The Broken Gift

by Donna Poole

“I don’t think so, not this year.” Annetta shook her head. If it weren’t for the white curls and deep lines in her face, she’d look just like a stubborn child.

Kate and Bob looked at each other. “Mom, come on! The candlelight service has always been your favorite! You know Bob will help you get into the church.”

After repeated refusals, Annetta’s family left. “Maybe she’ll change her mind before Sunday,” Bob said, but Kate cried.

As Bob pulled out onto the gravel road, Kate looked back at the old farmhouse thinking of Christmases past when Dad had been alive and the aroma of fresh cut pine and an impossible amount of baked goods had filled the home. Now the house smelled old and musty. It had been years since Mom had been able to host family Christmas. They couldn’t even let her walk to the end of the driveway to get her mail anymore; her balance was that bad. Mom couldn’t stay alone much longer, and that was going to be a battle Kate dreaded. After the holidays, they’d give her a choice, live with them or go to assisted living. She sighed; neither option was optimal. Kate felt sure Mom had no idea what they were thinking. Let her enjoy one last Christmas at home.

Annetta sat in her rocker; she too was thinking of Christmases past. How could she tell her family she didn’t want to go to the candlelight service because she was tired to the bone of having nothing left to share? Once she’d had so much to give her family and her church family. For many years the congregation had sat in awed silence at the candlelight service as she’d offered Christ and them her soprano solo of “O Holy Night.”

When her cracked and aging voice had stopped her from singing, Annetta had started writing short stories she’d read to the church children at the candlelight service. The adults had liked them as much as the kids. But then the cloud in her mind had ended the stories.

“It’s the beginning of dementia, hardening of the arteries,” the doctor called it.

“It’s hardening of the ought-eries,” Anetta murmured to herself. She couldn’t seem to remember what she ought to do, and when she did remember, she couldn’t find ambition to do it.

Annetta picked up her worn Bible, shivered, and pulled a quilt around her knees. Why is it always so cold?

“Lord, Lord,” she murmured, as a tear traced its way down a deep wrinkle in her cheek, “I can live with my body being so cold, but I can’t live with this empty, cold heart. I’ve nothing left to give.”

Everything was gone, even joy. Christmas would be at Kate’s again this year. Bless her heart; Kate tried, but she was busy. She worked full time, as did all of her siblings. No one cut a real tree anymore. No one had time to make crescent rolls or beautiful, layered Jell-O. And no one had read Luke chapter two on Christmas Day since her beloved Jacob had died. What she wouldn’t give to hear his strong voice read that once more.

Annetta sighed and opened her Bible. As she read about the wise men giving the Christ-child expensive gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, more tears followed. She longed to give the Lord Jesus something special this Christmas as she had so many years in the past, something of herself, but she was broken, body, soul, and spirit.

Blessed. Broken. Given. The words stirred a memory in Annetta’s foggy brain. Hadn’t Jesus used those words? He’d accepted a little boy’s meager lunch, blessed it, broken it, and given it to the hungry crowd and had miraculously fed a multitude.

Before He’d died on the cross for the sin of the world Jesus had taken bread, blessed it, broken it, and given it to His disciples. “This is my body, given for you,” He’d said.

Annetta remembered that after Christ’s resurrection His followers had recognized Him when He’d blessed, broken, and given them bread.

It must have been a habit of His, this blessing, breaking, and giving, if His friends recognized Him because of it, Annetta thought. But what does it mean? What does it have to do with me?

“I’ve been greatly blessed,” Annetta murmured, “and now I’m broken. Can I be given? What’s left of me to give?”

Annetta chuckled, remembering the year the pastor had preached, “Just give what you have to Jesus.” The next Sunday, Annetta had been shocked to see five-year-old Kate drop her favorite doll in the offering plate.

After church, the treasurer had come to Annetta, holding the grubby doll that was missing both an arm and a leg. “What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

Annetta had laughed. “You’re the treasurer; you think of something. It’s Kate’s favorite doll, and she sleeps with it every night. I don’t know how she’ll get to sleep without it tonight, but she wanted to give it to Jesus.”

“What do you want, Lord?” Annetta whispered. “Do you want this mind, getting worse with dementia every year? Do you want this body, crippled with arthritis? Do you want this empty soul? It’s all less than worthless, but I give it to you.”

There. Her broken gift lay next to Kate’s grubby doll offering. Of the two, Annetta thought her present looked worse by far, but a quiet peace filled her soul.

Annetta went to the candlelight service. Bob helped her struggle to her feet, and in a halting voice, stumbling over words and missing several, she read Luke chapter two. There wasn’t a dry eye in the congregation.

On the way home, Annetta said to Kate and Bob, “I have a Christmas gift for you.”

Kate frowned. “Mom, we agreed, no gifts this year. No one needs anything.”

“Oh, you need this,” Annetta said mysteriously.

“What is it?”

“You have to wait until tomorrow.”

Christmas at Kate’s was nice. The catered ham dinner wasn’t too bad, and Annetta didn’t mention the dry rolls.

After they ate, Annetta handed Kate and Bob a small box. They opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. On it Annetta had written, “I’ve decided to go into assisted living at Maple Lawn after the first of the year. I love you, Mom.”

As Kate cried and hugged her, Annetta thought, blessed, broken, and given. It felt good to still have something to give. And to receive. The thought came suddenly. Adventure. It had been decades since she’d thought of that word in connection with herself, but who knew? Was she actually looking forward to a new life at Maple Lawn? Maybe. Maybe she was.

Photo credit: Drones Over Broome: used by permission