The Tension of the Season

December 25. 2008

I don't really like Christmas alot. I suppose I'm a bit too ponderous to let the jolly songs and magic wash over me, totally hiding the underbelly of the season. (For those of you who were expecting a Robert Frost poem today, you may want to flip a few channels and find "It's a Wonderful Life" instead of reading on.)

Deciding is one of the rare things in our control as human beings. And Christmas is no different. But deciding to see the joy doesn't preclude acknowledging the loneliness, the complexity of these times, the plight of the marginalized.

In the past week, I have seen both.

It's been unusually cold in New York recently. The other night, I was avoiding my last minute chores by slipping in to see "Doubt" at a Broadway movie theater. It was 11 degrees as I walked back into the street on my way home. But before I could get through the turnstile exit, I was startled to see a tall man with dark eyes, unkempt hair, several missing teeth, a charcoal blanket wrapped around his shoulders approach me, his long arms reaching toward me. "Can you help me get some food?" he asked, his long arms reaching toward me, a bit too close. I stepped back. We were completely alone on that street corner for that nanosecond. I hesitated, then shook my head and began walking north quickly, avoiding eye contact. As I walked, I pulled my cashmere scarf tighter around my neck. I can't do this. I can't walk away like this.

On the corner, there is a diner like so many in New York. I walked into the warmth, ordered chicken soup and black coffee to go. "Sugar?", the waiter asked. How would I know. I realized that I was cranky about this whole situation. Why had this guy come up to me? I've worked with homeless group for years, and know the drill. Don't give money, just food. But at that moment, I would have given this man anything. I wanted to keep him safe, make him feel less like an outsider, less alone, less likely to die. And, yes, I know the stats about the percentage of homeless who are schizophrenic, addicts or both. But does it really matter on a cold December evening? Remember The Little Matchgirl? She died because no one would help.

Deeply conflicted, I went back to find the man. He was crouched in a dark corner ( probably to avoid the police ). I handed him the bag of food and drink. "Here's some soup and coffee," I began. "You need to keep warm and this will help." The man looked at me, his thick black beard a little daunting, and said: " Is there sugar for the coffee?" Chuckling to myself at his specificity in these dire straits, I said there was, and that he needed to go to a shelter tonight. As I prepared to leave, he yelled after me. "Do you have a couple of dollars so I can take the subway?"

No money. Remember? The truth is that I still had the change from my purchase in my gloved hand.
"You need to go to a shelter here in the neighborhood. You know the police will take you," I said feebly.
"But they'll rob me," he said, his voice sounding as if he had cotton in his mouth. I thought he meant the cops. " Who will?", I asked wishing I could get off this corner. "They will. In the shelter. They rob you."
I nodded, not really believing his argument from my experience. Or you could get robbed right here. I repeated my advice, and quickly walked away, feeling helpless, incomplete, a failure, unable to manage all of his complex needs.

In contrast, I got a call a week ago from my oldest son. "Is everything alright?" I guess that's the plight of grown children that their parents think a phone call beckons doom and gloom. "Yes, Mom. Everything's fine. I just want you to come over and meet your new granddaughter." And I did. Holding a baby that is just hours old is one of the few times in life that we can touch eternity, believe in a legacy, things everlasting. They are a synonym for hope.

Then, last night, on Christmas Eve, I rode the nearly empty M11 bus south on Riverside Drive with my son and his wife, and my three grandchildren: Ella, newborn, Edward, two years, and Ethan, five. We had been to the childrens service at Riverside Church where 50 or so children of many colors and sizes sat on the altar steps and heard the minister talk about Christmas. "Because Jesus came, it was a sign that you don't have to be afraid. Everything is going to be alright. He promised us."

Those words kept repeating in my mind as I held Edward, pointing out the Hudson River, singing " Peace I ask of thee, O River" to him to keep him from fidgeting. As I left them at their apartment building, Edward looked up at me and said: " No Grammie go now. Not time to say goodbye." I kissed him and assured him that I would be back after Santa came tonight, but I was touched nonetheless to know that I would be missed.

On my walk to my coop, I thought over the meaning of Christmas. "Have no fear," the angel said. But I must admit it. I am afraid. I'm afraid for Edward, the the man on Broadway, and me. For all of us. The world is a dangerous place right now, and barriers and promises have been broken--in the world of finance, in the geopolitical arena.

All we can do is choose. Not the kind of choice that implies denying the danger or sadness that exists--and trying to do something about it. The kind of choice that refuses to bend under the weight of the sorrow, and decides to balance it with a little hope tucked away. No matter what.


M.C.