When the boys were younger I planned all sorts of activities to teach them about giving to others. Some of these were grand successes, such as the times they gave most of their Halloween candy to the children's ward of the local hospital, the times we gathered food for the neighborhood pantry and the times we donated toys and games to families who needed them. But not all of my grand holiday schemes went so well, and one in particular was an absolute disaster.
It was the year I decided that Ken and I would take the boys to go feed the homeless, early Christmas morning about four years ago. Why should we sleep in, I thought, enjoying the comfort of our heated abode, and glorying in the aroma of baking turkey while hundreds of homeless were cold and hungry, right in our own community? What a perfect opportunity to teach the boys not only to give to others less fortunate than themselves, but to appreciate the privileged life they have as well. I decided with my altruistic head in the clouds that I would make it my personal quest to right all these wrongs in one fell swoop.
I called the homeless shelter and was disappointed to hear that there were plenty of shelter volunteers and employees to feed the homeless on Christmas morning. What a bummer, I thought, Now how am I going to teach our sons to save the world? I asked the shelter where we could go to bring a little comfort and joy into the lives of the destitute, and they referred me to a church in Reading, about a half hour away. I was primed! What a wonderful opportunity to enjoy the day as a family while teaching the boys about the gifts of giving to others.We were at the church bright and early, ready to serve. At least, I was. Ken and the boys weren't into it nearly as much as I was. Hell, who am I kidding: They frickin' hated it. "Why did we have to get up so early, Mommy?" the boys wanted to know. "I know some people need help, but why do WE always have to give it?" my husband wanted to know. "Because we're more fortunate than many other people, and those who are more fortunate must help those who aren't," I preached in my most gentle loving voice. "Now shut up, damn it, serve the homeless, and smile like you mean it!"
We, along with about twenty others from the church, spent hours preparing about a dozen turkeys and probably fifty pounds of potatoes, not to mention mounds of stuffing and barrels of gravy. Alas and alak, at the appointed hour, there were no homeless to be seen. After four hours of cooking and one hour of waiting for our guests, I wandered upstairs into the congregation area of the church, and sat down to rest my exhausted feet. The church was repeating a five minute play, over and over again. I guess they continually replayed it because they didn't want to miss any of the throngs of homeless they believed would be coming in to not only eat, but to be saved from going to Hell as well. That's the only explanation I can think of, considering in this five minute play they somehow managed to squeeze in plots about crazed alcoholics, strung out drug addicts, vicious child abusers, gays with AIDS, and those who dare to fornicate before marriage, all of whom had obviously not yet accepted Christ as their personal saviors, and therefore would be going to hell without this church's religious guidance. At one point, Ken and I were treated with suspicion and the boys were looked at with much pity when we declined to join in a large circle in which they prayed for masses of homeless to wander in so they could save their forlorn souls.
Ken and I were horrified. This was a most unattractive display of ugliness, hatred and guilt. It had nothing at all to do with giving for the pleasure of giving or because it is the right thing to do, and everything to do with luring in the unsuspecting homeless in an effort to convert them into believing what the churchgoers thought they should believe. To us, it was very unChristian. Furthermore, hours of labor and tons of good food were wasted in this ridiculous effort.
I learned my lesson that holiday season. I never again forced my family to go out on Christmas morning to do good deeds, because I realized it's about doing good deeds all year round, just like we always have. Now on that day we stay home, sitting by the fire, eating good food and enjoying each other. I also stopped calling that holiday Christmas that year. We're not Christian, anyway. We've always taught our boys about all religions so that they have the option of choosing, or not choosing, what feels right to them when they're older. At our house from now on it's Festivus, for the rest of us.
The roads surrounding my home were enchanting with their mature trees and old brownstone buildings. For a moment it was easy to imagine myself back in the Berkshires, young and bliss-fully unaware of the progressive challenges my parents would face and fail to conquer. Back then my siblings and I escaped into nature, and she always welcomed us with lovingly open arms.
This morning, up on South Mountain, where our children have gone to the playground for the past ten years, even the community tennis courts sparkled in the sun. It’s been healing living here, giving our children the kind of small town life and natural beauty I grew up with, as well as the kind of family fun and love I yearned for as a child.
On a glorious day like this it is easy to believe in God, Santa, and other deities. My life has come full circle. Nature continues to heal me, just as it did when I was a child. All I have to do is open my eyes and let it do its magic. 