8:20:00 PM EDT
Christmas Help
My Christmas
Father Dan’s Advent Homily concerned the Holy Spirit and when someone has performed a feat so great, he thinks his name will be remembered for a long time. “Sometimes,” Father Dan said, “It’s the Holy Spirit stepping in and guiding the person in his endeavor, especially if that feat seemed so easy.”
My dear Lord, Father was right. His words hit an emotional chord deep inside me, and somehow, it meant more to me that we weren’t alone in our endeavors. As proud as I was of myself, my children, my husband and our friends for the work we did, I had to accept that this was God’s work, and God chose us to do it. Tears of joy formed and I couldn’t stop them from running over. I cried all through Mass. My husband, Bill, didn’t try to stop me or comfort me. He felt the same way I did.
My family originally became involved in charity work, not because I believed in the charity or in the notion that we should ‘give back’. We got involved because when we needed help, I was too proud to ask. A friend forced her way into our Christmas. She brought us canned food; good, used clothing; and Christmas gifts. Having three children and my husband ill at the time, I couldn’t turn her away.
Still, this was humiliating. One should not have to beg or take. One should be able to do for oneself. With that in mind I went to my friend. “We do this every year,” Georgene said. “We adopt a family or two. And everyone in my family and in my husband’s contributes.”
She went on to describe a time before I met her when her son was ill. “His right lung collapsed at least eight times in two months.” Symptoms began in October, and with time, doctors found and removed a tumor from an odd fold.
Georgene said that they had just bought their home, medical bills were piling up, and she lost a lot of time from work. She needed help with Christmas preparations. She called charity after charity and found that their rolls had been filled months earlier. Georgene said that at her lowest point, she promised God that if she could just serve her family a nice Christmas dinner that year, she would help an unlucky family the next Christmas.
I decided my family would help, too. I mean was there a better way of saying we didn’t need their help? The very next Christmas I turned to my sons’ Boy Scout Troop. Would they be interested in conducting a canned food drive for my friend? Boys and leaders couldn’t wait to get busy. The weekend before Thanksgiving, we covered a square mile, leaving flyers between doors, asking for contributions of canned and boxed goods. The following week we picked food off those porches. We took it to Georgene’s house where her family had gathered in her kitchen to sort and box food. That Christmas her little group helped eight families. The Boy Scouts congratulated themselves and promised to do better the following year.
The second year, not only did the boys do better, my daughter’s Brownie troop participated as well. We agreed the girls were too young to go door to door. Instead they held a Christmas party, asking that each participant bring a boxed or canned good. Most girls brought full bags and one brought a ham.
That year I watched Georgene get organized. She kept a notebook she called her ’Bible’ where she recorded names, addresses and clothing sizes of the families she planned to help. When Christmas approached, we pushed her furniture aside, and hung numbered pieces of paper on her walls. Each number referred to a family in her ‘Bible.‘ Under that number, canned goods, boxes of used clothing and wrapped Christmas presents were deposited. Someone decorated and filled stockings for each child. Someone else donated big bottles of detergent and another person donated cases of toilet paper. As everything began to pile up under the appropriate number, Georgene made notations in her ‘Bible.’ By delivery day, her ‘Bible’ was fat and her home was overwhelmed. That year we serviced seventeen families.
The third year came along and I couldn’t wait to tell people about what we were doing. As a reporter, I covered meetings at City Hall. I mentioned our activities to the Aldermen, City officials, and other reporters. My paper wanted details and so did a competitor. We advertised in both papers, looking for working classfamilies who were down on their luck and needed help. People who called nominated themselves and others. Others offered donations of food, money or gifts.
We got pledges from everyone I spoke to. One alderman owned a grocery store. He and his partners gave us three turkeys. Another alderman collected boxes of cereal and yet another collected diapers and baby food. The Mayor knew someone who owned a landscaping company, and they donated Christmas trees. The City Clerk wanted to do something special and asked if we could find someone she could help directly.
“You know,” Georgene told me when I called her, “I do have someone special for her. This year we’re asking the children on our list if there is one thing they really want from Santa. There’s this eight year old boy. Believe it or not, he wants a blender.”
“A what? Why?”
“You better sit down for the answer. He really got to me.”
“Okay,” I said as I made myself comfortable. “Why does this eight year old want a blender?”
“His mother has throat cancer. All her food has to be pureed.”
I went back to City Hall, and I told that story to several people. I wanted everyone to know exactly what we did and why. This was a working class family. Mom, through no fault of her own, was ill, and her care had this family financially strapped. We got two blenders. Next I told the story of an old woman who lost a leg to diabetes. Someone donated dog and cat food to feed her pets. Other Boy Scout and Girl Scout troops heard of our work and wanted in. We covered a bigger territory than ever before.
That year Bill, the kids and I helped to deliver for the first time. Georgene’s husband, Mitch, was bit by the dog that we had solicited food for, and Georgene was chased through someone’s front yard by geese. And when we left the woman with throat cancer, we cried. She had wasted away to skin and bones. We delivered to twenty five families that day.
We returned to Georgene and Mitch’s home to celebrate. In the kitchen, in the box on the floor by the stove, was another box full of food. “There’s always one more family that needs something after we make our deliveries. This one is for them,” Georgene said.
