It was Christmas.
The time of magic.
Wonderment.
And gift-giving.
For a single mom with two little girls,
an income sufficient for the necessities and little else, it was a
time to get creative.
And Pinterest hadn't been invented yet.
She desperately wanted to give
something to the family who cared for her two girls, but what could
she afford?
She saw some little clay ornaments in a
magazine.
Perfect!
She and her girls would make a set of
those.
They spent several evenings mixing.
Rolling.
Assembling.
Baking.
Painting.
And detailing.
Six little Christmas bears emerged.
Perfect and beautiful.
They were wrapped and presented.
And very, very much appreciated.
Move forward a few years . . .
Those same Christmas bears were the
Tolley family favourite.
A reminder of the precious years when
we welcomed two little girls and their lonely single mother into our
family.
They were the first things out of the
box when we decorated our Christmas tree.
And always handled with care.
Until that Christmas.
Let me tell you about it . . .
Our family had welcomed in two little
special needs foster children.
A brother and sister.
Both had come from . . . difficult
circumstances.
Christmas was something that had been
observed only from a distance.
They were enthralled with everything.
The gifts.
The lights.
The baking.
The tree.
Especially the tree.
Four-year-old Little Girl spent hours
looking at that tree.
And when looking wasn't sufficient, she
would pull the decorations off.
Systematically tasting each one.
Most were inedible.
But the little salt-clay Christmas
bears, that so closely resembled cookies, could, with just a little
effort, be eaten.
She did so.
I caught her at it.
“No! Those aren't for eating!”
I took them away and tried to instruct
and advise.
Then moved them up, out of reach.
But when I was downstairs doing
laundry, she got into them again.
By climbing the tree.
And knocking it over.
A few minutes later, I sadly rescued
what was rescue-able.
It wasn't much.
Only scattered, semi-chewed pieces
remained.
One precious bear remained intact
enough to still hang on the tree.
It hangs there today.
Still 'bear-ing' the scars of its
trauma.
Our little foster daughter has grown
and gone.
The single mom, married with two more
girls - most themselves married with children of their own.
One, lone bear hangs every year with
the other decorations on our tree.
But it isn't just a bear.
It's memories . . .
