesus’ birth to her children. And she did.
I continued my search for my mother this Christmas. I wanted so badly to touch her, feel her, and embrace her. I thought about all the stories she read to us each year. “The Gift of the Magi”, “The Other Wiseman”, “Amahl and the Night Visitors” and “The Little Black Lamb”. My favorite for some reason was “The Little Black Lamb”. I remembered vividly sitting by my mother as she read the story and I looked at the drawings in the book. It was a very simple story. I poked around my saved books and found all of the stories, given to me by my parents in the early 70’s. All except “The Little Black Lamb”. As if on a mission, I went to Google to find that story. And I found it finally. Somebody had typed it up and posted it to their blog. No credits were given to the author, which I thought was sad. (for the record, the author is Emily S. McCracken).
But I had my story and that brought me closer to Mom. Later that day I went out to our garage to put on my boots for a trek to check on the horses and peacocks with my husband. On a table next to my chair was a stack of books. Oh yes, these were the children’s books I had told my husband could go to Goodwill, because we had no little ones around. He had wisely saved them in hopes I would send them to my grandson, Ben, in Florida. I picked up one of the books and opened it. It opened to the story of “The Little Black Lamb”! This was my mother’s book that she read to me and my brothers. The pictures were exactly as I remembered. How could I have had that book in my possession and forgotten how important it was? I heard my mother as clear as a bell saying, “Why are you looking for me? I have been here all along. You just had to see me.”
I was choking back the tears as I climbed the stairs to the office to call my dad and share with him. There was no answer on his cell phone, so I called the house phone. The answering machine picked up my call and I heard my mother’s voice over the phone. Her sweet voice recorded long before the stroke that destroyed her voice and took her life. I called my brother, Jeff, because I knew he would understand. I wanted to connect with my mom this Christmas and, oh my, I did. My mother was a gift at that time I needed it most. Isn’t that kind of the way it is with God? “I am here. Why are you looking for me? I have been here all along.”
Jill’s gift was “finding” our mother…my gift was sharing the moment with my sister.
(The Donut Hole referenced by Jill’s text was a post in this blog).
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