Blue Christmas
Let’s love those who need love
As the holiday season rushes in, my thoughts are with those who are sorrowing and those who care for them. Those who are cold. Those who are hungry. Those who are unhomed. Those who are fleeing oppression, violence, chaos, raging waters and wild winds. Those who are bone weary, drained, exhausted.
I wonder: Does the person in sorrow see lights on trees and think “How beautiful, this gives me hope!'“ Or do they think “Those lights are glaringly bright.” When they hear holiday music, do they think “This music is so jolly and uplifting!” Or do they think, “This blaring noise is overwhelming.”
As I was thinking on these things, wanting to be the balm and salve, not the salt poured into open wounds, I remembered something that happened to me many years ago.
The story starts with a Christmas card that a neighbor boy sent to us.
We send Christmas cards to all of our neighbors every year. A few of them send a card in return. On one occasion, the card we received was very clearly from the teenaged boy who lived down the street. It was definitely not from his parents. As I recall, the card really stood out for two reasons: it was a joke card that stayed just within the bounds of propriety and it was addressed and signed by a youthful hand. I remember holding the card in my hand and thinking with amazement that this boy had gotten himself to a card store, chosen a card, written a message, signed his name and his parents names, addressed the envelope, and found a stamp. I really found it touching. I also found it unusual. His mom was typically the one who sent cards on behalf of their family. I wondered why she didn’t.
The story picks up again several months later, when the days were warm and long. As I headed out on a morning walk with my dog, I noticed some debris scattered on the driveway. And then more, and then more. When I reached the street, I saw that it was littered with debris. I also saw that our mailbox had exploded. The debris was from fireworks. The trail of debris led directly to the boy’s front door.
Now, I know that kids get up to mischief sometimes. I didn’t feel like this was a big deal. When I got home, I called over to the house to ask his mom to have the boy clean up the mess and arrange to replace our mailbox. But the call went to voicemail. And the voicemail sent this story in a whole new direction.
The mother had recorded that voicemail. The recording said to leave messages for the boy and the dad. Then it continued, saying that anyone needing to reach the mother should call a different number. So I called the number she gave and left a message.
When she called back, she told me that she had moved out and they were in the process of divorcing. She told me quite a lot about her story. In fact, her story really just came pouring out.
Then she asked me to please call the police and report her son and his evening of fireworks. She explained her reasons, which were full of love. When I demurred, she insisted. She really, really, really wanted me to call the police.
So, in deference to her parenting choices, I did call the police. I told them that I was calling at the behest of the mother, that I had no ill-will toward the son, and that I was concerned that my call would go on the boy’s record and create difficulty for him in the future. The police took my statement. A day or two later, I saw the boy and his mom and a police officer sitting on the boy’s front porch going over some papers. A bit later, the police officer came to my door and asked a few questions, including whether I wanted to press charges. I did not.
A day or two later, the boy walked up to my house. Alone. He rang my doorbell. He apologized. Can you imagine how lonely and scary that must have been? How much courage that took? How much character?
I thanked him for his honesty and accountability. I told him I admired him for coming over to apologize. I assured him that there were no hard feelings. I shook his hand. The mess got cleaned up, the mailbox got replaced.
And then the story jumps ahead a few months, to when the days were short and cold and all of the driveways had thick ruts of ice.
My doorbell rang again. It was the boy again. Returning my run-away dog. He had seen the dog running loose. He safely corralled it, found a leash, and walked a half-mile through the icy ruts on my driveway to bring the dog home. Such kindness. But it was not my dog. My dog was standing right next to me, wagging her tail at the visitors, eager to meet the dog on the leash. I immediately recognized the dog the boy brought. He regularly escaped from his home a few houses away. And, on more than one occasion, a good Samaritan had brought him “home” to me.
So here we were: me and my dog standing in the front door, the boy and the runaway dog standing on the porch, the cold wind and icy surfaces making all of us wish we were in our homes with our doors closed against the weather.
This boy, who had done such a kind thing, was now faced with a long and icy walk home, a runaway dog, and a deadline to get on the school bus in just a short time. And no parents around to help him out.
So the boy and I teamed up. He took the dog to his house and put him in the fenced yard. I drove to the neighbor’s house to let them know where to pick up their dog. Except I couldn’t drive the whole way. Their driveway was so icy and so hilly, my car could not navigate it. So I walked. The driveway was long. It was cold. It was slippery. Just like my driveway, which the boy had walked up with a dog in tow.
Eventually I delivered the message and walked home. The dog’s owner picked him up. The boy made it to school.
How did we get to this place of caring and cooperating? Because a boy sent a Christmas card. And the Christmas card offered a clue that something was amiss. It set in motion a string of events that brought a teenaged boy and a middle aged mom to a shared experience of neighborly kindness.
I can’t help but wonder what that boy was feeling and needing when he sent that Christmas card. As his own family fractured, did the family celebrations happening around him feel callous? Did they pour salt on his open wounds? When he saw Christmas lights, did they seem full of twinkling hope or harsh glare? When he heard Christmas carols, did the music sound jolly and uplifting or blaring and noisy?
I can’t answer those questions.
But there are some other questions that I can answer:
Am I behaving in a way that maintains space for people to leave a clue?
Am I keeping my heart and my eyes open so that I will see the clue?
Even the clue that comes disguised as a Christmas card with a silly joke on it?
Am I quiet enough to see?
Am I ready and willing to see?
This boy taught me that I must be able to answer these questions with “yes.” That I need to keep my heart and my eyes open. That I need to keep my thoughts and my life still. That I need to consciously create and maintain a mental posture of alertness and readiness so that I will see the clues.
Of course, merely seeing a need does not give permission to rush in and play savior.
There is another set of questions to consider:
Does this person want me to walk with them through this difficulty?
If yes, then I try to match my stride to theirs. If no? Then I show respect by moving aside.
What is the real need in this moment - companionship or privacy?
What form of care will be most helpful here - making a meal, running an errand, sitting and listening, quietly holding a hand, managing the flow of people who are coming and going? Or walking down an icy driveway to deliver a message?
Or, is the proper form of care to step aside and respect this person’s right to navigate their situation with privacy and dignity?
There is no single salve for these hurting hearts. Each person and each circumstance is unique. It requires so much discernment to find the right words (or actions) for each individual. Sometimes I don’t find them. Sometimes I miss the mark by a mile. However, I find that the quieter I am, the easier it is to truly see the other person and, in seeing them, see also the right words or actions.
So I do the following, as best as I can:
Start quietly. Proceed with caution. Don’t intrude. Walk and pause. Walk and pause. Walk and pause.
This season, I am making space for and sharing love with those who are sorrowing. They may be suffering loss, regret, pain, loneliness, adversity. It may be the loss of a person or a beloved pet, a broken relationship, a professional difficulty, a financial crisis. It may be a fresh loss. It may be an annual reminder of loss. For some, it is a new circumstance that is deeply painful. For others, a continuation of a circumstance that has laid heavy on their heart for quite some time.
My thoughts are with those for whom the glare of lights and the blare of music feel overwhelming.
May we have an abundance of love to shower on them, and may we care for them with grace.
Kind regards,
