What My Ex Had Right: A Christmas Reflection

At Christmastime, when the hot buttered rum and homemade toffee are plentiful and the holiday music is on 24/7, I always find myself telling people the one thing my ex-husband had right about me:  he called me a Christmas Crackhead.  The title has stuck and I wear it with pride.

IMG_20141214_065527029[1]In my home are enough Christmas trees that I can read by their light in the middle of the night.  One in my dining room stays up year-round, its décor changing with the seasons.  One is specifically for travel memories; another is for the homemade ornaments I made as a kid and the ones Emily makes.  My living room tree is all earth tones to match my “burnt pumpkin” colored walls and my 9-footer in the split-entryway, seen from both downstairs and upstairs, is always a traditional red and gold theme. Another is all blue and silver to complement the gorgeous snowman-themed tree skirt my mom made for me years ago.

I start filling out my calendar with local Christmas activities well in advance so we can take in all the special events we love.  Emily and I have many favorite traditions—all of them free or cheap—and every year, we try to fit in as many as possible.  Seeing the Trees of Elegance at The Davenport Hotel is a must, as is going caroling, attending a potluck with our dear Sisters of Providence, driving around to see light displays, going on a horse-drawn carriage ride through downtown, and many more.  At home, we have a “red box/green box” game where we hide little trinkets or messages for each other, and together with my parents, we enjoy Advent reflections and candle lighting every Sunday evening.  As is customary in many homes, we also do our share of holiday baking and deliver goodies to friends and neighbors.

So when people ask, “Are you ready for Christmas?” the answer is always yes.  Many will respond with a bit of shock, thinking I must mean that I’ve already purchased and wrapped all my gifts – but those activities are last on my priority list.  Yes, I’ll shop a bit, but it’s definitely not the focus of my Christmas preparedness and has nothing to do with my being “ready” for the holiday.  Our culture’s obsession with commercialism tends to turn me away from the stores rather than to them, and besides, there’s nothing fun about spending a gob of money on stuff that people will eventually get rid of.   Even The Grinch figured it out:  “Maybe “Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store.  Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more!”

The Grinch's revelation, and the Madonna & Child, as seen from a skywalk in downtown Spokane.
The Grinch’s revelation, and the Madonna & Child, as seen from a skywalk in downtown Spokane.

I saw those words in the most interesting venue yesterday.  Emily was shopping in the Santa’s Express—a place where elves help children choose gifts for their parents, and all the proceeds benefit a local charity—and I was waiting in the nearby skywalk connecting two downtown buildings.  A window artist had painted scenes from The Grinch on each pane, and as I enjoyed his or her beautifully done snowflakes, I came upon The Grinch’s revelation positioned so you’re also seeing the two-story Madonna & Child displayed on the Macy’s building.  Clever.

Am I ready for Christmas?  Of course.  Always and forever.  Because I’m a Christmas Crackhead and I can’t get enough of the hope and peace and goodwill that can be found in so many places if we take the time to look.

Merry Christmas!

What I learned in 90 minutes at Las Obras

Or: My “failure” at serving severely disabled kids

Las Obras home in Antigua Guatemala
Las Obras home in Antigua Guatemala

Following a week of service in a rural Mayan village, our team headed to Antigua, Guatemala, for sight-seeing.  It wasn’t all fun and games, shopping and eating, though.  Our leaders wanted us to experience Las Obras Sociales del Santo Hermano Pedro — a hospital/home for the most severely disabled and deformed.

I thought to myself, “I used to take care of people with major disabilities.  I can do this.”  And it wasn’t so hard anyway, seeing how well cared for the patients are: impeccably clean and tended to with such compassion.

Then we entered a children’s unit, and things became a little tougher.  There were kids who wanted to be playful and others who were disfigured beyond belief.  Each one who reached out, Pedro touched compassionately and talked to them gently.  We followed his cue and begin interacting with the children as best as we could.  Next came the infant ward, where we were greeted by a tiny girl who was crying and holding out her hands to be picked up.  We wandered through the room, stopping at every crib.  Two with cleft palates.  One with cleft palate and additional disfiguration of his face.  One little boy lying contentedly, swinging his legs around in the air while lying on his back; he had Down syndrome, and nothing else “wrong” was apparent.

“Why,” I asked the Father,” would a child with something as simple as Down syndrome be in a place like this?  Where is his family?”

“He was abandoned,” said Padre.  “Like most of them.”

As we left that unit, most of us in tears, we turned a corner and there was a large piece of art depicting a person with severe deformities clinging to the feet of Jesus.  I could barely breathe.  Yes, that is the way they must feel – please Jesus, don’t leave me!  These are absolutely “the least of these” of whom Jesus spoke.

