When I was 12 years old, one week before Christmas, I came home from school to find my mother on the floor of her bathroom, unconscious. I shook her, begging her to wake up. I called my oldest sister and then 9-1-1. I stood there while paramedics worked on her, lifting her onto a gurney and loading her into an ambulance. I had no idea what was happening, I just knew I was terrified of losing her. Later that evening, the doctors released her from the hospital, telling us they believed she had the flu and needed rest.
Days passed and my mother stayed in bed with the curtains drawn. On December 22 in the late afternoon, the doorbell rang and when I answered it, on the front porch stood her new primary care physician whom had never officially seen her. She had called for an appointment after she was released from the hospital, but did not show up for her scheduled visit. He was there to do a house call because he had a funny feeling something was wrong. He walked into her bedroom, pulling back the curtains. I remember watching his expression when the light was cast on my mother’s face. She was completely white, the blood drained from her usually rosy cheeks. He asked me for the phone, which I quickly handed over and he dialed 9-1-1. Once again, I heard the wailing sirens of the ambulance and she was taken away.
It was not the flu, rather her gallbladder which had ruptured and was slowly poisoning her. They admitted her to ICU with very little to say, other than they were working to save her life, but only time and God could help.
Every Christmas before that year was busy, as my mother, a junior high teacher, worked tirelessly to ensure each of her four children had Christmas gifts bought especially for them. She always put so much thought into her gifts for us; on Christmas morning, in the earliest of hours, her four children would scramble into the living room to see what Santa left under the tree. It was her joy to watch us open presents and squeal with delight.
On that day in 1992, I watched my father pace the halls of the ICU while I tucked myself into my older sisters’ arms. My older sisters devised a plan to bring Christmas to the hospital. For the next two days, they scoured the house, collecting the gifts my mother had hidden away. They drove to the store many times, gathering wrapping paper, more presents, items for a makeshift Christmas dinner, and stocking stuffers for me and my older brother.
We didn’t know if our mom would live until Christmas morning, but the plans to keep the family tradition going continued, thanks to the care and love of my sisters. On Christmas morning, my mother was alive and awake. A true miracle! We dressed her in a lovely dark green velvet robe, sat her up comfortably in bed, and she watched with delight as her children unwrapped their special, just-for-them Christmas gifts.
God shows up in the most unexpected ways. In times when we are living in fear, worried about the future, God shows up. This is why we prepare for Christmas. We have a certain hope that, even in the darkest of moments, God will be with us to bring comfort and peace and God will show up, like he did in the Bethlehem so long ago. We prepare for Christmas as a people of hope, because we trust God is with us and God will act in our world.
Candice Hillenbrand, Director of Mission Engagement
