Christmas Presence
Christmas Presence
The two months I’ve spent here have passed more quickly than the previous three. Predictably, I am awestruck each day. Unpredictably, I am awestruck multiple times a day, as every time I look out the same windows I view a different scene. It is truly a visual kaleidoscope.
An entire wardrobe change could happen multiple times a day. The Jeep acts as a carousel of coats, and I have exchanged a coat for t-shirt multiple times an hour. One afternoon, I saw snow blow horizontally in full sun, reaching me from across ten miles of valley, turn to rain, then full sun, ending the day with tiny clear ice pellets bouncing around me like I was in the bottom of an hour glass.
My landlord’s dad lives on the property and invited me to a neighborhood Christmas Eve get together, and my bowling team members invited me to their family Christmas. I am humbled at the inclusion, as we barely know each other, yet we even exchanged gifts that were meaningful. Of course, the true gift exchange was fellowship, forming families, if even for a short season, and my hosts opened their home without hesitation.
When I visited Kenya in 2008, a young boy guided us through the Mathare Valley slums to his home. I felt like I was in a ‘feed the child’ video we see on tv, stepping over open sewage ditches, ducking under spiderwebs of clotheslines, shedding tears for toddlers, abandoned for the day, because work supersedes.
Their house was dirt-floored, tin and plywood walled, and barely ten by twenty feet, housing a family of five. I saw no beds. The boy’s father was not well, and we waited outside while he was roused. The father demanded we sit on two small makeshift couches as he wobbly stood in front of us. Our translator was not needed to understand his heart.
“Of all the houses you passed today, God brought you to mine, and I am thankful and blessed.”
We offered presence.
At Christmas, I sat between “Uncle Bob” and “Aunt Rita”, both 80ish, and exchanged stories and stories. Uncle Bob’s service animal, a three-year-old conure, “Neptune”, will intuitively crawl under his chin and bump his mouth closed if he starts getting into a PTSD episode. She wore her “Elf” outfit, as she’d misplaced her Santa one, and I got to see her medicine cabinet of a wardrobe, complete with a little black dress for fancy nights out. She likes pickled beets and pumpkin pie, directly off Uncle Bob’s fork.
The sun shone most of the day, breaking the drone of drizzle, and warmed the lands to a balmy 44 degrees. I took a walk around the ten-acre horse ranch, surrounded by snow-capped mountains. I was in a real-life Thomas Kincaid painting.
Now, I’m sitting in the dark, being serenaded by Willie, Bing, Dean, and the King, with the classics of yule. I am overwhelmed by what God showed me today, from sunrise to set.
First, the foggy sunrise photo. I was inside and saw the brightness bolting across my deck, prompting me to get outside. I took the shot from inside the small yard.
On the way to Christmas, fog was rolling across the hills and the muddled sun made the distant power poles look like crosses. I took some photos, said out loud, “I see ya, God. I feel ya.” I pictured him smirking at the perfection of time and place. Then the fog evaporated.
An unbelievable Christmas with a perfectly strange family. Or, is it strangely perfect?
It was just plain perfect.
