Our baby sister comes home for Christmas

With my hair in rollers, Mr. Zablocki walked me home from babysitting in the streetlight. Four quarters chinked in my empty roller box that chilly, December night. And for all I knew, Mom could still be in the hospital delivering our new baby.

Mr. Zablocki waited on the sidewalk while I walked up to the front door, opened it, and waved good-bye.

Mom and Granny sat on the couch; Granny almost hidden by the lit Christmas tree. They both held needles and thread sewing tiny doll clothes.

Every moment was precious with Granny in our house, especially her first visit to Wagner Street. I’d never seen anyone cook a good meal and clean up as fast as Granny. For her large size, she flew around like a robin feeding her young.

When she washed dishes with my older sister Linda and me, we walked out of the kitchen in ten minutes without an argument.

I hung up my coat and didn’t connect what Mom and Granny sewed to Christmas presents for Libby or Patty, third and fourth in birth order.

One of those awkward adolescent moments, I knew where babies came from and didn’t know what to do or say. I’d never been alone in our living room with my mother and granny. And I’d never seen them sit together on our sofa.

Mom put her sewing down. “Iris, would you like to see your new baby sister?”

So, Mom did have her baby. I couldn’t tell, and nodded, glad it wasn’t a boy.

I smelled our baby’s wonderful newborn scent, then I saw her tiny, blanketed body in the crib. Mom leaned over the rail and patted our baby’s bottom tenderly, her tiny face barely lit by the hall light.

Mom rested her other hand on my shoulder, the gentleness of her love blessing and accepting another child into our hearts and home.

Patty was near five years old, and I’d forgotten how beautiful and helpless babies were. Perhaps Mom’s love opened my eyes more fully, or the soft light radiated my sister’s newborn face like the halo did to baby Jesus.

“Mom, what’s her name?”

“Sonia Ann.”

“I’ve never heard of the name Sonia. I like it.”

With my sisters asleep, Granny on the living room sofa, and Dad bowling, Mom and I stood within the rare quiet of our small, three-bedroom house. Days before Christmas, the moment seemed holy. Pure.

A newborn child had come to us, just like Jesus came to Mary and Joseph two thousand years ago. And a newborn grandchild for Granny, who came to us from Kentucky, much like the Magi traveled to Bethlehem to see the infant king.

What blessed love to know and carry a lifetime. Not a memory alone, but a transformation of light and touch set in time and place.

Love, light, and touch that nothing can destroy.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com