I've Changed

The Inseparable Christmas Present and Christmas Past

Dear Fellow Wonderers,

All good wishes to you all this holiday season from my little corner of the world to yours. My gift of holiday cheer for you is not a little sack of my husband Sims’ amazing caramels, or his gooey and crunchy and delicious turtles, but something just as sweet, and in some ways even sweeter.

I have uncovered, in my box of treasures to be told, a gem of a memory froma when our Henry was only two and a half years gone……and it is a Christmas story. I have titled it, “I’ve Changed”, because the times were such, that I rounded a corner, and stumbled onto a path of writing. Not just for myself, but to share with other parents who have had a child die.

I have my writing mentor to thank. The Writer’s Sherpa, Julie Tallard Johnson. I cannot continue without Julie’s open heart, wisdom, knowledge, and nurturing.

I’ll be back in 2026, with more news of the progress of my upcoming memoir. I send all good wishes for continued adventures for us all in 2026! Love from Maggie

Our campfire glow created an illuminated Nativity of snow.

I’ve Changed

During Christmas break in 2018, I changed.

Henry had been dead for nearly three years, and like a brave Warrior woman, I rose up, and I rounded a corner.

The panorama before my closed eyes glowed with stories that have surprise endings, written in the belief that they would bring healing.

From the first days after Henry’s death in March of 2015, I have held a fist grip on a knot of compassion inside of my heart, for all of the mothers and fathers who have had a child go on ahead of them.

I cry now as I write this, understanding their sadness at being left behind.

If my stories and their surprise endings prove to others that Henry is beside me,

hearing me,

writing with me,

guiding me,

and illuminating my path with love,

then maybe someday I will feel confident enough that I have done my job, and my grip on that knot of pain and sorrow can soften.

… and I can let go.

And know everyone has been healed.

That sounds like a dream.

To share my personal experiences with strangers, as a mother who has lost a son, takes way more courage than belting out a Bebop tune in front of a crowd of thousands.

A writer’s muscle is not one I have developed. I am not used to the amount of flexing it takes to find the right words for the indescribable.

What words explain how I know Henry is with me?

What words answer the question of “How do you remove doubt?”

“How do you know you can trust?”

“What is this knowingness? This awareness?”

“ What are these feelings, sensations, thought bubbles, and messages that you receive?” I am asked.

Deep down, my desire whispers,” I just know.”

“No, says my writing mentor. “You must sit with these feelings. Close your eyes and find words to describe how you know, and what you know, so we can understand.”

“Okay,” I sigh.

And I continue to bench press the dictionary, and my soul.

December 2018 brought a nice annual break we had scheduled between Christmas and New Year’s. Little did I know that this year, Henry and his antics would push me over a hump. A hump that was made up of sometimes (not always), still doubting the signs and messages.

But the signs he manifested during the holidays were so clear that I could no longer have an inkling of doubt or wonder.

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December 24th, 2018

I dropped the leaves onto the dining room table to add extra room for platters and serving bowls.

My Grandmother’s linen tablecloth floated down with ease, and memories began to gush into my mind, like when a strobe light flashes and flickers in a darkened room.

My heart ripped a bit as I handled our family’s ornaments, and I set out my mother’s never-lit antique Turkey candle that the boys always loved to set on the table themselves.

“The darkest hour is just before dawn,” I thought as I unwrapped the red candles for the centerpiece of holly and cheer. My hand reached up to catch the first falling tear from my right eye. And then it hit me, “this was not a dark hour, just a dark few minutes.” I thought convincingly.

“You’ll get by,” I coached.

This was a band-aid technique I had developed. Applied gently, with a salve of compassion for myself, and I could limp on.

The table setting was complete, and I dropped the needle on a Blue Oyster Cult record that our son, Emmett, had recently purchased for me in a record store in Galway, Ireland. Let the festivities begin as Emmett began to tell me a story about Henry, and one of his favorite songs on this record. I love Emmett’s recollections of his and Henry’s adventures. And I love his strength that shines through his eyes when he tells them.

As the collection of beautiful Wisconsin Cheeses is presented, and the nog is being whipped up in the blender, I remembered that I had one more gift to wrap.

I headed upstairs to Henry’s old bedroom, where all the wrappings and trappings were in a mess everywhere. As I spied the trusty orange FISKARS scissors, I, for some strange reason, remembered that I had wanted to put the Memory Foam mattress topper on our bed.

This is Christmas Eve, and I am oddly wanting to stop everything and ask my husband, Sims, to haul the mattress down from the attic with me so I can put it on the bed. Hmmm.

The tunes rose from the turntable downstairs,

“Don’t fear the reaper….” swooned the Blue Oyster Cult, as Sims flopped the foam topper onto our bedroom floor.

“It is not heavy, I can handle it, “ I said hurriedly.

And he popped back into Henry’s old room to wrap the final gift.

I tossed that rolled-up foam topper onto the bed.

One big plop and it began to unroll.

But only halfway.

I smacked it with my left hand to unroll it the rest of the way. But not hard enough. It merely gave a quick pulse, and then….

I saw stars! I saw magic! I saw Christmas gifts!

Along with the smack of my hand came a surprise! With a flip of my wrist, flying down from the heavens came nuggets of dog food!

The kernels materialized out of thin air like something Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother would manifest with her magic wand.

They sprinkled their way down, right before my twinkling eyes, and landed at the foot of our permanent mattress.

“Dog Food!” I hollered.

Sims came rushing in. I frantically described their arrival.

“And look how they landed,” he said.

There were three of the lighter-colored nuggets in a row. There was one darker nugget above them.

Sims was in the spirit; he gently picked up the dark nugget and began to play with it, as if it were an action figure.

“Here are the three of us, down here, “ he tapped on the mattress.

“And here’s Henry up in his Starship!” Ha! We laughed and enjoyed the play, like we used to for hours, when the boys were young.

Jazzed, we returned to the Christmas buzz downstairs. I gave Blue Oyster Cult a hefty nudge on the volume knob as I walked by, and we continued to celebrate our strong family ties with music, gifts, memories, love, and Christmas spirit.

Henry, the great gift-giver, had joined in with me on the thoughts of putting the foam topper on the bed. And he led me to a gift that was brilliantly illuminated with the magic of Christmas.

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P.S. Oh My! As I was preparing this story for publication, I heard a noise in the kitchen. Although I stopped and lent an ear, I was too engrossed in my work to think too much about it.

My post completed. I decided to go to the kitchen to grab a tangerine. The memorial card which aligns as a bookmark, that we created for Henry’s “ Goodbye for Now” ceremony, had blown off of the wall, and landed on the back of the table, next to the tangerines. His quote printed on the card, under his grinning face, smiled up at me.

“Everyone knows, their own dance is the best dance.” (Henry age 9)

“How did you get here?” I asked the card. My heart burst with love. Warm, pulsing, mother’s love, as I set it back in place, with a soft, little rub.