On Sunday, after my team departed for LA, I returned to San Pedro Iglesia where the residents of Las Obras join together for Mass.  There were more people in wheelchairs than in pews: people without legs; others with hands and feet turned to unnatural positions; some drooling.  Clapping, rocking, some with flies gathering at their mouths.  Some of them didn’t understand the homily any better than I, but we were together, sharing communion.

Three times, I returned to Las Obras, hoping to talk with the British doctor who volunteers there and to offer some time myself.  With limited Spanish, I asked the receptionist for Leslie, and she replied, “En la manana,” and so, I returned in the morning and went through the same routine.  Finally, on my last day in Antigua, I skipped breakfast and headed straight for Las Obras so I couldn’t possibly miss my connection with the English-speaking doctor.  This time, I didn’t even have to ask the receptionist — she asked, “Leslie?” and immediately got on the phone.  Leslie wasn’t available, but a Volunteer coordinator spoke English, and that was just what I needed!

(a photo from Google) Children in wheelchairs, under nets, to keep flies out of their mouths
(a photo from Google)
Children in wheelchairs, under nets, to keep flies out of their mouths

Soon, I had a volunteer badge and was escorted to the children’s ward.  There were several other Americans present who felt about as awkward and inadequate as I did, not speaking Spanish but trying desperately to do something good.  The children were all in their wheelchairs, lined up in rows around three sides of the courtyard.  Some appeared to be completely unaware of all reality, others were distressed.  I sat next to a teenaged boy, reclined in his chair, who was nonverbal but very alert.  I began singing, and without thinking about it, I was singing “Love in any language, straight from the heart, pulls us all together, never apart…”  He recognized the “I love you” in Spanish and smiled widely, looking at me as if to beg for more.

Then I went to Jessica, a beautiful girl with braids.  I touched her hair and I said “muy bonita,” (Very pretty!) and she gleamed with delight.  Perhaps they don’t often hear people tell them they’re beautiful, because by all means, some of them are difficult for many of us to look at.  I read part of a Dr. Seuss book to one boy and tried clapping hands with another, then one of the workers asked if I would take a crying boy for a little stroll in his chair.  He was so upset and she said the only thing that calms him down is being pushed around in his chair.  So we wandered through the garden and I rocked him slowly back and forth like you would a baby in a stroller and he became restful.

Confrontation with comfort

(photo from Google) This is a girl I visited who was very aware and delighted by attention
(photo from Google) This is a girl I visited who was very aware and delighted by attention

Eventually, some of the men from the American group came into the courtyard, and I made some quick labels in my head about them being straight off a corn field in Iowa.  It was somewhat comforting, in a twisted kind of way, to see others who surely were more out of place than me.  I had secretly named one “Cowboy Nascar” (yes, he was wearing a cowboy hat and a Nascar shirt) and soon was ashamed of my labeling and judgment, because he was WONDERFUL and so natural with these kids.  He made them laugh and soon had a gathering around him.

As much as I tried to feel that comfortable and relaxed myself, it never happened.  I continued to sing to different kids and take them for strolls, but at just an hour and a half into it, I had to leave.  And I felt guilty for that.  A whopping 90 minutes.  What’s wrong with me that I can’t do this longer?  Am I just selfish, unable or unwilling to face such difficult situations?

I was hungry, so that was my ticket out the door.  I turned in my badge, got my purse and left Las Obras with a heavy heart.

What did I learn—about myself—in 90 minutes with “the least of these”? 

Many things, but here are a few vivid lessons.

  1. In case I haven’t heard the old cliché enough: you can’t judge a book by its cover.  Cowboy Nascar was gifted, and he was willing, and he made a difference.  Guaranteed.  And I should do away with hasty generalizations.
  2. In truth, I went to Las Obras to volunteer because I thought doing something “noble” would make me feel better about myself.  Really?  There are so many things I can say about that foolishness!  It was clear that I forced myself to go.  The day before, I so desperately wanted to avoid it that I walked as far as possible and went into a resort where I had myself a spa treatment!  As it turned out, letting someone care for me felt pretty good, and I need to learn to accept that without shame or guilt.
  3. Everybody knows:  we don’t all have the same gifts, and we don’t have to.  The cool thing about Dr. Leslie, the British woman I never got to meet?  I’d heard that she had stopped by Las Obras for a quick tour like my group had, she loved the opportunity she saw, and she never left.  When my friend Mark said “Thanks for your service here,” she replied to him with all sincerity, “Brother, it’s no burden.”

Obviously, serving these vulnerable children and adults is her gift, her calling.  But that doesn’t mean it’s mine.  I don’t have to beat myself up for having only lasted 90 minutes in a place where she’s remained more than a year.

Let’s chat.

I think we could have some good dialogue about this experience, so I’m inviting you to chime in.  What about my vulnerability in this story did you connect with?  Did it remind you of similar experiences where you faced some tough truths?  Let’s talk.