Giving

12-24-25
By Peggy M. Sheffler
One Christmas, I experienced the feeling of real giving, not the giving that comes from a quick
selection from a department store, but giving of oneself. I discovered that what cost me a small
amount per person could not have a monetary value put on it.
At age 61, my mother seemed to be experiencing memory problems. I asked my mother,
a master in the kitchen, if she could pick out some of her favorite recipes from her rather large
recipe collection. There was sadness in my heart when I realized she was having difficulty doing
this relatively simple task. She could not find some of her recipes, was undecided about her
selections, and misplaced them. I explained that I intended to make a cookbook dedicated to
her. I asked her not to mention it to my six sisters and two brothers, hoping it would be a
pleasant surprise for our annual family Christmas gathering.
What started as a simple cookbook took on a life of its own and became a “True Labor of Love”
for me. I spent considerable time organizing the pages in my mind. I began searching for small
black and white drawings to add to the pages and dress them up, adding interest. Most of the
pictures that appealed to me were of children playing from a bygone era. After considerable
thought, I decided on a dedication page to my mother with an appropriate verse, “We hold our
children’s hands for a little while, their hearts forever.” I came up with a suitable cover and a
page to commemorate Christmas that year.
In a small way, on the last page, I tried to include my mother, stepfather, and siblings. I wrote
down a childhood memory that came to my mind about each of them. I wrote about how my sister Dorothy and I always shared a bedroom and talked for hours when we went to bed. At some point, our mother would yell up the stairs, “You two girls, be quiet and get to sleep!” So, at that point, we would have to whisper as low as possible to finish our conversation. To this day, I still love my conversations with my sister. What I decided to write about my older sister, Linda,
still brings a smile to my face. I was in elementary school at the time. It was a summer day, and we were both in the bathroom. She proceeded to break the news to me that there was no
Easter bunny. I will never forget where I was when I heard that piece of earth-shaking news that
I had not been prepared to hear yet.
After making my originals, I ran the needed number of copies. I scanned the office supply stores
until I found a folder for the treasured copies. When I completed the project, the cost was
minimal per cookbook.
As the day of our family gathering approached, the significance of the cookbook grew. Just five
days earlier, my fears were confirmed; my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s
disease. The cookbook, which had been a labor of love, now held even more significance,
becoming a cherished memory of our shared past.
The time came to make my presentation. With my heart in my throat, I asked for the thirty
family members’ undivided attention. I explained to them that I had asked Mother to pick out her
favorite recipes, which she had selected. At one point, my voice trembled with emotion. I quickly
recovered and proceeded to share my thoughts on what I had decided to write about each of
them on the last page. We laughed and smiled. There was a feeling of warmth in the room. It
was a day I will never forget.
As the disease progressed, my mother changed in many ways. The outer shell physically
presented the woman I knew as my mother, but the words and actions were of someone else.
Once in a while, a glimpse of the woman I had known would reappear. She touched my heart
when, on a few occasions, she told me she was afraid she would forever misplace the cookbook I made for her. I would calmly tell her, “Don’t worry. If you lose it, I’ll give you another. I have
extra copies of it.” She would reply in a somewhat relieved manner, “Oh, good.”
My mother passed away six years later in 1993. Her absence left a void that could never be
filled. Many times, I have thought back to that Christmas season. I’m glad I made the cookbook
when it still meant something to my mother. My thoughts often go back to that Sunday afternoon
in December when my family gathered together. My loved ones thanked me for a lovely day and
for giving them that small cookbook. I do not doubt that I received much more than they did that
day. I also know that the real value of the cookbook is priceless to me!