We create many memories around the holidays and some stick with us for years and years. That’s the case with this year’s winner of the Fourth Annual WYDaily-Hometown Radio Holiday Memory writing competition, and it’s the case with our runner-up as well.
Cindy Freeman shared her memory of a Christmas long ago, when in an effort to reach her children about the meaning of the season she found purpose reflected back in a family she sought to help. As this year’s winner, Cindy receives a gift certificate for a spa package at Salon Vivace in New Town.
We’re also sharing Doris Kappes’ memory from choosing and buying the perfect gifts for her family with her first paycheck. Thank you to Cindy and Doris, and Merry Christmas to all.
First, Cindy Freeman’s Christmas memory:
“I want, I want, I want.” Day after December day my kids, like most, sang this song of pure greed. Every store window enticed them. Oh, they knew Christmas was a celebration of Jesus’ birthday. In Sunday school and church, they had learned that the reason we give gifts at Christmas is because God — out of infinite, perfect love — gave us the gift of God’s Son, Jesus Christ. They had heard about the kings who traveled great distances, guided by a star, to bring gifts to the Christ child, the baby King. How surprised they must have been to find Him, not in a fancy palace, surrounded by servants but in a dark cave, surrounded by smelly farm animals!
Tracey and Brian were 8 and 6 years old, respectively, when I decided it was time for them to see another side of Christmas. At the time, we were living in the Denbigh section of Newport News. Through a program called D.U.C.O. (Denbigh United Christian Outreach), we selected a needy family to sponsor for Christmas. We learned that the mother and three children, ages 12, 8 and 6 had been evicted from their apartment because the father had walked out and they couldn’t make the rent payments. Now, they were living in a condemned building in downtown Newport News with no electricity, no heat and certainly no hope of a Merry Christmas.
With our list in hand, we headed for K-Mart. We had decided that Tracey would choose gifts for the 8-year-old girl, Brian for the 6-year-old boy, and I for the Mom and 12-year-old girl. I remember very little about what we purchased, but I clearly recall how excited my children became at the prospect of sharing Christmas joy with a less fortunate family. “I wish we could watch them open their gifts on Christmas morning!” Tracey remarked excitedly.
“Do you think the boy will like what I picked out for him?” Brian asked. He and his sister asked many more questions that day, like: “Why don’t they have any money?” How do people get poor?” “Will Santa be able to find them?” “Will their daddy come home for Christmas?” Their own Daddy was away on a business trip, so that was a loaded question, requiring a reassuring answer. I did my best to give them some insight into the concepts of social justice, generosity and acceptance of others. I tried to prepare them for what they might see when we made our delivery, but I wasn’t sure what to expect, myself.
Next we went grocery shopping, filling a cart full of food that either required no cooking or could be heated on the hot plate that we were told they had. That evening we baked cookies and wrapped presents, trying to make everything look as festive as possible.
The following day, we piled everything into the car and drove south on Warwick Boulevard until it seemed we could go no further without hitting water. Somewhere around 19th or 20th Street the directions took us east. Two more turns landed us in front of a two-story brick building that didn’t even vaguely resemble a house. The front windows were boarded up and the plywood door had a hole where there should have been a doorknob. It was squeezed between two deserted factories with more broken windows than one could count on two hands. The whole nasty, run-down block seemed to be enclosed in a rusty, dilapidated chain-link fence. “This can’t be it,” I thought aloud, but the address scrawled on the plywood told me it was, indeed our destination.
I looked around to see if there were any police nearby. If I were going to let my two young children out of the car in this squalid area, I wanted assurance that I could scream for help, if necessary. But there was no one in sight.
Gingerly stepping over a collapsed section of fence, we approached the door and knocked. “Mommy, this place is creepy,” my 6-year-old commented.
“It’ll be O.K.” I whispered, trying to calm myself as much as my children. I was holding their hands a little too tightly when a child opened the door. She was dressed in footed pajamas and a winter coat with a hood tied snugly under her chin.
“Mommy, they’re here,” she cried, inviting us to enter the dark, dreary space. Despite blankets covering all of the windows, it seemed colder inside than outside. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that we had entered a living room stuffed with too much furniture — furniture that seemed to be placed in storage rather than arranged anywhere in particular. An older girl was huddled at one end of a tattered sofa, wearing a coat and ski hat and covered with a blanket. She was using a flashlight to read what appeared to be a textbook. Just beyond this room I could see a grimy kitchen. A single candle burned on the aluminum table. The floor was covered with a few remnants of worn linoleum, but mostly with tar paper. A thirty-something woman, wrapped in a blanket, rose from the table and approached us.
“I’m sorry it’s so cold in here,” she apologized. “We only have this one extension cord that connects to the next building, and it runs the refrigerator.
“Please have a seat,” she invited as if she had the means to offer the most gracious hospitality. “I can fix you some tea. All I have to do is unplug the refrigerator and plug in the hot plate. It won’t take. . .”
“Oh, no thank you!” I blurted quickly before my kids could utter anything that might embarrass this lovely woman. “We have some things in the car to bring in. We’ll just go and get them.” All the while I was praying I wouldn’t see a cockroach, or worse yet, a rat.
“You are so kind! Thank you!” she said and followed us to the car. As we unloaded box after box, she kept talking excitedly, “Thank you! I didn’t know how I was going to give my kids a Christmas this year. I’m looking for a job, but I haven’t found one yet. I can’t thank you enough! Oh, my! Look at all of this bounty! We are so blessed!”
That’s right – she actually said, “We are so blessed!”
How I was wishing we had brought a Christmas tree and ornaments! I wished I had filled three stockings and hidden them in a box with a note from Santa. Later, upon reflection, I regretted that I hadn’t invited them to eat Christmas dinner with us, to come to our small, but warm house, to enjoy a hot shower and a clean bed! But I was stunned into silence by this mother’s indomitable spirit.
I had undertaken the project to teach my children a lesson in generosity and gratitude, but they were not the only ones who learned a lesson that day. After all these years (Tracey and Brian are in their late thirties with children of their own), I can’t recall any of the family members’ names – and I could never find my way back to their temporary “home” somewhere near the shipyard – but I’ll never forget how one mother, despite her bleak circumstances, held on to her faith in a loving God. I’ll never forget how she kept hope alive for her children or how she accepted our gifts with such grace and dignity.
I’m reminded of another mother who, upon bringing her firstborn into the world, had to “make do” with a stable for shelter and a manger for a crib.
And from Doris Kappes, another form of generosity:
It was 1970, my first year out of high school. I had been working full time as a cashier at Sentry Foods for a few weeks and was anxiously awaiting my first pay check on Christmas Eve. For the first time, I would be able to buy my family Christmas presents with my own money! I was so excited! My family emigrated years before from Germany, so we celebrate Christmas giving on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning, giving me all of two hours between getting off of work and our holiday dinner to accomplish all the buying and wrapping. Shopping like a whirlwind, I bought a guitar for my sister, a beautiful bride doll for my niece, a huge stuffed animal for my nephew and the most expensive gifts I could afford for the rest of my family. I spent my whole paycheck. I wrapped everything with beautiful paper and bows so the presents looked as special as I wished them to be and placed them under the tree. My heart swelled with joy and pride as each person opened their gift. Forty some years later, I still remember this Christmas as one of the best ever!
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