Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Enough and More

I belong to a rich family, wealthy in love, fun and those all important memory-making traditions.  In fact one could call us the "More Family" and pretty much get it correctly.  Our true name, however, is "Carver."  The clan consists of my parents, me and my five siblings and our spouses and 20 grandchildren all born within 11 years of each other.  Far be it from us to eliminate an old tradition to make room for the new.  No.  That would be too -- well, simple.  Each new way of commemorating the holiday season becomes a link to the treasured chain we fondly know as Christmas.

"Christmas will be smaller this year, much smaller," I could hear my father proclaiming regretfully each December when I was a young girl.  "Don't expect too much."  Feeding six children on a teacher's salary was never easy, without the added cost of gift purchases.  Our father was not wanting us to get our hopes up, yet we always had more than enough.

As we six children wed, beginning households of our own, magnetically we were drawn together again each December anticipating the long-kept rituals:  caroling in rest homes, craft making, walks through the Euclid Avenue Nativity scenes and viewing the spectacular neighborhood of lights.

A cherished event was our Christmas Eve progressive dinner.  Beginning in Hesperia for one course of a meal, we in our line of minivans wound our way down to Upland, followed by Walnut, on to church in Pomona for candlelight service, to three of our homes in Chino, ending up at our parents' Chino dwelling.  The laughter shared as we moved all 34 of us to each home was even better than the food we consumed throughout the night.

So it went each year.  "More" was exciting.  "More" was fun.  "More" was happily chaotic --

That is, until our father fell from a roof, severing his spine in June of 1998 leaving him paralyzed and completely ventilator dependent.  The commotion prior to his accident was for glee; but after, for survival.  I recollect not much about the first Christmas after he was injured, except to say we numbly went through the motions.  Because Dad could not fit through anyone's front door in his wheelchair, he did not attend the yearly dinner.

"Let's do less this year," someone mentioned as we planned for Christmas 1999.  Less?  The "More" family doing less?  Childhood fear of having to do without echoed in me.  But less it was as we met only at church then at our parents'.

Because our party was smaller, more thought was put into costumes and a script for the reenactment of the Christmas story, avoiding the usual hustle-bustle of kids' digging in Grandma's closet for shepherd wear, wiremen robes and pillows for Mary's stomach.  For once all truly was calm and bright as we closed our evening singing "Silent Night" much less off-key than we ever had.

We gave my father, Paul Carver, a chin-operated electronic page turner that Christmas.  Two weeks later his book was opened to Page 66, and he died, the pages of his life numbering 66 years.  Dad's counselor spoke of his last session saying that our father at that time could not stop speaking about the incredibly beautiful and meaningful Christmas he shared with his wife, children and grandkids.

I will forever hold close to my heart that sacred night, the Christmas when less was 
enough -- and more.

Diane Mann, 2000
Printed in the Chino Champion


1 comment:

Nena A. said...

Thank you for sharing this again, Diane. I remember the love your dad had for all of his family and how richly blessed he was with the Lord's word in his heart as he continued to teach from it until he could no more. Love to you always, Nena