>Almost every year my mother, for Christmas, sends me a new book by Richard Paul Evans, who you may know as the author of The Christmas Box. I am not a Christian in any sense of the definition, but even though Evans weaves faith into his books quite obviously I can appreciate it for what it meant to the author and what it means to my mother. The Christmas Box is a story of a parents’ love for their children and the meaning of Christmas and of family. Christmas has always been an important time for my family, especially my mother and I, which is why this year was so ruddy difficult.
My mother gave me The Christmas Box for Christmas in 1995. And every year since, when Evans has written a new book, it has always been one of my Christmas gifts, as he almost always includes Christmas in his novels. So it became somewhat of a special tradition for my mother and I.
Somehow in the mayhem and chaos of this last year and culminating with my solitude and lack of anything holiday-related on Christmas, I had forgotten. I had so given up on Christmas meaning anything to me this year that experiencing anything touching in that way completely eluded me.
My gift(s) from my parents finally arrived today (my dad works for FedEx…go figure), but there was one that I knew, before even opening the box, was specifically from my mother. It was exactly what I needed and curled up with it on my bed and was so touched I cried.

Sometimes it so wonderful to remember when someone just inherently knows you.

Merry Christmas everyone.

One thought on “>Remembering.

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