I am reposting this for Christmas. I wrote it
five years ago and was reminded of the story by a friend. I hope your
Christmas is filled with the joy that comes from helping others, the
ability to find and count your blessings (though they're sometimes
buried among the pain and struggle of life), and the hope that came into
this world through the sacrificial love of the One who breathed life
into us all and calls us to Himself. Merry Christmas.
I don't think I can top the Bumpkiss' dogs or the fish-net leg lamp. I can identify with Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" when he has to suck on a bar of Lifeboy soap. I became a regular connoisseur
of the latest "on-sale" bar soap when I was a kid. Lux, Lifeboy, Dial,
Ivory. Apparently getting cleaned from the inside out was the way to
approach child rearing. Maybe it was a chaser for the bleach I
accidentally drank from a Ball canning jar several years earlier. My
heart may have its stains but my intestines are clean as a whistle.
It
was during this same period my Christmas story takes place. It wasn't
humorous but it was definitely happy. I remembered it today when the
kids and I were part of the follow-up team for handing out Christmas
food and gifts for the company Jamie works for. We volunteered for the
privilege because who doesn't want to be part of that kind of Christmas
cheer? Of course, I groused about schedule logistics (note last blog)
even though I truly, truly wanted to do it. I mean really, WHAT is my
DEAL?!
We
drove across town to the warehouse, picked up seven boxes of groceries
and a few toys, and headed to the home of a single mother with lots of
children. The neighborhood was down-trodden but several neighbors stood
against the blight with cheery light displays and decorations.
The
home sat on a quiet corner, surrounded by a chain link fence. A chewed
rope hung limply from a metal pole advertising a dog no longer tethered
there. I walked up and tapped lightly, feeling slightly awkward and
apologetic. The door creaked open and out peeked little shining faces,
obviously excited to see strangers bearing gifts. A teenage son arrived
home just in time to help unload the car and serve as translator. His
mother spoke only Spanish and I spoke only English. He stared at us
through dark-lashed eyes that were guarded with a mixture of suspicion
and embarrassment. He couldn't have been much older than my son and I
wondered if he would have felt much the same in a similar situation. I
sensed the boy's gratitude but also felt the sting that charity might bring to
a young man. He quietly complied with my request to let his mother know
I had been on the receiving end of a Christmas delivery when I was
child. I suppose I wanted her to realize (and him to understand even
more) that I knew how it felt on both sides and it was a blessing to
give back. Her shy smile showed her appreciation, and discomfort as
well. It truly is more blessed to give than to receive.
I
wanted to share my own story with them but I couldn't invade their
emotional space. He needed me to leave; she needed me to leave; and they
couldn't have been more quietly gracious about it. I drove away
remembering a Christmas that wouldn't have happened but for the
intervention of friends and strangers.
I
was ten and my sister and brother several years older. It had been a
year of great upheaval. Well, come to think of it, I guess all of our
years were years of great upheaval but this one came with even less
money. My mother had just landed a good job but found out right before
Christmas there would be no paycheck. It was a government job and the
policy was to withhold the first check to be used for future severance
pay.
The
morning of Christmas Eve arrived but there was no sign of Christmas at
our house. We had often gotten our tree on Christmas Eve because they
were rock-bottom priced then. But on this day there was no discussion of
a trip to the tree lot. The pantry was pretty bare and there hadn't
been any talk of presents except to say there wouldn't be any. I don't
remember being worried that we would eat beans for our Holiday dinner,
but I do recall wondering afterwards what the menu would have been.
I
think, on that day, I must have been in that beautiful place children
live in their minds; the place that helps them believe everything will
be alright somehow; the place where magical thinking rules and reality
doesn't have a prayer. And it was in that moment that a knock came to
the door. My sister and I opened it and saw our mother's friend, "Aunt"
Fran. She had her husband with her and much more importantly, to our
minds, the most beautiful white-flocked Christmas tree in tow. Now, our
trees had been pretty much the bargain variety and we had never
entertained the idea of a tree this grand. This was purview of the rich;
the domain of the entitled. We were suddenly and at once part of this
club of exclusivity! Aunt Fran was the prosperous owner of a nursery
school that was much in demand. It was always immaculate and beautifully
appointed. Each year, at the school, she prominently displayed her
faith in God and her exquisite tree. It would normally have remained up
through the New Year but this year she and "Uncle" Austin dismantled it
and brought it to our house, along with the ornaments.
We
had barely begun redecorating the tree when there was another sound at
the door. Representatives of The Lions Club stood on our doorstep with
arms full of boxes filled with ham, canned goods, and items far more
tempting than beans. They left everything on our dining room table,
wished us well and "Merry Christmas" and were gone. Here was food and
here was a gorgeous tree. How could it get any better? In a matter of
minutes it did. Another rapping at the door brought members of First
Baptist Church bearing more food and wrapped presents. I can still see
the white tissue paper and red ribbon wrapped around what
I knew was a game. I couldn't wait to open it the next day. I don't
know what the other gifts were that year but I was the happy recipient
of "Sorry" and it's the game the kids and I still use after all these
years.
Apparently,
Aunt Fran had placed us on a few "needy family" lists and I'll be
forever grateful that she did. It wasn't until years later I realized
how close we were to having a very different Christmas experience. It
was nothing short of a miracle to me and yet it lived up to my faith
that all would be well. And for that time and for that day, it was. And
that was enough.
I
hope it will be the same for the dear family we met today. I pray a
bright memory of Christmas miracles lives on in the hearts of the kiddos
there and, if only for a short while, a burden is lifted for a weary
mother. I hope a tentative young son feels compelled to drop his guard. I
think that might be the case. I hugged his mother and then turned to
him to pat his arm. He started to lean in for a hug, too, then caught
himself. But it had happened, nonetheless, and in that moment, if only
for a moment, I think all was well.
May you have the merriest of Christmases, my friends, and may God richly bless you.
With Love,
Robynn
Copyright 2008
