Last night, when I was at a traditional Noche Buena before Midnight Mass, my mother phoned me. I thought she was either ill or wanted to wish me Merry Christmas early. Instead, she said something along these lines, “When you go to church later, think about those who carry you, and give thanks.”

“I don’t need anyone to carry me, Ma.” What a strange conversation to be having on Christmas Eve, I thought, slightly annoyed. “I’m fifty years old and am doing just fine.”

‘Oh, we all need someone to carry us sometimes. I used to carry your father in the early years of our marriage. Actually, I carried him right through to his sixties. And now, he is carrying me. That’s how life works,  Jac.”

OK, I said.

But I did think deeply about her words, sitting in church an hour later. I saw past the fights and impatience and angry words, to the face ravaged with worry and love for me, to the presence never far from me and to the gladness in his eyes whenever he looks at me, even as his words fights me.

And I gave my thanks ❤

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