Christmas 2020—A Christmas Letter from Peggy’s Daughters
From those who have complained about difficulty breathing while wearing masks to those unforgettable dying words of George Floyd, to those struggling to breathe in COVID wards,and to those of us with anxiety and worry about all the trials of 2020, it seems that breathing is more critical this year. Perhaps I am just thinking of this because Mom struggled with breathing in her final week on earth. Or perhaps there is more to my thoughts.
Just breathe could be the motto that sums up the year 2020.
Perhaps it could mean:
1. Just breathe. Don’t react immediately to all that is so scary. Breathe and find calmness.
2. Just breathe and see the present for what it is. Find pleasure in the little magical moments.
3. Just breathe. Recognize your value and place in the world. You are here. You matter.
4. Just breathe. Breathing=surviving. Keep going. Despite how it feels, it will be OK.
When Mom sent me a comfy wrap in September with the image at the top of the page, I at first thought it was a gentle reminder for me to find calm in the midst of my struggle with depression and anxiety. Just wrapping it around me made me feel calm. However, I believe her last gift to me has a much deeper meaning.
Just breathe. Even though it could mean taking one day at a time, due to the dandelion image, I now think there was a message of hope that she wanted me to recognize. Kelly and I used to love summers in North Carolina, in part because of the presence of dandelions. We would tear off the puffballs and blow, watching the seeds float away in the air. Little did we care we were spreading weeds. All we saw was the magic of a child’s wishes.
Christmas is all about that same magic. The Christmas story is all about the magical hope that it will all make sense, all come together, and all mean something. Mary and Joseph faced instant judgment and misunderstanding, but they breathed, and a “magical” human presence came into the world. The wise men breathed, hoping that each step they took toward Israel on a very difficult trip (with only the guidance of a star) would bring them into the presence of God. Simeon and Anna, despite no signs of a promise made hundreds of years before, breathed and witnessed a miracle.
I can promise that at ages 49 and 51 this December, Kelly and I do not feel the same magical childlike innocence in dandelion puffs, and with the realization that we are still fairly young to have lost both of our parents, this Christmas will be hard. However, we are determined to breathe this year. We will breathe into our “dandelions” and anticipate a hope unseen:
1. Although we miss our mother deeply since we both talked with her every day, we breathe with joy that she is no longer suffering from her brief stint with cancer. She no longer has pulmonary fibrosis and stiff joints. We breathe with the hope that she is able to see mountains, climb trees, and enjoy a beauty we cannot see.
2. We breathe with the hope that Mom and Dad are together again—finally. We know the last 27 years have felt like eternity to her. We imagined with Mom in her final hours what Dad would do and say when he saw her again for the first time in a long time.
3. We breathe and anticipate what we do not see yet for our children. Parker and Jacob and Andy are now in the “real world” and dealing with health issues and/or COVID-related job challenges, and yet we anticipate health and direction for them. Amy and Jonathan are both freshmen in college, exploring their passions, and we anticipate a clear vision for their futures. Aaron is in his first year of high school, learning virtually from home, but we anticipate a future wide open, ready for him to jump into.
4. We breathe and anticipate better days in our jobs. All 4 of us—Anthony and I and Kelly and Billy—have experienced new challenges in our jobs due to COVID. As has happened for all of us, we anticipate a day when masks may not be necessary, when fear does not exist to be near others, and when we enjoy our friendly gatherings again.
This year has not been easy. For any of us. We have missed out on so much—from time with loved ones, to graduation ceremonies (as 3 of our kids did). The rhetoric used in our political spheres have drawn battle lines and have divided friendships and family relationships. We have canceled vacations, had to rethink jobs and school, and lived with uncertainty. We dream and anticipate of a day when friendships and families are reunited, when hate no longer fills the airwaves, when we see all those around us with a sense of love.
I have no idea what words Mom would share with you this year if she could, but as she sat in the hospital hours before “comfort care” took over her care, she made sure Kelly and I knew where the Christmas cards were that she had already bought and encouraged us to send them out regardless of her condition.
Regardless of what I don’t know of Mom’s message, I am confident that she would want:
1. To let you know how much she loved and appreciated each of you—for your love, friendship, and support. She always felt like her friends were a part of her family.
2. To let you know how blessed she was to have you in her life.
3. To remind you that there is hope, there is magic, there is joy in life---and even in death. Mom was at such great peace moments before death. She breathed slowly physically, but she breathed with a full anticipation that there was life after death.
4. To remind you to breathe. To dream. To allow the seeds of hope to spread.
5. To become a child again in simple (but not always easy) childlike love, hope, and trust.
6. To breathe and enjoy something magical this Christmas season.
7. To love each other (regardless of political leanings, appearance, religious beliefs, or lifestyles). To hug. To tell those around you that you love them. To live each moment to the fullest.
Kelly and I, attempting to fill in for Mom in this letter in her absence, wish you just breathe and discover a true anticipation of something you cannot see at this moment.
Merry Christmas.
