[grantswank]

AN INN FOR CHRISTMAS


"I'll bring you another blanket," I said.

With that, I left the church and went to my
parsonage nearby. One more blanket would do it.

"Greg, when you leave in the morning, make sure
you turn out the lights. I’ve been finding them on
when I come over here in the morning. I’m trying to
save on electricity. The church folk aren’t rich, you
know."

Greg smiled, understanding that he did have a
habit of forgetting to turn out the lights in his one-
room shelter at the church. He also had a habit of
leaving dirty dishes in the sink downstairs in the
church kitchen. Furthermore, he forgot to turn down
the thermostat when going off to work each morning.

I guess it is part of being in your early 20s, I mused
as I left this fellow.

How could parents put their child out at Christ-
mas? That was one question that had been eating
away at my heart ever since he knocked on the
parsonage door.

The next day I twisted my master key into the
lock, opened the door into his room, and found that
he had done just as I had asked--lights off, heat
turned down. But those crusty dishes were still in the
sink.

I'd better clean up this mess before the women of
the church come in here to complain, I thought.

Then I scolded myself for expecting that of the
women. They knew his plight. I knew down deep
inside that there would be no complaining. They, too,
had sons.

"How is it that they told you to leave?" I had asked
him when he wandered into my living room that
desperately cold night.

"They said they had had it with my being a
Christian. At first I thought they were taking to this new life of
mine. But then, they flipped it all over the other way." He
had looked down at the carpet, hardly able to take it in,
that his own mother and father had sent him packing.

Where else could he go? There were no relatives
nearby. It was the church--which was where he would
have to end up. And so there he was on my front
doorstep, with his suitcase pressed against his side.

“You can use the rest rooms--shave, bathe. You
can use the church kitchen to make your meals.
Sometimes we'll invite you over for supper. How's
that? And there's your own thermostat. It heats up just
this room off the sanctuary."

I pointed out all the conveniences of being sent
out in the cold at Christmas. "Of course, the sanctuary
is a good place for you to go in quiet, getting your
thoughts together," I suggested. Greg was a student of
the Word. Since becoming a believer, he could not get
enough of Scripture.

"There are some of my study books in the shelves
around the corner. Take your pick. Enjoy!" I tried to be
cheery, though it was not all that easy talking to a
young man who was bunking out in a side room in the
church. Yes, it was the house of God. But on cold,
wintry nights it was also a lonely place to walk into all by
oneself. Creaks sounded in the night. Radiators
croaked at odd hours.

"Just don't get caught in the rest room taking a
sponge bath when someone with a key decides to case
the place," I said, chuckling.

He was game. What else was left? He had finished
college and had come back home to make some
money to pay off some bills. And now this.

"How can parents put their own son out like
that?" he asked me one especially empty evening.

"It's hard to answer that one." I shrugged, not
wanting to appear too serious. I figured that if we moved on
to another subject, the pain just might go away.

On the following Sunday I gently told the
congregation of Greg's plight. After the worship service,
people needed no prodding to get heads and hearts
together. In short order, whisperings on behalf of
goodwill toward the young man were filling the halls.

The Sunday before Christmas was fast approach-
ing. We were going to enjoy our fellowship meal after
the morning service.

"Do you have the box decorated?" someone
asked. I assured her that Marie had everything in
place--mostly hidden from Greg's view.

"Where do we put the presents?"

"Over there, behind the table. I'll get them later
and put them in the box so that everything will be put
together."

What fun it was to poke about, doing things in
secret when it all added up to warm a heart!

"Good morning, Greg," I called out to him as he
left his one-room abode to join the rest of us for Bible
class.

"Good morning to you, Pastor," he replied
cheerily.

Greg had been invited to his parents' for Christ-
mas Day. He would go, he said, "to show them that I
love them in spite of what they've done to me." Fine.
Then go. And what would they have wrapped up
under the tree for their son-put-out-of-their-home-
because-of-his-faith?

The meal was eaten with relish. Such delicious
tastes!

"Now?" Sally asked as she tugged at my coat.

"Now," I whispered back.

The huge box was brought out into the center of
the fellowship hall.

"Greg.

It was not easy to get Greg's attention when he
was eating!