The following Monday, she called me from work. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? I got five more calls this morning. Now what?” Between that Monday and Christmas, we solicited enough donations to take care of those families.
When Christmas came to an end and Georgene and Mitch’s furniture were returned to their usual places, I had to admit that my outlook had changed. Our Christmas passed, not with me or my children scrutinizing and complaining about the size of our gifts, but with all of us appreciating each other, and thanking God that we were together. I wrote the first article of many for our neighborhood paper, thanking the people of our small town for their contributions.
Every year we help one family who stands out in my memory. During our second or third Christmas, someone donated a toaster oven. Georgene’s reaction was funny. “Now what in God’s name do we do with this?” she demanded.
The next day she got a letter. The lady wrote, ‘…I don’t have a stove. I cook on a hot plate. If you could help me find a toaster oven….’
“I don’t friggin’ believe this,” Georgene said after reading aloud the letter. “It’s like someone knew we needed this before we did.”
A woman, trying to escape an abusive husband, lost everything, including her parakeet, when a bogus moving company disappeared with her possessions. The escape was successful, although the woman and her son lived in an unfurnished apartment for five months. We brought them food, clothing, furniture, and even another bird.
I met a little girl named Emily who had a rare disease. Her prognosis wasn’t good. She asked that we give her toys to children who didn’t have as much as she had. One of her favorites was a beautiful wooden rocking horse with a braided, rope tail, mane, and a leather saddle. She made me promise that I’d find a place for the horse where a little boy or girl would love it as much as she had. We gave it to a family with three young boys. Their eyes grew to the size of pie tins when they saw it. Before we left their home, they were taking turns riding it. I thanked Emily in my annual ‘thank you.’ Later we were happy to hear that she made a full recovery.
Georgene and Mitch were recognized at the bank while making a deposit right before Christmas. “Listen,” the teller said, “I’m not a nice person, so don’t think I intend to help anyone. It’s just that there’s this family. They’ve been paying off the loan on their trailer for the last ten years. Never late, and never missed a payment until a few months ago. He got laid off. Anyway, the bank is foreclosing next week. If you could do something for them…”
“Sure,” Georgene took their names, their address and lot number. The day after our regular delivery she, Mitch and Bill brought them food. When they found that the family had three tots, they returned with diapers, baby food and toys. The following year we got a letter from them. They still needed help, but thankfully, still owned their trailer.
Sylvia and her teenage son rented an apartment in town. She worked in Downtown Chicago, and each day walked two blocks from her apartment to the commuter train. She was mugged in September. She was hospitalized right after the incident, and again later because her injuries continued to plague her. Sylvia was fired because of lost time. Her son dropped out of high school to look for a job, but had no luck. Her landlord asked Georgene for help.
When we showed up at Sylvia’s apartment we found it empty. The very same landlord avoided us. Several of us returned to the apartment over the next few days to see if we could find Sylvia or information about her. We learned only that she had been evicted. Georgene set aside the food. “We’ll keep this here until we find her.”
By Christmas Eve, we were still looking. Then someone from the Department of Public Works called my house. “You guys still have all that food?”
“Why? What do you need?”
“There’s a family right down your block. He was hurt at work and can really use some help.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Georgene said, when I called her. “I don’t have anything for them.”
“What about that box for Sylvia? Can we give them that?”
“What about Sylvia? What if she calls me?”
“We’ll find food for her then.”
“Fine. Come get this.” We never did hear from Sylvia.
The following year the second family left a giant box and several bags of canned goods on their porch for us during the food drive. There was a note attached to the box. “You helped us when we needed it the most. Now it’s our turn.”
When we incorporated in 1999, we made up our minds about several things early on. We called ourselves An Angel’s Touch, and our ‘angels’ would continue to work unpaid. We’d keep our overhead as low as possible as we wanted to give our clients as much as we could from the donations we received. We also decided that we wouldn’t open our rolls until other charities cut theirs off, and we wouldn’t cut ours off until we ran out of clients or money. That meant we worked a lot of Christmas Eves, and sometimes well into January before we brought Christmas to an end.
That first year An Angel’s Touch entered a decorated truck in the Fourth of July parade. We set up a Christmas tree in the truck bed and decorated it with angels. Until that moment, I don’t think I realized just how many families we had helped. People who lined the parade route stood up and cheered as we passed by.
Better yet, Christmas came again and we received more donations. The building commissioner found us temporary lodging that year and every year since. Georgene and her family no longer spend the first weeks in December with boxes lined up against their walls.
Not every story is wonderful, has a satisfying conclusion, or makes us feel good. We been approached by drug addicts, alcoholics and by those who court every charity for help whether they need it or not. If one or two of those people get past our radars, it is disappointing, but it is still acceptable when we weigh that against the people we help who need us.
Needless to say I’m no longer ashamed of needing help. My husband is still ill from time to time, and it’s been a battle to pay the bills. Still, we have good friends, and we have help when we need it. I think more importantly, not only am I a better person because of this work, but so are my children. They grew up helping others and can‘t imagine spending Christmas doing anything else. We’ve been blessed
