Christmas... how quickly it comes and goes. We're pretty good at fitting "it" all in, though, aren't we? We squeeze in each party and family dinner into our calendars; we dig out our favorite cookie recipes; we scour the web and the weekly fliers for the best sales; we put up the lights and tree, wrap presents, send cards and scratch off our to-do lists with frenzied diligence.Something I think we are not very good at, however, is being present in the moment. We allow our days to whirl by in a flurry, qualifying them by what quantity of items we were able to check off. Some never learn this art of slowing down. Often it takes a terminal illness, a literal dying of the body, to place life into perspective, to re-evaluate our priorities, to slow down and savor moments.
I was given this very opportunity to slow down the week before Christmas. The children from our church had partnered with a local elementary school in Reading to make Christmas cards for nursing home residents in West Reading. My six-year-old Jaida and I joined some other children and parents in Christmas-caroling, handing out cards, and visiting many sick and dying people. Nothing quite puts things in perspective than visiting with people who are bed-ridden, many of whom have almost completely lost their minds. These tender souls are totally dependent upon another's care. They have no ability to go shopping, bake cookies, or visit loved ones. They can only hope that someone will remember and come to visit them.
I am still savoring a few of the moments that really touched my heart that day:
The handful of elderly women who burst into tears at the sight and sounds of little children.
The man in the wheelchair with his broad smile and the twinkle in his eye who kept calling out to us, "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! And don't let the bed bugs bite!" The woman who looked to be asleep but who sang along the words to our carol.
The mother in our group who willingly lifted up her toddling daughter to be kissed by a doting stranger.
The other mother in our group who connected to a woman by the name of Mary, promising to visit her again the next week, because neither of them have connections to their families.
Then there was the elderly Haitian man who told Jaida and I this was his only Christmas card and who literally came alive when I began asking him about his country and what he used to do there. He worked for UNICEF back in the day, educating his people about how malaria is contracted and teaching them how to spray their homes with insecticide and use mosquito nets. Then he gave me a most precious gift. He asked if he could sing a Haitian Christmas carol, Papa Noel, which tells the story of an orphan boy asking why Father Christmas takes toys to other children but not to him. The sad French tune and sincere look in his eyes seeped into my heart, and I wished to free this bright mind from the chain of his broken body. He talked on and on, willing us not to leave, and I was amazed how my daughter continued to stand on her tired legs as if she knew this was a sacred moment.
The visit to the nursing home was as much a blessing to my soul as I hope it was to the dear people who are still living there. I left reminded not to take my health, my home, or my loved ones for granted. And I was reminded that it is better to give than to receive.
What moments are you still savoring from the Christmas season?
