A Gift from
Christmas
Angels
by Kimberly Ripley
I usually made myself crazy with the
holidays and had vowed to simplify that year. I had done my best to stick to my
promise, and by the Saturday two weeks before Christmas, I felt that I really
had a handle on my holiday preparations. Gifts had been bought and wrapped,
menus had been planned, and the tree was up and decorated. Packages for faraway
friends and relations were ready for Monday’s mail, and the presents that would
travel north with me to my hometown later that week had been wrapped, tagged,
and stacked on the kitchen counter. I planned to drive "home" to Bangor, Maine,
later that week for my traditional just-before-Christmas visit.
The highlight of that day trip would be having a good long tęte-ŕ-tęte
with my grandmother, whom I adored. We’d munch Christmas cookies and sip tea as
we caught up and reminisced and laughed. There would be much laughter. Later
that afternoon, I would make my rounds to other relatives, delivering gifts and
glad tidings of the season. With the numerous visits and six-hour round trip, it
would be an exhausting day, but one I made willingly. The chance to spend the
day with my grandmother, my truest friend, was reason enough. Though we talked
on the phone at least once a week, I treasured every moment of her
company.
With my Christmas tasks well in hand, I decided to tackle the
three-foot-high pile of ironing that sat before me. Christmas carols blaring
from the stereo and the aroma of hand-dipped chocolates drying on the counter
made for a merry atmosphere, despite the mundane task at hand.
"I need to go to Bangor," I suddenly said, iron midair, to my
husband.
"Uh-huh … on Thursday, right?"
"No, today. I think I should go today," I found myself answering.
"Today?" he asked, putting down the newspaper and looking at me over the
rims of his glasses.
"Yes, as soon as I finish the ironing and a few other little
chores."
"But the day is already half over. When were you planning to
leave?"
"Actually, I hadn’t planned it, but I should be able to leave by eight
o’clock."
"Tonight?" he asked again. Not one to question my judgment, he paused to
consider what was clearly an unusually impulsive decision on my part. "I’d
really rather you not drive all that way alone at night."
"I suppose you’re right."
I continued to make my way through the ironing, stopping only to answer
the phone and to brew a fresh pot of coffee. As I ironed, I made a mental list
of the few remaining things to do before Christmas, but the urge to drop
everything and go to Bangor nagged at the back of my mind.
When I finally reached the bottom of the pile, my friend Colleen joined me
for coffee. Colleen has lived with us for years. As she didn’t have much family
of her own, we had adopted her into ours. My kids call her Auntie. I told her
about wanting to drive to Bangor that night and my husband’s concern.
"I could go with you," she volunteered.
My husband, overhearing our conversation, piped in, "If Auntie goes with
you, go for it. My only concern was you driving alone at night."
We decided to drive straight through and get a hotel room in Bangor. I
hated imposing on relatives that late, and I loved hotels. It would make our
ladies’ night out a little more fun. By 7:30, we were loading overnight bags,
gifts, and homemade goodies into the back of my station wagon. Armed with the
cell phone, a thermos of coffee, Christmas CDs, snacks for the drive, and kisses
and hugs from my husband and children, we left on our three-hour
journey.
A few minutes later, the first snow flurry of the season began, covering
the pavement with a pretty white dusting and adding to the feeling of festivity.
But with each mile, the snow fell harder. Within minutes, several inches of icy
snow had accumulated on the highway. My rear-wheel-drive car didn’t do well in
slippery conditions, so I slowed to 45 miles per hour. The wind began to kick up
and the snow started falling in sheets, reducing my visibility to the short
range directly ahead of my headlight beams. I slowed to 25 miles per hour and
followed the white reflective markers along the right side of the highway,
struggling to keep the car on the road but remaining strangely calm. Something
inside told me we’d be okay.
Without warning, the white markers and then the pavement suddenly
disappeared. As we plowed into a thick layer of untouched snow, the car’s rear
wheels lost traction and we started to fishtail. Somehow I was able to regain
control before we hit the snowdrift alongside the road.
"You’re off the highway!" Colleen cried out.
Though rattled, I quickly collected myself. I realized I’d followed the
highway markers off of an exit ramp. We were in the middle of nowhere in the
pitch dark, and the snow was deep. I turned the car around, praying we wouldn’t
get stuck, and we found our way back to the highway.
For another 100 miles, we crept through the blizzard. The snowstorm
finally let up about 30 minutes south of Bangor. By then, we were laughing about
our ordeal and preparing to enjoy our evening. We reached our exit safely and
looked for a motel. A country inn near the exit had always intrigued me, but I’d
never stayed there. Most overnights in Bangor included my children and required
larger accommodations. We decided to give it a try.
