The Christmas Presence

The Christmas Presence
By Donna Lowich

“C’mon, Mommy. You can do it.” Jeffrey looked at me, with a pleading and earnestness in his eyes that made me want to believe him. I hesitated, but he continued. “You can do it, Mommy,” he repeated, and then he continued with the phrase that was wise way beyond his years: “You can do it if you believe in yourself.”

Having said those powerful words, he began to tug on my arm to get me to try to stand again. He was sure I could do it; I wasn’t quite as confident as he was, but I had to try.

Five-year-old Jeffrey was always there encouraging me to go beyond what I thought I could do, and well beyond the expectations of any of my doctors of the past year. After all, hadn’t the doctors at the rehab hospital, despite my hard work at physical therapy each day, given me little hope of ever even getting out of bed, much less the wheelchair?

However, Jeffrey had his own ideas, and now that we were approaching Christmas, and had just passed the one-year anniversary of my two spinal cord surgeries, he wanted me to be whole again. So did I.

But Christmas would never hold the same meaning for me, I was sure of it. It had been my favorite holiday, my favorite time of year. But more than that, I had always believed Christmas to be more than a particular time of year; it was a state of mind. But for the longest time, that belief was lost to me.

Strangely, the very thing that caused me to lose sight of that fact was the very thing that helped me to regain possession of it. What was that paradoxical item? It was Christmas itself.

Christmas last year was not much of a memory for me. As I recovered, I realized the loss—not seeing Jeffrey’s face light up as he opened his presents on Christmas morning, simply not being there for him. I was determined to make up for that loss this year. I wanted this to be a happy Christmas for all of us.


In the quiet of the countless nights I spent laying in bed in the rehab hospital, enveloped by darkness, I was all alone. Unable to move to even use the call bell to ask for help, I felt vulnerable, and worse, I felt abandoned. So, I prayed: “Dear God in Heaven, please let me get better so I can go home. My family needs me, and I need them so very much…”

One night in particular, I finally verbalized the words that had been playing in my head for the longest time, but I dared not utter them, until that moment: “Dear God, I think you are testing the wrong person.” There, I said it. I was alone and angry and miserable, and I wanted Him to hear me. Discounting the visits from my family and friends--they were great while they lasted--once everyone left, though, the visits didn’t matter anymore. I was alone at that moment, and that was what counted. It was definitely a “what have you done for me lately” mindset for me.

I should have known that I was never really alone. I know that now; I should have realized it then. But, that truth eluded me. It was my depression and my anger talking to me, and taking over. I call it my d-anger zone.

It was such an emotional up and down: up when I was making progress, down when I measured where I was to where I was supposed to be, at least according to my own standards. My family and friends pulled me back from the very edge of that d-anger zone. Their efforts were nothing short of heroic; I will tell just a one of those stories here:

I continued to pray to get out of the hospital. I wanted to go home and put this nightmare behind me. But when I finally reached home in mid-June, the stark reality was that I was still in the midst of my nightmare; it was just the scenery that changed. There were still many things I could not do, and the things I could still manage I had to do differently -- not an easy adjustment for someone who doesn’t cope with change all that well, anyway.

Still, I worked very hard during my physical and occupational therapy sessions, five days a week. By December, I was feeling stronger, but still far from where I had hoped to be by this time.

It was this Friday evening, as we approached the holiday, when I sat in my chair in the living room. Jeffrey sat next to me.

“I feel as though I should get up and walk across the room,” I said to myself. Well, I thought I said it to myself. But Jeffrey heard it. He jumped off the sofa and stood in front of me.

He grabbed my hand, his eyes shining with excitement. “C’mon, Mommy, you’ve got to try.” He grabbed my hand with both of his. “I’ll help you.”

I looked at him, tried to get up, and sat back down again, filled with hesitation and self doubt. Jeffrey, always the perceptive one, knew exactly what I was thinking, and as usual, knew the right thing to say. He was continuing in his role as my motivation; he was my role model and my coach. That is when he urged me to “believe in yourself”.

After a couple of faulty attempts, I stood up. Still holding on to Jeffrey’s hands, I made some awkward and shuffled steps away from the safety of my chair. Slowly… slowly… we walked the length of the sofa before I lost my balance and collapsed on to the edge of its arm.

I was filled with a mix of emotions---happy that I tried but still disappointed beyond words that I made it no further than the length of the couch. But, little Jeffrey saw it differently. It was all positive to him. He threw his little arms around me, saying, “See? I told you that you could do it, Mommy! You did it! You did it! Yay, Mommy!” I smiled despite myself. He was so happy, he was hopping up and down in front of me!

How do you argue with that? I couldn’t, and didn’t. I hugged him back, telling him, “You always help me do things better don’t you?” I smiled at Jeffrey. Despite all that might be swirling all around me, he always made me smile.

A lesson that I quickly learned: When you lose faith in yourself, it is always good to have a cheerleader and faith restorer to bolster that flagging faith. I thanked God for mine. He was working through my young son. I just knew it.

Walter came in shortly after, and Jeffrey and I told him what had just happened. Smiling, but with tears in his eyes, he suggested, “Why don’t we all go out tomorrow morning and buy our Christmas tree?”

“Will it be a big tree this year, Daddy?” Jeffrey asked.

Still emotional from our earlier news, Walter scooped Jeffrey up in his arms. “It certainly will be! It’ll be the biggest and the best one we can find!”

Jeffrey smiled and sang out, “Yay, Mommy! Yay, Daddy!”

The big Christmas tree was to make up for the small table-top tree Walter had put together quickly just the year before, so Jeffrey would have something resembling a Christmas. Walter apologized, “I know it was not enough, but it was all I could manage…”

This year would be different; we had something to celebrate. We had my just-accomplished small achievement, we had Christmas, and we had each other. It was Christmas in the truest sense of the word.

I always thought that my prayers went unanswered. I was wrong. I know now that the Good Lord wasn’t saying “No”; He was simply saying, “Not yet”. Healing occurs on many levels and this realization was part of my healing process.