and stirs yours.
It is this…
Often there are lulls between backyard Santa visits, as I await families returning from Christmas Eve church services or generational banquets, in whichever end of the city I am already in at any given time. Small intervals of time to circle slowly through communities as I await timely homecomings. About the fifth year into my Christmas Eve backyard Clausing, these lulls in the schedule secured the added tradition of time spent tenderly among those I came across who were surviving on the streets, as you will read more about before these chapters end. They too have allowed surreal opportunities to enter a myriad of other lonely worlds filled with bizarre and beautiful moments I could never have anticipated or otherwise imagined.
Very few people are driving casually through darkened communities on Christmas Eve. From highways to main streets to backstreets, traffic is light at best, and always purposeful, as most vehicles are travelling to or from festivities, working around church services and mass, family gatherings and bedtimes. And it’s almost startling to see the lights off in nearly every store and business in North America’s fourth largest city. But for major gas station franchises and the occasional doughnut shop, it is the only night of the year when the metropolis truly shuts down.
I especially love the slow dark drive through what were once identified as “working class” communities, allowing me to take notice of tiny shops and handmade signs I’d never take in otherwise. Imagining the people who either hustle from dawn to dusk to make their stores thrive or suffer through relentless small business woes and economic challenges. It was during a wander through such a community that I spotted a woman who stole my heart.
I approached a stoplight, taking note from a distance of a single dimly lit facility among the multiple darkened venues on both sides of the road. A coin-operated laundromat. I sat long and alone at the stoplight, with no other moving vehicles in sight, and peered in. There she was. A thin young woman, all alone behind a grimy plate glass window, folding laundry beneath a flickering fluorescent light. Nowhere else to be. No one to be with. Taking on a task that spells out anything but celebration. My heart melted as I watched her move in small, slow measures between the machines and a rickety folding table.
Among the greatest casualties of the new millennium rests the long lost certainty that any act of compassion will not come under scrutiny. Daily, unbridled lawsuits stem from serving coffee that’s too hot, congratulatory pats on the back that are too suspicious, and mere tones, if not words, that are too demonstrative. Paying special insurance premiums is now often recommended before serving church meals and driving senior citizens home, as second-guessing every “cup of cold water” moment becomes standard procedure. “Do unto others,” but don’t assume you are safe believing that “as you’d have them do unto you” will stand up in court. The risk of uninhibited compassion has become too great. An entire generation is having to put an unnatural courage at the centre of compassion, where previous generations were simply compelled by kind hearts, humane instincts and godly moments. It’s a quandary that can’t be ignored as predators and careless people act in the name of social justice and as occasional frauds play victim. But when a thoughtful person is forced to hesitate before a compassionate act, we must revisit the line in the sand that we have all but covered up. In a prayerful, heartfelt moment, the singular calling God has placed on our souls—whether we know it or not—is to bless one another with kindness, grace and compassion. There are few greater acts of true heresy than to pull away from these.
And if I believe that for me, and if I believe that for you, you can bet I believe that for Santa Claus! Even a pretend one. And on his account, paying homage as his imposter, I am always willing to gamble all the reindeer, a sleigh filled with toys and every elf worth his salt on it.
With no traffic waiting on me, I sat in place while the light turned green and pondered my unique place in the moment and if and how an act of compassion was requisite.
The etymology of the word “ponder” begins with the Latin word ponderare (“to weigh”), ultimately finding its modern meaning in the 14th century Old French definition “to estimate the worth of.” I can’t help but think that if we all received that definition and truly pondered matters, the societal plague of narcissism and self-righteous behaviour might be lessened substantially. How often have I thoughtlessly hurried my words and actions, arrogantly assuming that they would surely help fix things, change outcomes or better lives, when what I really needed to do was “to estimate the worth of”? I have no doubt that ultimately the best recipe for truly binding up the broken-hearted includes fewer words, slower movements and a quieter presence than most of us cook up. I cannot imagine any greater pathway to humility than a commitment to prayerfully ponder. And surely, if this loud and crowded world is starving for one sane attribute among its occupants, it is humility.
In the here and now of then and there, I decided that few words would be doable. Slow movements would be doable. But quiet presence—hmmm, tricky while dressed head to toe in red velvet. Regardless, pondering no more, I circled back to a doughnut shop that I had noticed was open and purchased a hot chocolate and muffin at the drive-through. Moments later I found myself bumbling out of my vehicle and sheepishly inching my way towards the laundromat door, praying that God would spare the young woman and myself, in any portion, from what one might assume would inevitably be a fearfully awkward moment and provide a tiny sanctioned Christmas miracle.
As I slowly opened the thick glass door, she lifted her head from her clothing basket. She looked at me blankly, sighed as if to say “whatever,” and proceeded with her folding as if no one had entered—let alone a fool in a costume. Too elsewhere in her head to be curious, too elsewhere in her heart to be afraid, too elsewhere in her spirit to be present.
“Just doing some Santa visits for friends,” I sputtered nervously.
She glanced at me, sacrificed a polite smile, and nodded.
I pondered. I estimated the worth of.
Without an ounce of confidence, but lost for any other recourse, I continued on, armed with nothing more than uneasy transparency. Working hard to be efficient with my words, I did my best to explain that the sight of her folding laundry in the only lit cubbyhole for miles drew me in, for no other reason than to offer a kind word and a snack while she laboured.
And if I didn’t know better, I would swear that she pondered in return. After several moments of silent folding she offered a faint word of thanks and reached for the cup and bag I had set before her.
In the very moment she chose to speak, I noticed it was children’s clothing she was folding.
“It’s the first time I have ever been without my children.”
With a deep anguished sigh, she continued, “I just can’t sit in the apartment alone and remember.”
Then, finally, “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
And as though she had risked her final breath in life with these few words, she dropped her face into her hands, dropped her elbows onto the table, and sobbed.
There is no more of her story that I can tell, for there was no more shared. Where her children were, and how she lost them, was not revealed. No insight into a custody fight or an addictions battle, no clear signals of having been abused or having been an abuser, no indication if her children were destined for a group home or in residence with an ex, no clarity between the shame of consequence or the sorrow of a lost decision. Ultimately, all of it rightfully left as a complete mystery to me and overwhelmingly owned as a complete reality for her.
As vital as these truths would be for her in order to navigate a way forward, whether she had been wronged or done wrong