To our delight, the inn was beautifully adorned for Christmas. Our room
was decorated in a country motif, and a large Christmas wreath hung outside the
window. With the gently falling snow as a backdrop, it looked like a scene from
an old-fashioned Christmas card, which is what I told my husband when I phoned
him to announce our safe, if somewhat delayed, arrival. Colleen and I spent the
night talking, giggling, and watching television. It was one o’clock before we
fell asleep.
In the morning I called my aunt to ask what time would be convenient to
visit Gram.
"She was having trouble breathing this morning, so they took her to the
hospital," my aunt said.
Though concerned, I was not unduly alarmed. My grandmother had a history
of breathing difficulties, and the staff at the assisted-living facility where
she now lived often took her to the hospital for nebulizer treatments to ease
her congestion.
"I’ll call you later to find out when to come up," I told my aunt.
Colleen and I spent the rest of the morning browsing through bookstores
and sipping hot cider. After lunch, I called my aunt back.
"The doctor decided to admit her," she said. "By the time you get there,
she’ll be settled into her room."
Minutes later we arrived at the hospital and took the elevator to the
geriatric ward. Gram was sitting in a wheelchair while a nurse got her ready for
bed. Her breathing was labored, and it was difficult for her to speak, so I
translated. I understood what she was trying to say. She pointed to her cheek,
signaling Colleen to plant a kiss there. She gestured that her feet were cold,
and the nurse brought her socks. When she ran her fingers over my shiny,
polished nails, she was telling me she needed a manicure.
"We’ll get Karen over here tomorrow to do your nails," I told her. My
sister often did Gram’s nails when she visited.
The afternoon passed quickly and pleasantly. Gram dozed from time to time,
but for most of the visit, she was alert and animated. She smiled often as we
chatted, and she held my hand tightly.
At the end of our visit, I wished her a Merry Christmas. I whispered that
her Christmas presents were at my aunt’s house and that she’d better behave and
not open them until Christmas.
"You’re the best Christmas present," she told me. She said it every
year.
She reached for me, and when I leaned down, she hugged me fiercely and
kissed my cheek. I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. She smiled and
nodded, unable to gather enough breath to speak.
From the doorway I heard her strained, "I love you."
I turned back and smiled, our eyes meeting.
The trip home was uneventful. We arrived mid-evening to warm greetings
from the family. After conveying my concerns about Gram to my husband, I called
my aunt to say we’d arrived home safely. She’d just returned from the hospital
after having tucked Gram in for the night.
"I told her I’d see her in the morning," she said. "And she blew me a
kiss."
Gram died an hour later.
When the call came, I felt overwhelming grief — but also gratitude for the
privilege of being able to spend one last peaceful, enjoyable afternoon with
her.
During the two weeks before her death, Gram had seen almost everyone in
the family who lived within a reasonable driving distance. Although we often
spoke on the phone, I hadn’t seen her in two months, and I knew how much she
cherished our time together. I also know now that the strength with which she
held my hand was her sign to me that she was strong in spirit and that she was
saying good-bye.
In the eulogy I delivered at Gram’s funeral, I talked about her love and
devotion to her family. I spoke of her strength and courage, which had enabled
her to raise six children alone after having been widowed in her forties. I said
that, rather than mourning our loss, we should celebrate with gratitude the many
years she had graced our lives. And I talked about angels.
How else could I explain my compulsion to drive three hours at night to
see her, days before my planned trip? Or being guided through a blinding
snowstorm? Or the miraculous gift of those last precious hours with her?
I had been blessed with the love and friendship of an angel here on earth
— my grandmother. Angels had brought me to Gram for a final Christmas visit. Now
she dwells with them, in comfort and joy.
This article is excerpted from the book:
 A Cup of
Comfort: Stories That Warm Your Heart, Lift Your Spirit, and Enrich Your Life
edited by Colleen Sell.
Reprinted with permission of the publisher, Adams Media
Corporation. Visit their website at www.adamsonline.com
Info/Order this book.
More books by this author.
About The
Author
Kimberly Ripley is the
author of Breathe Deeply, This Too Shall Pass, a collection of tales
on the trials and triumphs of parenting teenagers. She lives with her husband
and their five children in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. She is also the author of ''Freelancing Later in Life'' which was a featured
workshop in book stores across the country in 2002. For more info about Kim, visit www.kimberlyripley.writergazette.com/
| Comments () >> |
 |
 |
