This year marks my 17th in the world of nonprofit and, once again, I’m scurrying around at Christmas crunch time having taken on more than our capacity allotted.
With 3,350 stocking-stuffer bags and a toy drive to help some of the children unable to get assistance this year, it’s a hysterical rush to keep up with our programming while Jenga-towering holiday assistance in all of the ways I promised.
After saying, “No, we’re not taking on anymore,” but then seeing the vast need, I pile it on with fingers crossed that it will all magically work out.
Here’s the thing: It always does. At what cost? I prefer not to ask myself that.
I think everyone in social work has one story that stays with them, reminding them “just one more piece … steady … you can add one more” as their own Jenga tower is about to tumble.
Mine came in my 11th year of social work. A single mother who looked tired but wore a weary smile sat at my table with her three sweet little boys. The youngest was in a wheelchair, making jerking movements and random sounds as we conducted the interview. He had brain damage and partial blindness, as well as several other ailments that challenged him.
The father had left a few years ago under the strain of having a child with mental and physical challenges. The mother never complained about this, just shrugged and said, “It’s too much for some people.”
She absently patted his head to soothe her child as we spoke.
The middle child was animated as we talked about his wish list: a stuffed dinosaur, a jacket with pockets. Most of all, he wanted to make sure I didn’t forget his little brother’s toys, since he couldn’t speak for himself.
Hearing him speak up for his brother brought back that thought I try to convey every year with this program: It’s never really about the gifts.
The oldest seemed happy but reserved, and it took a lot of asking, a lot of joking and coaxing before he finally trusted me with what he wanted for Christmas. His haircut reminded me of my oldest child’s at that age of 11. Finally, he said in a quiet voice, “a suit.”
His mom and I were both perplexed. A suit?
He looked like he might clam up, but when I matched his enthusiasm, he reiterated without any sadness at all, “A suit. Not like, something that costs a lot. Just something that I could wear and pretend that we’re going somewhere. Somewhere really nice.”
It was the greatest metaphor for growing up in poverty that I have ever seen in all my years of social work. It was honest, and innocent, and I felt it in every fiber of my being.
His mother looked embarrassed, as if she needed to explain herself. She said, “We don’t have a car. It’s hard with the wheelchair and all to get people to give us a ride. And with the feeding tube, and his condition … people just … are uncomfortable. I guess we don’t get out much.”
I wanted to tell her she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. She was giving her children all of her love and life, and she didn’t owe anyone a damn word about it.
This woman sitting across from me had no idea how amazing she was, and I wanted so badly to tell her. But there are no words sometimes for things like that. If there are, I don’t have them.
Instead, I gave her the code number for her family’s case. She thanked me, gathered her children and papers, and left. Swearing I wouldn’t break down until I got into my office, I watched her leave and made that vow I know so many other workers in the field make silently: It will be my honor to serve you.
Weeks later, a car pulled up to our site. Just looking at its beaten-down, rusted state, I thought to myself, “I hope they have a great donor who gave them a lot.”
The woman came in and, as she signed for her items, I recognized her and realized it was her – the woman with the little boy with the suit.
She smiled and said, “I remember you!”
I could barely contain my excitement, knowing what was coming. I said to her, “The little boy who wanted a suit.”
We both giggled as she wrote out her thank you card. She said, “This year has just been the hardest of my life. We were robbed last year (which she hadn’t told me during the interview).” They had stolen everything, including the box of ornaments for the tree she was going to put out, even the urn that held the ashes of her father.
She mentioned she had found a tree on the side of the road that was broken. She tried to put it up with a bucket of rocks, but it still kept falling over.
The good people of Lincoln Financial had collected almost $600 in gift cards for her, and she looked astounded when I handed them over – like she couldn’t imagine that high of a number.
But when she saw the gifts for her children, that’s when she broke down. She went from sobbing to pacing excitedly as we loaded her trunk. With every gift we loaded, she cried more, thanking God and everyone who had come forward to help her children.
We loaded up her Christmas tree and ornaments and she cried again, saying how she couldn’t wait to have her kids decorate “a tree that wouldn’t fall over.”
I realize at times like this that the true heroes who give anonymously never get to see the incredible miracle they have made, which makes them even more heroic. They need no recognition or even witness to their selfless acts of generosity.
I was merely a middle man who is honored enough to be able to load such things as love and hope into a trunk.
A little guitar stuck out of a bag, and she said to the man who gave her a ride, “Do you see that? He’s going to flip out!”
I whispered to her, “Just wait till you see your little man in a suit.” And that made her cry in a way that both broke and buoyed my heart.
Every year, like so very many in our community, I simply serve as a middle man from the hearts of the community to the hands of children. It is exhausting. It is sacred. And it is one of the greatest honors to be able to know that whatever we are giving is so far beyond a physical item.
It was never about the toy, or the socks, or even the food; it is always the hope, and the joy, and the humanity. It’s the reminder that beyond our greatest differences, we all have the ability to push forward the greatest parts of ourselves in our purest form of selflessness, with no other hope but to act in love.
Every year, I write a holiday piece and end it with this traditional quote:
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”
And it touches me every year, without fail. But this year I would like to add another as I thank not only those who give, but who work in service every day to ensure that hope and love and joy abound in times of darkness and light.
“To love another person is to see the face of God.”
May you find that kind of love this season, however it presents itself, to you and yours, to us all, in this the season of our greatest giving.
-Jama Ross
Executive Director,
Blessings in a Backpack Fort Wayne
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