Home for Christmas

Home for Christmas hen my husband received the call to pas- tor a downtown church in a small south- ern Georgia community, he was excited. I was not. To me, moving so far from our Midwestern roots would require sacrifice. The meager salary would never stretch to cover the cost of holiday travel.

Living in the South meant my kids would not see their grand- parents or snow on Christmas morning. Visions of our young children learning to replace “you” with “y’all” popped into my head. Raising my family this far from home was not what I’d signed up for. But what choice did I have?

We’d been without a job for months and needed a paycheck. So after we polished off my mom’s Thanksgiving turkey, friends and family helped us pack the U-Haul with our two small kids and a dog.

As we pulled away from everything we knew and loved, my children waved good-bye. I clung to the sack of Thanksgiving leftovers. Two long days later, and almost a thousand miles from home, we parked the moving truck in the par- sonage drive. I eyed our new home through the bug- splattered windshield.

Large live oaks draped with 187 188 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Spanish moss shaded the two-story brick house—situ- ated less than ten feet from a busy highway. “Home, sweet home.” My husband reached across the two sleeping children crammed between us and patted my leg. “I’ll get the key.”

He jumped from the cab and bounded toward the church building next door. Men can pack their underwear and feel moved, but I felt like a tree yanked from the dirt, my roots dying in the harsh elements.

I climbed wearily from the cab and sunk ankle deep into sandy soil. Humidity kinked my hair and the smell of wet paper from the nearby paper mills churned my stomach. Surveying our new neighborhood, I spotted a newspaper office to my left and the church parking to my right. In front of me, log trucks hauling Georgia pines rumbled past at fifty-five miles an hour, rattling the parsonage windows and my raw nerves.

Where would my children play? And with whom .. . the three-inch cockroaches scurrying along the side- walk? Swallowing the disappointment rising in my throat, I noticed a ragged woman with matted hair hawking papers in front of the newspaper office. Her toothless grin didn’t seem to offend the drivers who stopped at the intersection, but something about her unkempt appearance sent a ripple of unease down my I spine.

What had we gotten ourselves into? Before I could jump back into the truck and make a run for it, excited church members descended on the U-Haul.

Within a couple of hours they had us unloaded, dishes unpacked, and beds set up. I was officially stuck. I spent the next few weeks meeting a few people and eating lots of fried fish and cheese grits. Everyone seemed to go out of their way to make us feel welcome, but I still felt lonely and displaced.

When I called Mom to whine, she suggested it might cheer me up to look past myself and find someone less fortunate. Instead, I set Out to re-create my treasured holiday traditions, like chopping a live tree and making sugar cookies. A few of days before Christmas, I pulled the last pan of golden cookies from the oven, the nostalgic smell of my mother’s kitchen bringing tears to my eyes.

“Once these cool, we’ll ice them,” I told my children as the doorbell rang. Irritated because we couldn’t have two minutes to ourselves, I stomped to the door and peered through the glass. The woman with the matted hair stood on the porch. A small, barefoot boy peeked around her leg.

I recognized her as the lady my kids and I bought a news- paper from every evening. Maybe she thought we weren’t coming today. Why hadn’t I ever asked her name? Shame flushed my cheeks as I opened the door.

“Can I help you?” “This the church house?” “Yes,” 190 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD She pushed the boy toward me. “My boy’s hungry.”

“Well, I—” “l’ve been workin’ two jobs to get my boy back. CPS says if I can’t feed him, I can’t keep him. He’s all I got, lady.” The desperation lighting her eyes pierced the dark place in my heart.

“Wait here.” I rushed to the kitchen and tossed warm cookies into a bag. Next, I gathered several cans from the pantry and snatched the loaf of bread and a jar of , peanut butter sitting on the counter. I raced back to the front door.

“Do you live around here?” “We got a room at that house behind the paper.” “The one without glass in the windows?” She ducked her head, and I wished I hadn’t blurted that out.

I handed her the groceries. “Merry Christmas.” “Same to y’all, lady.” She balanced the bag on one hip and took her son’s hand.

“Come on, Timmy.” I watched them walk down the porch steps. Once they reached the bottom, the woman fished a cookie from the bag. Timmy gobbled it down, but she ate nothing as they headed toward the stack of papers on the corner.

I turned around to find my children watching and waiting to see what I would do. “Will Santa bring that boy shoes, Momma?” my daughter asked. MAKING A DIFFERENCE 191 Twinkling lights reflected off the shiny ribbons and bows on the presents stuffed under our Christmas tree. How could I have been so ungrateful?

Even far from family, I had so much. “Let’s see what we can do.” For the next two days I plowed through the church directory, calling people I hadn’t even met yet. I told them about Timmy and his mother.

Gifts, money, and food poured into our living room. My children and I went shopping. Together we picked out a toy for Timmy, some clothes, and a pair of shoes. On Christmas Eve, people crowded into our living room to help wrap the generous bounty.

Our new home was filled with laughter and the smell of hot chocolate. I noticed I brimmed with something I hadn’t expected—joy. We loaded our cars and drove around the corner to the house where ratty curtains billowed in the unusually chilly breeze. I climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

‘Is Timmy home?” I asked the woman with the mat- ted hair. Cautiously she and Timmy followed me to the cars. Everyone’s eyes were fastened on the two standing before our overloaded trunks.

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. “Y’all did this for us?” My children thrust the present they’d wrapped into 192 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD Timmy’s hands. He clutched the package and fingered the shiny paper.

“Open it!” they shouted. Timmy’s mother put her arm around his thin shoulders. “He ain’t never had a present before.”

My children happily demonstrated how to rip paper from boxes. Soon shredded wrappings littered the ground. I helped Timmy wiggle into his new socks and shoes while others carried the gifts up to their little room. Later that night, I rinsed the cocoa mugs and dropped - into bed, exhausted yet giddy.

Helping others with people committed to the same purpose felt like family. Tomorrow was December 25. But tonight was Christ- mas.

And I was home. Living the Golden Rule