Sarah’s everlasting gift

by LUCY GIARDINO CORTESE

The best gifts are those which will trigger powerful emotions and connections to loved ones for years to come. © iStockphoto

It was an unusually cold winter day for Jacksonville, Florida, in late December 1977. I was invited to visit the home of a teacher I was supervising in the rural town of Baldwin.

I drove thirty miles from the city limits to a two-room shanty nestled in a pine forest clearing. Daniel introduced me to his two young children and his lovely wife Sarah. Their enthusiastic welcome rang of genuine southern hospitality.

Smoldering flames burning in a crudely made fireplace did not begin to battle the dark and bitter cold inside the tiny shack. But the baking of homemade biscuits warmed the humble dwelling, as did a feeling of quiet peace. There was a rustic picnic table for eating and mattresses on the floor for sleeping. The only other furniture was an old rickety rocking chair. On it sat an exquisite, hand-made rag doll.

I commented to Sarah about the doll’s beauty. She told me that she had crafted it herself. Handing it to me she said in a sweet drawl, “You like it? You take it!” I refused the offer, convinced that I could never remove the single adornment in this stark and simple house. Sarah smiled and shared her generous philosophy, “When someone sees beauty in an object, it must belong to her.”

Stunned, I accepted the doll and treasured it for nearly thirty years. Seeing it resting in the floral stuffed rocking chair in my own home has always provided comfort. What I received that day remained with me longer than the precious rag doll.

Through the next three decades, I tried to practice random acts of kindness. When the frazzled girl serving sundaes at the creamery in San Marco admired my dolphin earrings, I placed them in her tip jar. When the tired Arlington postal clerk liked my holiday pin, I left it on the counter beneath my stack of Christmas cards. When the sweet clerk in the busy downtown law office complimented my pink stone ring, it became hers.

Last winter a friend gave me two pair of light-up earrings that resembled Christmas tree bulbs. When I asked why there were two sets, she said, “One pair is for you to keep. The other is to give away to the first person that says she likes them!” I laughed at her accurate observation.

One day, Amanda, one of my instructors at Tree Hill Nature Center, was sporting a unique spider pin on her sweater. Melissa, a fellow colleague, commented on its intricate detail and beauty. Amanda took off the pin, attached it to her co-worker’s jacket and said, “You like it? Take it!” Melissa exclaimed, “What are you doing?” Amanda replied, “I’m doing ‘A Lucy.’ She’s always giving people stuff when they admire it.” From my office, I overheard Amanda’s startling comment. It brought back the memory of that lesson learned so many years ago from a noble mentor’s act.

The following Sunday, Rev. Cody’s sermon quoted a song from the Broadway musical My Fair Lady. He said that the lyrics define what it means to be a true Christian: “Don’t talk of love; show me.” Sarah’s everlasting gift personified that kind of unconditional love for a complete stranger. It was my life-defining moment. This blessing constantly prompts me to pay-it-forward—to pass on the good deed.

The lowest point in my life came early last February when my 94-year-old mother died. Her loss left a void deep in my soul that I suspect will never be filled. Grieving for this matriarch deeply saddened our extended Italian family.

Following Mema’s wake service, the entire clan converged on my home. An obvious pall fell over us all as we entered the residence where Mema and I lived together these past few years.

One by one, eyes strayed to the beige lift chair still covered with the red, white and green throw. On it was the flag of Mema’s native land and the word Italia. In that spot she spent so many days fighting death’s persistent summons. I averted my tearful look from the emotional sight of Mema’s recliner. It was then I noticed the old rag doll still in the rocking chair. A quiet epiphany briefly interrupted my sorrow.

I rounded up eighteen of Mema’s granddaughters and great granddaughters and led them to the bedroom. I reverently placed the sparkling array of earrings on the bed that my mother had collected over nine decades. “Pick the pair you like best,” I instructed, “and wear them to the funeral tomorrow.”

The following day, as each of the grieving young women embraced me, she touched the jewels dangling from her ears, and a smile broke through the tears. In that church packed with family and friends all celebrating my mother’s life, I was heavy with sadness. For an instant, there was a moment of calm. I silently thanked Sarah for her guidance once again.

Recently a dear friend of my mother came by to offer her condolences. The ninety-year-old noticed my beautiful rag doll. She remarked that Santa Claus had given her a doll like that many, many Christmases past. Mustering up all my courage and strength at this time of sorrow, I managed to mutter those magical words, “You like it … take it.” With that gesture, I finally parted with my long-held treasure. I stared at the empty rocker that the doll had occupied for all those years with my own feeling of emptiness.

Mema’s lift chair and the doll’s rocker are void of their former occupants. They represent constant reminders of two special angels. The first accompanied me throughout my entire life. The other entered but for a brief moment in time. They were both giving spirits. Both were exemplary women. Each left indelible marks imprinted on my heart.

Now that I am in the autumn of my years, melancholy has turned to serenity and certainty. Life’s simplest lessons are abundantly clear. Many birthdays have come and gone. Holidays and anniversaries brought presents large and small. One thing I know for sure. The best gift I ever received was … ‘A Sarah.’

LUCY GIARDINO CORTESE is a freelance writer from Florida.