Live like the wind, the winter wind, which goes whistling and blowing through the big green Christmas trees.
Vive le Vent, the French version of Jingle Bells, was running through my head. It was December the twenty-third and the stores were packed with last minute shoppers.
I was downtown looking for Christmas, or a reasonable piney facsimile thereof—in short, Tess, my boss, had me looking for a tree. It was not to be an ordinary tree, but the ultimate tree, which we would decorate with tinsel to light up our office and help us forget the wintry darkness.
I was standing outside a quaint gas station built in the 1930’s.
Back in the Depression, some wag of an entrepreneur built a chain of filling stations designed to look like tiny castles, complete with turrets and slate tiled roofs.
Now the fairy tale courtyard was filled with scotch pines and Fraser Firs, balsams and every other conceivable species of pine priced in the fifty to hundred dollar price range.
A light snow began falling and I watched as feathery flakes floated and danced against the pines.Ah, snow against cedars.
I was getting into the Christmas spirit.
There was a lineup for the cash and one of the helpers spotted me looking bewildered—“Hey mister, better take a ticket!”
Take a ticket? Imagine that—needing a ticket to buy a Christmas tree! It’s going to be a very good year for Christmas farms, I mused.
As I waited my turn, a harried mother was trying to reason with her spoiled ten-year old daughter. “A scotch pine is a natural tree, Hailey—it’ll fill the house with the scent of Christmas.”
“I don’t care—I want a pink tree.”
An older man and wife standing behind me were shaking their heads. I figured they were as appalled as I at the young girl’s antics—but then, I caught a fragment of their conversation.
“I know a balsam is the right color to match our décor, Richard, but I want a tree that doesn’t shed.”
“Maybe you should get a pink aluminum one just like that brat wants.”
I ground my teeth. Doesn’t anyone respect Christmas tradition?
The genial man at the cash signalled to me. I had already picked out the tree I wanted—the only ten-foot one left—leaning up against the side of the cashier’s shack.
“I’ll take that one,” I said pointing to the lovely Fraser Fir.
The man sadly shook his head. “See that red ticket—that tree’s sold—you’ll have to pick another.”
My heart sank. Tess insisted I buy a ten-foot tree that would fit perfectly into the alcove at the front of the store. My sales figures for November were abysmal and bringing back the right tree would purchase me a lot of good will.
“Look, I need a ten-foot tree. Is there some way we can work a deal? I’ll do anything—even pay you double the sticker price.”
The man seemed genuinely sorry, but shook his head sadly. “That tree was bought for the Mission next door—for the Christmas party and dinner tomorrow.”
I was desperate. “Isn’t there something we can work out?”
He hesitated and I saw his brow furrow.
I pressed my advantage. “Anything at all—just name it.”
He stroked his chin. “Well, we desperately need someone to help serve meals to the homeless today. I’ll tell you what—you help us until five o’clock and the tree is yours.”
“It’s a deal,” I smiled.
The man got a girl to take over the cash, while he accompanied me to the Mission.
“Fred Victor’s my name,” he smiled, as he shook my hand.
“Tom Clancy,” I replied.
“I’ll introduce you to Kathy, the girl who oversees our meals program—she’ll put you to work.”
“I’m ready and raring to go.”
Kathy was a beautiful girl a few years younger than me, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and the softest brown eyes I ever saw. She immediately took me under her wing and showed me around.
“Don’t serve anyone who doesn’t show you a ticket,” she warned.
“What’s this with tickets?” I asked, a puzzled look on my face. “I thought these were homeless people.”
“They are, but there’s so many of them and so little food to go around. This year the economy’s been bad and donations are down. We get policemen that walk this beat to hand out tickets to the truly homeless—believe it or not, some middle class types show up looking for a free meal.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope—happens all the time. We found out about one guy who mortgaged his house to buy a Lexus—now he’s cash strapped and can’t even afford gas to run it. So, what does he do? He takes the subway to work to save on parking fees and comes to the Mission for a free lunch.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“My grandfather told me during the Depression, people were starving and still refused government welfare—were too proud to accept it. I guess times have changed.”
I shook my head in wonder. “Times sure have changed, I guess.”
I worked for two hours straight ladling out food to the homeless, until I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. “Coffee break,” Kathy smiled, “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“Where do people go for break?”
“Come with me, I’ll show you.”
We grabbed a paper cup of coffee and she led me to the huge Metropolitan Church next door. It was a large gray stone edifice with stained glass windows, each with a tiny gold plaque beneath, commemorating a wealthy donor.
I noticed a policeman stationed discreetly in the foyer. Kathy whispered an explanation:
“They open the church from ten until ten, and neighborhood people are welcome to drop in.”
She pushed through a set of stained glass doors and we peered into the darkened sanctuary.
People were scattered throughout the pews—some neighborhood folk, some homeless and they were all sitting in hushed silence staring at a manger scene at the front. A tiny crèche was dimly lit, surrounded by huge, dark firs.
We sat in a pew near the back and I could sense the reverence. No spoiled brats, no wealthy patrons—only common folk and street people, sitting together in quiet awe.
Later, when we returned to the Mission, I felt a strange fire in my chest. My eyes shone each time a homeless person approached, plate in hand.
It seemed we were only back for minutes before Kathy whispered in my ear. I was disappointed my shift was over.
“Can I come back again?”
Her brown eyes gleamed. “Of course, we’d love to have you, Tom.”
When she said my name, that warmth in my chest spread throughout my body.
“I’ll see you, then,” I promised.
Bert, the genial cashier, was waiting for me, standing with the tree in one hand and the other reaching out to shake my hand.
“I really appreciate what you did, Tom. You helped a lot of people.”
“Thanks, Bert—but I decided to give you a gift. I want you to keep the tree and I’ll be back tomorrow to help you decorate it and give the homeless a real Christmas meal.”
“Oh Tom, that’ll be grand. Thank you.” His eyes were shining as brightly as mine.
I returned the following day and helped out again.
I went downtown to pick out a tree and ended up finding Christmas—and a lot more besides. Kathy and I are dating now—and helping out at the downtown Mission.
It’s a funny thing life—you stand in line, ticket stub in your hand, expecting something and God gives you a whole lot more.
That, to me, is the real meaning of Christmas.
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