The Day That Jesus Came To Visit

December 7, 1973: “Where are you Mom?”

It has been three days since I last saw Mom. Three days since she went out on her “date” with yet another man that I did not like.

Mom worked hard as a waitress. She was trying to eke out a living to support her four kids. She never received any child support. She never complained. But she did go out. A lot. It wasn’t unusual that she would come home in the pre-dawn hours just in time to shower and change for her breakfast shift at the diner. And after her shift, she loved to go to the bar.

This left her four kids home alone most of the time. We were not allowed to leave the house, nor have friends over when Mom wasn’t home. So that meant most of the time it was just the four of us at home alone. We didn’t own a phone. We didn’t own a car, so we weren’t used to going places anyway.

As the oldest of the four, I was the self-appointed in-charge. Each day I would get my brothers and sisters up and out the door to school. After school, we would do homework and chores. I would do the laundry, hanging the clothes outside on the line to dry. I would make sure we had dinner. Looking back now, our meals were pretty scarce. But we didn’t know any different. Fifteen, twelve, ten, and five-that’s how old we were this December morning. Each of us with a different father, we were all the family we had. After our last Dad, Mom had a string of men that moved in and out of our lives, not good men either.

“Where are you, Mom?” I wondered out loud. We are running out of food. The “tip jar” where Mom kept the change from her tips was nearly empty; there was not enough to buy more food. Mom had never been gone like this before. Out all night, yes. Only seen in passing in the morning, yes. But I had never seen her not return home. And now it had been three days. “What am I going to do?” I wondered. At what point do I need more help? And who is going to help?
I took a dime out of the tip jar and walked to the Seven Eleven at the corner. Using the pay phone, I dialed…

December 14, 1972: “Nobody wants to take in four kids,” they said. “We will have to place you in different places,” they said. “The little one can probably find a family,” they said. It’s two weeks before Christmas, and all the resources have been assigned,” they said. “Santa won’t be coming to your family this year,” they said. “Can you tell your brothers and sister that there won’t be a Christmas?” they asked. “We think it would be better if they hear all this from you.”

Holy Cow! I acted mature. I responded appropriately. When you have been neglected, abused and abandoned, you can act anything. The truth was, these words HURT. Each was like a knife stabbing into my heart. NO ONE WANTS YOU. SANTA ISN’T COMING. WE ARE GOING TO SPLIT YOU UP.

Wow, we must be really bad kids, I thought. Santa always comes to the good boys and girls. If Santa isn’t coming, we must be bad. No one wants us. We must be so very bad. But the fighter in me was protecting “my family.” “You can’t split us up,” I said. “We are all we have in this world, and you can’t take that away from us,” I said.

And so an arrangement was made to keep us together until after Christmas. After all, who wanted to add extra kids to their home right before Christmas anyway?

My outside was cool. My inside was a fireball. It’s horrible to be a kid when all the adults around you are out of control.

December 24, 1973: Well, here it is. Christmas Eve, the night that Santa visits all the good little girls and boys. I am sitting in the bedroom of a single wide trailer that has six kids and two adults. The adults are drinking. I don’t want anything for Christmas, but I desperately want my brothers and sisters to have gifts, to have Santa bring those gifts. They aren’t bad, I know it. And I don’t want the world to send that message. They are little. I can understand, I tell myself, but how do you expect the little ones to understand? Can’t we protect them just a little while longer from the harsh realities of the world?

There’s commotion outside the bedroom door. The doorbell is ringing. There are strangers outside. They are dressed in warm knit hats and mittens, and they are smiling excitedly. The adults call, “Everyone come out, there’s a surprise.”

I refuse to go out. I no longer do what anyone tells me to do. I make my own decisions. And I especially don’t do anything that an adult tells me to do. I see how that has worked out for me. So I sit in my room, peeking out the window, keeping an eye on my siblings in case I need to intervene.

There are giant boxes being unloaded. The stranger gives my sister a GIANT wrapped Christmas gift. And there’s another one for my brother. And baby Jimmy gets one too. There’s one more… they call for me again to come out. “I’m not coming out,” I reply. “But there’s gifts for you,” comes the response.

“I AM NOT COMING OUT!” I shout.

The kids tear into their giant packages. Guess what’s inside? More gifts. Lots of gifts. The joy is unstoppable. Sitting alone in my room, I cry and I smile. I am so relieved and so happy that my brothers and sister did not have to go without Christmas. Santa came.

“At least come out and say thank you,” the caseworker says to me. “No,” I am adamant.

December 25, 1973: My big wrapped Christmas gift sits in the corner. I am not taking anything from anyone, anymore. The cost is just too great.

December 26, 1973: “I thought that there was not going to be a Christmas. What happened?” I asked the caseworker. And she responded, “There were some people at this church who heard about your family and wanted to help” she replied. “Why?” I asked. “Because they cared,” she replied.

Hmm. I thought no one cared about us. People from church, huh? “And what do they want from us?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“They gave me gifts, and they want nothing?” I am going to have to think about this.

December 16, 1978/Five Years Later: I am a young married woman. I go to the social services department and I ask for the name of a family with kids in need for Christmas. I purposely wait until it is close to Christmas. I want to help the forgotten family. “I never said thank you,” I explain. “I never saw the faces of the people who came that night, but they were the face of Jesus,” I explain. I was rude and mean and arrogant and full of anger when they came. But they came anyway. I didn’t acknowledge them or say thank you, but they were gracious anyway. I never opened the box, the gift they left for me on Christmas Eve, but they smiled anyway. Jesus came to my house and brought me the greatest gift, unconditional love. Slowly, over time, the love spread and the fireball of anger has been replaced by the glow of Jesus. My life has been forever changed.

December 24, 1978: My husband dons his purchased Santa suit, we load the giant gifts into his truck, and we drive to the address that social services gave us. It is a really rough, scary part of town. My husband isn’t sure about me getting out at night in this neighborhood. There’s a bonfire in a trash can with a bunch of men warming themselves. We are afraid to walk near, but we must to get to the address. As we approach we are met with a chorus of “Hi Santa.” “Merry Christmas, Santa.”

“Merry Christmas!” we reply. We walk to the address; it is a shed behind a house that this family is using as shelter. We knock on the door and the mom opens the door. Her young children are all sleeping on one bed. She wakes them, and their faces are full of awe and wonder when they see Santa and his bag of gifts standing in their little home. Santa pulls a large gift out of his bag for each child. And the joy is unstoppable.

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25:40

As we enter the Season of Giving, I am reminded of all the good intentioned people who have complained about the gifts that the needy are requesting. I have heard comments about how one wants to shop for what is fun for them, not for what is requested. About how one knows better what is needed. I repeat these comments not to admonish, but to challenge. Pope Francis challenges us to meet the poor where they live. Every child deserves a new gift. Every parent deserves to experience the joy of picking out a gift for their child. Every family knows best what they need. And every gift is appreciated, whether they can show that appreciation or not. Let us give without condition, let us give in His name. Let us treat everyone we encounter with dignity.

Give to the poor what they need, in humility and without expectation. Be the face of Jesus.

God Bless You Always!