Busting Balls

He had many nicknames, but usually preferred to be addressed as Red Power Ranger. My blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cherub of a brother was born the year I turned thirteen. His name was Gabriel – like the Christmas angel – and he sometimes believed he could fly.

After sailing his tricycle tumbling down the two short steps that led from the entry level to the carpeted family room, he popped up, barely phased, and announced, “I was just trying to do a mump like the Power Rangers!” He had been fully confident in his ability to land smoothly on all three wheels – but he never tried it again.

He was a climber and loved to try jumping – “Mump!” – from any surface he could successfully summit. He was quick! His adoring older sisters and attentive parents regularly caught him in the “Saint Nick” of time, thankfully avoiding any serious injury related to his adventures and antics. We affectionately referred to the supervision of Gabriel as “heart attack duty,” because his thrum of activity often left us gasping for breath – or gave us a good scare!

We understood the height of his determination on a family vacation, standing atop an overlook staring hundreds of feet downward at Hell’s Half Acre in Wyoming. My father kept an iron grasp on Gabriel for safety. Gabriel looked upward at Dad, then downward at the perilous craggy terrain that resembled flames licking upward from the earth (hence the name). He then suggested innocently, “Mump? Mump? Let’s mump!” The family decided we’d looked long enough and made our way to lower ground.

The holidays provided ample opportunity for Gabe to unleash his creativity! Unraveling my mother’s garland of berries from the stairway railing, licking the artificial candy-cane ornaments that sparkled with glittery faux sugar, and eating an ample amount of cookie dough, he was a “tiny tot with [his] eyes all aglow” in the truest sense.

Amid the flurry of joyous energy, he paused occasionally to gaze lovingly at the nativity scene displayed atop the piano, telling baby Jesus “happy birfday” and reminding us that the angel was him! “Dere’s Gabriel!”

One afternoon as I peeled potatoes and Mom chopped onions, Gabriel played underfoot with his racecars, unusually quiet. A shattering noise broke the stillness and we rushed into the next room, where the tree was in full regalia.

Through the doorway sailed a round glass ornament, then another, each hitting the tile floor with a crash and smash. My brother’s angelic voice called out “Balls!” amid a flurry of giggles. The only thing he loved more than Power Rangers were balls, and how lovely that the tree was riddled with his favorite thing!

We caught him mid-toss on another ornament. My mother knelt beside him and gently took the “ball” from his pudgy fingers. “Oh Gabriel, these aren’t balls. These are decorations, they don’t bounce.”

“Balls not bounce.” He agreed. “Balls boken!”

“Yes, the balls are broken.” A particularly special broken ball caught her eye, a gift from the early days of hers and my dad’s marriage, and her face visibly fell.

She was never a parent who would take such a thing out on us or let it show much, but Gabriel noticed. He hugged and kissed her gently, saying, “I fix it, Mama.”

Of course, she didn’t allow him to scoop up the pieces of shattered glass. She scooped him up instead and said, “It’s okay, Honey. It’s just an ornament and you are much more special to me than that is.”

She turned to carry him out of the room, and passing the piano at eye level, Gabriel pointed as he often did at the baby in the manger. “Dere’s Jesus! Dere’s Gabriel! Happy birfday, Jesus!”

Mom and I smiled at his innocent yet timely reminder that the King of Christmas came to put our broken pieces back together.

Gabriel’s real gift was grace for each moment, the holidays are about unconditional love for each other, and memories are forever. I have no idea what else I received that year, but Gabriel’s “ball busting” moment came back to me in the form of my own son’s holiday mishap.

Last Christmas my cherub, Issy, with curly brown hair and chocolate drop eyes, decided to see if his brother’s Harry Potter ornament was as good at Quidditch as the real Harry. Harry went for a brief trip on his Nimbus 2000, which met an untimely end that I didn’t have a spell for -- super glue would have to do. His brother smiled affectionately at him and gave him a hug. “Well, Issy, that Harry doesn’t fly!”

I was pretty sure my heart heard angels sing in that moment. It could sometimes be easy for Salem to lose patience with Issy, who has multiple special needs that sometimes affect his decisions -- but he never does.

My heart grew two sizes as I watched my son’s demonstration of grace. I couldn’t help thinking of my mother’s love so many years ago. It is the greatest of gifts she has given her grandchildren.

Harry rides again on our tree this year, along with an assortment of balls. The manger sits atop my own piano now -- and the love? We leave that on display year-round.