It was raining that December 24, 1981. Bob, my boyfriend-now my husband-was working as a fire fighter at Mount Pleasant, SC, while I was a Pediatric Surgery Fellow at Medical University of South Carolina. Bob was living in one of the fire stations while I had a small two-room apartment, really a converted garage, with one room downstairs and one room upstairs, plus a very small toilet/shower. (I might have had 800 square feet in the entire place, and I also had a large population of “palmetto bugs,” giant cockroaches large enough they should have had rabies tags.) Neither of us had very much money, but we were looking forward to spending Christmas together, at least as much as our work schedules would allow.
It was rainy and cool that day when Bob came to get me. One of Bob’s fellow fire fighters had a family crisis. Call this guy J.M. A day or so before, J.M.’s wife had taken off with a girlfriend, leaving his three children alone in their apartment. The oldest boy was bored and began entertaining himself by lighting matches; unfortunately, this had happened before and the landlord was evicting the family. J.M. had relatives in Charleston, but they refused to help him, fearing the kids would misbehave for them also.
I called around, but the only orphanage I located was for African American children, and they had no room anyway. Bob and I made a quick run to a box store, buying simple kid stuff and Christmas candy, and then we went to the apartment to collect the kids. Bob was working that night; however, J.M. was free. I got permission from my boss to send the kids to the Christmas Eve service at St. John’s Lutheran Church, and then we took them back to the apartment. I spent the rest of the night on call via beeper. The kids slept upstairs in my bedroom with me while J.M. slept on my couch downstairs.
The following morning, J.M. had to work; however, the kids enjoyed their Christmas stockings, and then I took them to a friend’s Christmas party, where they enjoyed lots of Christmas goodies. By that evening, J.M.’s relatives began feeling embarrassed and the kids were able to go stay with them. By December 27th, J.M.’s parents came up from Georgia to collect the kids and take them home to their house where they could receive loving care.
Bob and I have just spent our 43rd Christmas together. As it turns out, that Christmas Eve has set the tone for many of our shared Christmases since then. And there’s a moral to this story: God is not interested in how elaborately you have decorated or how extensive your selection of Christmas goodies. The only question God poses is this: Are you willing to share whatever you have, even if you have very little?
Those kids weren’t concerned about the lack of Christmas decorations-although I think I might have had a very small Christmas tree. What those kids needed was a safe place where people would love them, care for them, and try and make it a little special. Christmastime is not just for kids; it’s for everybody. But kids need to feel secure and comforted. The trinkets we bought at K-Mart were nothing fancy, but the kids were thrilled because they could keep them and take them with when they went to their grandparents’ place. And Bob and I were blessed. For on that Christmas Eve, we had the same opportunity as the inn keeper in Bethlehem, and God allowed us to make room, even if my apartment was only a few steps up from a stable. And we learned that no matter how little we had, there was always something we could share.
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