Heaven Scent: What My Father Gave to Her

 

I have been paid in full and have more than enough; I am fully satisfied, now that I have received … the gifts you sent, a fragrant offering, a sacrifice acceptable and pleasing to God. ~Philippians 4:18

 

Every Christmas, for as long as I remember, Daddy gave Mum the same gift. It was especially meaningful to her because of its French origin. In the mid-1950s, my parents were stationed in a picturesque community near the city of Nice, known as Villefranche-sur-Mer, a natural harbor in the Mediterranean Sea. The 6th Fleet flagship, USS Salem, called Villefranche its home port, and while Daddy was at sea serving under Vice Admiral Charles “Cat” Brown, my mother made a quaint home for my sister and me in this French Riviera village. Although I was only three years old, I remember endless stone steps throughout town, bordered by shops, small hotels, and apartments. I vaguely remember the nuns who taught my sister and me at the Catholic nursery school—evidence of the value my parents placed on passing down their Catholic faith. It was here my father gave my mother the first of her special Christmas gifts.

After those years in Villefranche, my parents returned to England and eventually made it to the United States with two additional daughters. On Christmas mornings, my sisters and I watched expectantly as Mum unwrapped the small package from Daddy. It was always the same slender, shiny, black cylindrical container with a gold band around the center where the cap met the base. 

Our whole family loved the smell of Arpege by Lanvin, a sweet compilation of luxurious, gentle, floral fragrances leaving a lingering essence. In my mind, it represented the bouquet of my parents’ mutual love and devotion housed in the crystal-clear vase of their precious Catholic faith. The perfume’s container, like their faith, released a heavenly scent as its contents filled the air. But, unlike faith and truth, manufactured perfume does not endure.

As the years passed, it became harder for my father to find Arpege. While I was away at college, my younger sisters helped him search Pensacola to find it, until one year, the package on Christmas morning was no longer cylindrical. It was rectangular, a book—a spiritual book. And while my sisters and I were disappointed, our mother was happy to receive a gift to strengthen her faith and raise it to new heights. We grew used to Christmas mornings without the French perfume. Instead, Mum breathed in the scent of heaven from each new book. 

Before my father passed away, our families spent Christmas with our parents. As Mum opened the familiar rectangle, she burst out laughing and admonished Daddy as she held up two more spiritual books, “Are we planning to open a religious bookstore?” Secretly hoping for something a little more feminine.

The truth is, both of my parents were living examples of valuing the gifts that truly count—deepening faith, love for Jesus in the Eucharist, love of Scriptures, daily Mass, prayer, and Rosary—placing Christ at the center of life and passing on the faith. My sisters and I may not have appreciated the scent of heaven permeating my parents’ lives when we were young. We were more interested in tangible gifts. But, certainly now, as my sisters and I spend Christmas mornings with our own families, we can still breathe in the lingering perfume of their lives because of the faith passed on by our mother and father.

What My Father Gave to Her

Every day

a spiritual bouquet, holy communion prayers

a single red heirloom rose

silence in the garden

Every week

Fragrant Sunday supper specials followed with 

love petals strewn across ivory keys

wafting the sound of his song

Every month 

perfectly synchronized dances with the big bands

swaying like fields of wild chamomile

sowing meadows of memories

Every special occasion

sentiments written sweetly across the page

words curved and scented like wisteria

Every year

perfume in a slender black cylinder

gold banded Arpege

floral essences

Forever

what my father gave to her

he gave to me.

© Paula Veloso Babadi, 2022