My memorabilia manages to escape
organization by tucking itself into every conceivable cranny of my home. Once
or twice a year I find the gumption to assemble my scattered treasures and
store them in a more dignified manner. Caitlynd, my granddaughter, assisted me
on my recent forage through the house. I put her in charge of the keepsake box
and passed her all the little bits of paper, various occasion cards and letters
I'd collected since my last endeavor to preserve the family mementos for
posterity.
A diligent helper, Caitlynd gently place each remembrance in
the box. One card in particular caught her attention. By design, it wasn't
fancy, no glitter or gold lettering, but she held it up and asked, "Who gave
you this one?" Her innocent question put me in a bit of a quandary. The sender
was a mother who had spent the previous Christmas, along with her
three-year-old son, in a shelter for battered women.
Unprepared for a
discussion on domestic violence with a five-year-old, I stalled for time by
reading the card out loud. "I do not know your names or anything about you, but
you will always be my angels. Thank you!"
A few years back, I introduced
the idea of cutting back on gifts at Christmas by limiting presents to a small
circle of immediate family. I wanted to use the money we would have spent on
our ever expanding brood of relatives, to make a positive impact on someone's
life. My handsome husband readily agreed. Since that time, we have participated
in various charitable ‘Adopt A Family' programs. In keeping with the
spirit of the holidays and the value of the gift of giving, we choose to remain
anonymous.
Caitlynd held the card from the woman we ‘adopted' the
previous year. "How come you and Papa are her angels?" I proceeded with caution
and told her a story about a woman and a little boy, without possessions or a
home, who had to spend the holidays at a shelter. Presented with the
opportunity to let my granddaughter know there were safe places to go in times
of trouble, I explained the concept of shelters and how they help people who
need a place to stay, a warm bed and good food . I finished the story by
describing the way Grammy and Papa helped bring a sprinkling of Christmas cheer
to the woman and her little boy.
"We bought them special presents and
wrapped each one in beautiful holiday paper. The lady who runs the shelter said
we could write a note and tell the lady who we were, but Papa and I thought it
would be a better surprise if we kept our names a secret." (Actually, we wrote
‘From Santa' on each tag, but I wasn't prepared to have THAT
discussion.)
Caitlynd was mesmerized by the tale. I could almost see
the widgets whirling and twirling in her brain. "People can be angels too?" she
asked.
"Of course they can sweetie," I answered, "They just don't have
wings."
"I don't know Grammy.... I think I can kind of see your
wings. Will you teach me how to be an angel so I can get wings too?"
The infamous lump that tends to appear in my throat at moments such as this,
grew to new proportions and prevented further words from leaving my mouth. As I
gathered her in my arms and buried my face in her satiny hair, I was sure I
felt the bud of her little wings sprouting.
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