A Christmas Dinner

            Dressed in black for the eight p.m. White Christmas performance, I sign in at Home Place for the five p.m. Christmas dinner.  Punching in the familiar code to unlock the door to the Woodlands neighborhood, I feel the usual bit of fear twisting in my gut.  As I push the door open, I take in a festive scene:  the common room filled with people, the hum of conversation, soft holiday music, and Christmas light displays from the big screen TV.

            Mom is easy to spot, sitting at one of the tables for four, her Time magazine spread out before her.  As I walk up, the moment of recognition is undeniable:  an intake of breath; a wide, surprised smile; and a whispered shout—“Jan!”  I bend down to hug her, and she kisses me on the cheek.  Why am I always so nervous about visiting her?  Maybe it is because I am steeling myself for the day she will not know me.

            As usual, I have brought more magazines, so we take those and the Time into her room where I also deposit my purse.  On her desk is a cardboard placard with a note reminding her of the Christmas treats she purchased at the bake sale to give to John and me:  a mini-loaf of some sweet bread and a single-serving red velvet cake from which, it appears, several candy decorations have been removed—and, I’m sure, thoroughly enjoyed.

            We make our way back to the table, where I meet Joyce and Peter.  Joyce explains that her husband sometimes comes to Home Place for respite care.  He smiles and nods.   At each place setting is a parchment-colored paper with picture of an angel statue under the title, “A Christmas Dinner Prayer.”  The text follows, printed in a large boldface font.  I notice that Mom has several other printed sheets at her place:  even larger boldface print on white paper.  Every minute or two she inquires about them.  (Sarah, the activities director, asked her to read them to the gathering:  first a brief welcome, and then the prayer.) 

            Finally, the big moment arrives:  Sarah and Mom walk over to the front by the kitchenette counter.  It is pretty impossible to get everyone’s attention, so Joyce helps by tapping a spoon against her glass.  Some voices continue, undeterred, and Mom rises to her best public-speaking self, saying in a clear, loud voice, “May I have your attention, please.”  She begins to read.

            I am pretty amazed she can see at all to read, for this afternoon John took her to her eye appointment, the one where her eyes are dilated and she receives a shot in the left eye to slow the macular degeneration.  Just a few hesitations and stumbles mark her reading, which she finishes with a flourish.  Then, with Sarah at her side, she asks us to join her in reading the Christmas prayer:

God of all gifts, we thank you for the many ways you have blessed us this day.  We are grateful for each of those who are gathered around this table.  We ask you to bless us and our food and to bless those we love who are not with us today.  In our gratitude and love, we remember your humble birth into our lives and pray for those who are without enough to eat.  We remember the stable in which you were born and pray for those who have no place to live.  We remember your challenging message of caring and giving and we pray for peace in families and nations throughout the world.  We bless you and give you thanks in your Spirit who brings our hearts to life this Christmas Day and forever.  Amen.

There is a round of applause, and Mom returns to the table.  My heart swells with pride.

“Did I do all right?” she asks me. 

“Yes, you did a beautiful job,” I reply.  

And then dinner is served.  First delivered is a dinner roll and a festive red and green lettuce salad sprinkled with slivered almonds, dried cranberries, and a sweet vinaigrette.  The main course follows:   breaded, stuffed chicken; fancy whipped potatoes; fresh green beans cooked to perfection; and a garnish of bright red apple slices.  Dessert is a slice of layered marble cake with both white and chocolate frosting. 

Joyce is patience and love personified as she helps Peter with his food and drink.  His tremor shakes the whole table, and she rescues him just in time from eating his cloth napkin.  I look over at Mom, thankful she can still feed herself, though she doesn’t eat much tonight.  The salad gives her problems with her dentures, which she takes out and puts back in several times.  Eventually, she butters her roll and eats a bite of chicken, a few more bites of potatoes, and half of her green beans, all the while sadly wondering why she isn’t hungry.  (The answer is in her room:  a mostly-empty plate of sugar cookies.)  But she does manage to make a good dent in her dessert.

            Joyce and I enjoy conversation here and there and discover we have a mutual friend, Barbara.  Peter is silent and pleasant.  I get to tell Mom a good five times about playing in White Christmas and about Bob and Robin’s visit next week.  She asks several times where I live, and when I say, “In your house on John’s property,” she looks puzzled, saying she can’t quite picture it. 

            As the meal ends, Leanne, the executive director, brings a big Santa box over to Mom and says, “Merry Christmas.  This is from Santa!”  I wish I could capture the astonished look on Mom’s face.

 “Jan, do you know anything about this?” 

“No, I don’t, Mom.” 

She asks me to help her.  I peel off the tape, and she lifts the lid off the box, revealing a fleece leopard-print bathrobe.  How perfect!  It will be so nice and comfy over her leopard-print flannel pajamas.

            When Leanne stops by our table again, I ask about Santa’s gifts.  She tells me that this gift exchange is a staff tradition:  each staff member draws a name, so each resident has a special Santa gift to open.   Mom is relieved that every person gets a gift, and I am moved by how much the staff care for the residents.                   

            It is getting close to 6:30 p.m., time for me to head on up to Anacortes and the musical.  As Mom and I go into her room so I can gather my things, one of the residents follows.  Sweet soul that she is, Dorma has entered a period of confusion about her surroundings:  “I am so cold and I don’t have a room to stay in,” she says in a piteous voice.  “Can I stay here with you?”

            Mom is gentle but firm as she leads Dorma out of her room.  “Now, come with me, and we will find someone to help.”  I just stand there, purse and prayer and bakery treats in hand, surprised again by my own mother.  And proud.  So very proud.

            Mom escorts me to the door that, as she says, “leads to the long hallway.”  I punch in the code to unlock the door.  She squeezes my arm and kisses my cheek, leaning into the door and holding it open to watch me walk down the hall. 

            “I’ll see you in a few days!” I say in my best cheery voice, fear’s grip loosened by a lovely hour and another memory to cherish.