My Mother's Brave Face - A Christmas Story

It's that time of year again. People are out being mean to each other, cutting each other off so they can take parking spaces. They are beeping their horns at articulated truck drivers who are delivering the supplies that the horn beepers want to buy. The streets and shops are busy with people trying to get presents for other people who, in turn, are also trying to get presents back for the other.

Yes its seems to me to be a bit of a pointless exercise. (Bah Humbug!!) In every culture, the world over, there are reciprocity traditions. They are there for a reason; to guard against poverty, to redistribute wealth, to bring people together as a community, to act as a kind of social insurance, etc. Our reciprocity festival seems to have been hijacked by card sellers and the like, but its all that we have.

What is Christmas for me? Well there is an image in my mind "The Ideal Christmas". Its all baubles and abundance. It's those advertisements by big brand companies that sell me on the idea of a perfect (and usually American) Christmas. It's Bing Crosby crooning "chestnuts roasting on an open fire".

However that's an illusion. For many Christmas can be the hardest time of the year. For some, pain comes in the form of attachment to the illusion of Christmas. They try to emulate the Christmas they have seen in the ads on a very tight budget. For others it might be the loneliness of Christmas; not being able to be with the ones they love through emigration, death or family feud.

For many Christmas is about sacrifice. It's about working late on Christmas eve even though you would prefer to be at home with your kids. It's about making do or anxiety over credit card bills due in January.

Today I want to honour the "Brave-Facers"; those who will wear masks in order to hide their pain this Christmas. Today I want to honour my mother.

My Mother's Brave Face

My grandmother died the night before Christmas Eve when I was 8 years old. We called her "Nana". She was a tiny, bell-shaped woman who we visited in Ranelagh in Dublin. She raised nine children in a two bedroom converted stable at the back of Ranelagh Road proper. Today these places have been converted into "yuppy" mews but back then they were pretty dire to live in. She was the only grandparent I ever met as the other's had all died long before I came into the world. That Christmas, she had been sick and in hospital. The hospital let her out just before Christmas and she had died shortly after that. 

My mother would have heard this terrible news on the eve of Christmas eve. And yet my little brother, who was five, and I had no idea. She continued on. Maybe she was quieter; maybe with all the furore around Christmas we didn't notice the difference in our Mammy. She would have gone through all the preparations on Christmas Eve; putting out carrots for Rudolph and sherry for Santy, trying to get us to go to sleep even though we were super excited. She would been there when we ripped opened our presents. She would have cooked all the meals. She probably watched a Christmas movie with us all after dinner. 

On Stephen's Day she sat us down in the kitchen. That was the day that extended family usually came over. My mammy told us that people wouldn't be calling that day. She sat there and told us she had some very sad news. "Nana died the night before Christmas Eve". We went straight into denial. "No, mammy, no". Finally one of us said "You are lying, Mammy" With that my mother did something I had never seen her do in all my eight years on the planet: she started crying. We hugged her. 

Some of this story is the work of my 33 year old imagination. I don't remember anything special about that Christmas up until the point where my mother broke the news of Nana's death. That is why I am telling this story. We didn't notice. My brother and I celebrated a Christmas like any other and we were able to do that because of my mother's brave face. 

Now as a 33 year old I can only imagine what it was like for her that Christmas. How did she manage to hide that pain she was going through? The loss of her mother! How did she maintain her composure and not break down? I have no idea. It must have taken a great amount of will to do so. And it must have taken a great deal of love too; love for us, love for our innocence, love of our smiles, love of our joy. With that love she allowed us one of the most amazing gifts; the magic and wonder of a child's Christmas. 

This Christmas

This Christmas many will wear masks. They wear them for different and individual reasons. Behind smiles and cheer, they mask suffering and sacrifice. This Christmas I'd like to honour those brave people. 

I'd like to make an appeal too; "Go Gently". Take it easy in the car park. Smile from the heart when you deal with the girl or guy behind the counter. Say "thank you" from that same place; that place of warmth, compassion and love. This Christmas thing is pretty imperfect but maybe we can make the most of it. Maybe we can give little gifts of genuine love to everyone we encounter this Christmas. For we do not know the battles they face. We do not know what lies beneath their mask.