"Greg, we have something special for you today.
Here are some presents we have wrapped up just for
you. May this be a blessed Christmas after all."

The young man--not all that tall--rose to extra
height with gladness as he sauntered over to the gifts
that bore his name. One by one he lifted them, poking
his ear tip to their sides, feeling their shapes, looking
at each of us in wonder and thanksgiving.

"How can I say what's in my heart?" he asked,
hardly able to say much more.

"You don't have to say anything," I responded.
"Just your being with us this Christmas has made this
season very special for our church family."

Christmas Day came and went.

"Greg?" I knocked on his door late Christmas night.
Loud music was blaring out from inside his room. What
if someone from the church had come into the building
to hear that mash called "music"? I thought.

"Greg?" I knocked again. Presently he came to the
door.

"What are you listening to?" I asked whimsically,
as if not caring all that much, just making conversa-
tion.

Greg turned down the volume, then sat on the
sofa made into a bed.

"I guess I was just trying to drown out something
inside with that noise," Greg said haltingly.

"That bad, was it?" I ventured.

"That bad."

"And what did your parents get you for
Christmas?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing at all? Nothing? Just plain
nothing?"

Greg nodded. At the other side of the room were
all the gifts given by the church folk. They were now
unwrapped and neatly stacked in one corner.

"My parents are not very happy people. I feel
sorry for them. I'm beginning to understand that they
really do need a lot of help."

I didn't know what to say.

"Their not giving me anything was really getting to
me tonight. I turned up the radio so that I could drown
out some of the hurt inside. I figured that no one would
be here on Christmas night this late. So I thought it
wouldn't harm anything--the loud music and all that."

"No problem, Greg. No one would have stopped
by. I just wanted to see how you were, and that's why I
decided to walk over to check things out."

"Yet, Pastor, through this whole mess I've realized
one precious gift that stands out more than anything
else."

"What's that?"

"It's that I do have a family. They are more than I
have ever had in my whole life. They are all those
people who come into this church. They love me. They
gave me those gifts over there."

I left him and walked back home.

"How's he doing?" my wife asked as I walked
through the door.

"Not too well. But not too badly either. I mean, I
think this is one of the most precious Christmases
Greg will ever know. For some very important reasons,
this season will no doubt stand out in his memory as
one of the most meaningful times in his life."

Time has passed. Greg has grown older with the
rest of us. He left the church room for a second shelter
and then a third as he moved from one situation to
another.

Yet with the passing of the seasons, I have looked
back to realize that not only for Greg but also for the
entire congregation that will be one Christmastide
that will highlight all the others.

It was that year all of us came to understand what
it means to have been put out of an inn, only to be
sheltered by the hearts of those who care enough to
love.

[grantswank]

CHRISTMAS KINDNESSES


We were seated beneath the mammoth, lofty pulpit in Boston’s historic Trinity Church. Along with some 2,000 worshipers, we had gathered for the annual candlelight carol service.

Handsome faces wreathed in expensive scarves passed through the large, heavy curtains that divide the outer quarters from the sanctuary. Women garbed in their seasonal finest gracefully seated themselves in the ancient pews.

“A person has to get here an hour early to get a seat,” I overheard a fellow whisper to his friend. Even as he spoke, ushers were pointing to side walls where late arrivers could stand throughout the service.

On the expansive platform, poinsettias smothered the regal churchly furnishings. A lone gold cross hung from the front’s very center, as if to crown the ornate display ablaze with color in celebration of Christ’s birth.

Majestic strains pealed forth from the organ: “Trumpet Tune in C Major,” by Henry Purcell; “Sonata for Flute and Organ,” by George Frederick Handel; and others.

One by one, dozens of tall white candles were being lit. They stood as silent soldiers amid the flowering plants.

Our family had invited guests to join us that chilly December evening. Since this worship had become a cherished tradition to us over the years, we relished sharing it with special friends. We awaited anxiously every move, nuance, and musical offering yet to be placed before God.

Looking to my left, however, I noted a young man who did not seem to fit. He was crouched over at first, bent with his head magnetized toward the floorboards. Then, with a sharp twist to his right, he slung himself about, rearing his black hair into the air with a jerk. His dark eyes shot at me, then bounced away, then back again in my direction. I noticed some saliva mixing with his beard.

