Anonymously Yours: A Mother’s Love, the True Meaning of Christmas

Several decades ago, one of the most memorable Christmas gifts I’ve ever received was delivered to me. It wasn’t from my father or mother, or family, or Santa Claus himself. It was from an an an unnamed mother of a son who I imagine was a lot like me. Allow me to explain.

This particular year I was spending Christmas in a land far from home. My family was certainly celebrating, almost definitely eating and I’m sure missing me as I was as far from them as I could geographically manage. I wasn’t alone, but the lot of us were miserable for the most part, pining for home and missed our families, wives, children or parents, depending on the situation. We huddled around a broken table in a dusty, sandy room and did our best to celebrate while simultaneously trying to drown out the memories of family traditions, Mom’s gravy, or the sound of little feet, lest our tears interrupt the brave facade we all constructed so carefully. For me, lonely didn’t quite capture the depth of my mood.

While we took turns at a bottle of smuggled Jack Daniels, and did our best to build up some holiday cheer, the air was heavy with the thoughts of all we missed or believed we were missing. We drew a tree on a broken pane of glass, we attempted some badly sung. and definitely disharmonious Christmas carols and though there were moments of levity, one could never quite escape the gravitational pull of those individual thoughts of home.

Then came the letters. For years the USO has allowed Americans to send anonymous letters to servicemen overseas in an effort to boost morale. I cannot speak to how it affected everyone, but I can certainly attest to how it affected me. Though I had letters from my mom and dad, phone calls had been made it was this letter in particular stuck with me more than all the others that were delivered.

Mine, by chance, was from a mother. Her son had been lost in service of his country some years before. She didn’t elaborate and in the brevity of her description I could sense that the pain she felt was still very real and very heavy. It must have hurt her to even write it. I know. Sometimes things are seldom as real as when we write them, as if that physical acknowledgement of things passed on somehow makes it more tangible and more certain. But there it was.

The letter was to ‘a serviceman’ in title, but in spirit, I could tell this woman, this mother, was writing not only to alleviate our suffering and loneliness, but her own. Though not addressed to me in name, it became as personal as anything I’d ever received. Christmas must have been a bittersweet time for her, a mother who lost her son in active duty overseas. The holidays were a painful reminder of the son she would never see again. But rather than let grief consume her, she found a way to channel her love and honor her son’s memory. Every December, I imagine she wrote (and perhaps still does write) heartfelt letters to anonymous servicemen and women stationed far from home. She fills each note with gratitude, encouragement, and warmth, hoping to bring a little comfort to someone spending Christmas away from their family. It’s her way of giving back to those who continue to serve, even as she carries her own loss.

I’d like to imagine those letters have become a source of healing for her. With every message, I pray she feels closer to her son, imagining the joy her words might bring to someone facing the same hardships he once did and I sincerely wish I could tell her they did for me that lonesome night. For the soldiers and sailors who received her notes, her words were a lifeline—a reminder that they are not forgotten. While the letter was unsigned, except for ‘A Mom’ I wonder if she really knows the true gift of the connection she creates. In lifting others she kept, and perhaps still keeps her son’s legacy alive, spreading hope and love in a season that’s meant to bring people together, even across oceans.

We passed that letter around, and read it quietly, each of us to ourselves. I thought about keeping it. But something within me sensed that would be wrong. It was meant to be shared. And though it may seem a foolish thought and perhaps a naive wish, I’d like to believe that each reading of it, each smile it brought, every heart it touched, somehow eased the burden on the heart of a lonesome mother somewhere back home.

There’s a woman I’ll never meet, a mother who turned the heartbreak of losing her child into something extraordinary. Every Christmas, she wrote (writes?) anonymous letters to servicemen and women stationed overseas, filling them with hope, gratitude, and encouragement. She didn’t sign her name, never asked for recognition—her only goal was to bring light to someone else’s lonely holiday. For me, knowing someone like her exists is what Christmas is all about. It’s a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable loss, the human spirit can find a way to give, to connect, and to remind us all what this season truly means.