Obviously, the well-groomed man at the other end of the pew did not notice the youth’s behavior, for he was mesmerized with the lighting of the candles. I wondered what his reaction would be whenever he did glance to his left. There he would witness a crippled man with crutches, a crooked body garbed in denims and flannel shirt.

How had I missed this young man’s entrance within our halloed corner of the sanctuary? Without notice, he had simply slipped in, wedging his way into our tidy mosaic of season’s liturgy.

Presently I saw an usher—black-suited with a red carnation in his lapel—stoop over the young man, whispering something into his ear.

“Oh no!” I gasped inwardly. After all, this was Christmas. And we were in a house of God. If ever love feasts were to be in fashion, surely this was the time. Surely that usher was not demanding that the poor young man leave for fear of disturbing the sedate!

The usher left him. His head flipped back again while two hands led two arms into jutted motions scraping the air. One leg shot out and then back against the floor. His eyes darted back to me. Fright was all over his face.

All of a sudden I felt sick, not because of this poor creature, but because of my own fear of what was going to happen to him. Torture is commonplace, and violence has been with us since the first two sons scuffled in the field. But surely we would not have to live down a mean display of pretense at Christmas.

People kept milling about, some stretching their necks, hoping they would find some tiny space on a pew for sitting. Few caught sight of the intense drama going on nearby. What could I do? I had no authority in this church. There was no speedy network of rescue that I could call into play and so relieve the anxious, confused black eyes beneath his furrowed brow.

Seemingly out of nowhere, an attractive young lady seated herself beside this youth. I saw her place her hand upon his shoulder, then lean near to his ear, whispering something. Her smile was comforting, understanding, as she turned her head to look straight into his eyes. Presently those distraught limbs began to calm down, and his head settled itself more evenly atop his neck.

What are they going to do with him? I thought. Will they, even with a veneer of kindness, lead him away from the rest of us? What game will they play to convince him that he would enjoy the service better from a side room somewhere?

She said no more. She just sat there, listening to Vienna’s “Westminster Carillon” from the organ.

The usher who had spoken with the young man then passed right in front of him, going across the aisle to the second pew from the front. That tall churchman had spotted a space 12 inches wide. With diplomatic graciousness, the usher informed the person seated next to that space that he would have a visitor sharing the worship.

Back to the attractive lady and crippled man the usher made his way. Gently, he lifted the young man under his arm, taking the crutches in his other hand. It was as if the Red Sea parted there for the crossing of this twosome; no one interfered. In no time, the youth discovered himself being presented with the best seat in the house. Smilingly, the person to his right welcomed the lad into the pew.

Again, seemingly out of nowhere, a man in his late 20s-dressed in denims and flannel shirt, his hair tied in a knot at the back of head—knelt down along side the crippled one. I watched him assist the other in shedding his winter jacket, first one arm and then the other drawn out of the sleeves. Next, he carefully placed the crutches on the floor right inside the seat. That done, the kind man joined the attractive lady elsewhere, but within eyeshot of the crippled man.

It was then that I heard the opening Christmas hymn being sung from a far back balcony. The soprano lifted her voice with
Once in royal David’s city
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby
In a manger for His bed...

I could not help but turn around to see the sight. There was the robed soloist surrounded by others dressed in holy day splendor. After all, this was the start of something very special. Worship had begun.

Slowly I turned back to face the sanctuary’s front. But in the turning I glanced again at “my friend.” I saw then the most marvelous sight. Still mixed with the hairs of his black beard was a bit of spittle, but now in his eyes I saw joy.

He, too, had heard the opening words of Christmas praise. He was looking over at the attractive lady and her companion. I did not mean to be prying, but I could not help but glance at them as well. There they were, beaming with kindness rendered, so happy that he was all right, that he had been given a good place to sit, so ready for the worship of the King. On the second verse, the congregation was to join the soloist. With a shining face, the youth twisted his mouth in jubilation. The furrow was gone from his forehead, thank God. And with the rest of us he was singing forth--

With the poor and mean and lowly
Lived on earth our Savior holy.

Although it was still days before the 25th, I knew in my heart that for me, at least, Christmas had begun.