Homeless at Christmas
Hot stew and freshly-baked bread certainly make for a cosy meal in mid-December. But as Christie and I sat down to supper, I had to resign myself to another evening without Gabe. Thankfully, most of the year he didn’t have to work overtime, but we could count on the holiday rush adding extra hours to his delivery route. Evenings at home were always a bit dreary when he was away.
“Maybe we should go do some Christmas shopping this evening since Daddy’s not home,” I said, interrupting my four-year-old’s chatter.
“Oh, goody!” she burst out. “Can I take my money that Gramma gave me for my birthday? She told me I can buy myself a present.”
“I guess,” I smiled. “I hope to go to the fabric store and get some material to make a blanket for the new baby.” Our second child was due in just a few more weeks.
Half an hour later we drove downtown. Cars lined both sides of the street for blocks. “This is what I hate about this time of year,” I sighed. I could do without the crowded parking and the bustling fullness inside the stores. Besides, people tend to be uptight and in a hurry. In the end, we had to park several blocks from the fabric store.
I helped Christie out of her booster and we started a chilly walk down the sidewalk. As we passed beyond the range of the streetlight, a clatter in the shadows startled me. I stifled a scream—it was only a tramp digging in a dumpster.
Even in the dark I could see his layers of filthy clothes. His hair looked matted and mop-like, sticking from beneath a torn stocking cap. The stench was overpowering. It smelled like a mix of wet dog and really bad body odor.
My nervous mind immediately thought of our car. Had I locked the door? “Come, darling,” I said to Christie. “Mommy needs to go back to the car.” We hurriedly headed back, putting distance between us and the foul man of the shadows. It’s not that I begrudge homeless people of a warm house or good food, but I suspect that they choose their lifestyle and somehow want to be unclean. They really shouldn’t be allowed on the streets.
Back at the car, I unlocked the door, rummaged around inside, then locked the door again and rechecked it. Satisfied that it was as safe as could be, we crossed to the other side of the street and walked toward the large stone church on the next block.
In the small front yard of the church stood a life-sized Nativity. It was well made with a rough stable and a manger sitting on a floor of hay. As snowflakes began to drift out of a smoky sky, Christie and I stopped to contemplate the peaceful scene. The chosen couple watched over the pure Christ-child. On either side stood the shepherds with their sheep. Their rugged, stately appearance offered protection, strength, and a safe environment. Each figure was so important to the story of Christmas. The setup was completed by a star that added its blessing upon them.
Christie tugged at my sleeve, “Mommy, is the baby cold?”
“No, dear,” I replied. “It’s not a real baby.”
“Why is there hay in the bed?”
“His bed is really a manger to feed cows and sheep in.”
“Why?” she wanted to know. “Doesn’t he have a real bed?”
“No, Christie, they ‘laid him in a manger… because there was no room for them in the inn,’ (Luke 2:7)” I quoted.
“Didn’t anybody share their bed with the baby?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Well, I guess they were too busy, their houses were full, and they didn’t know he was Jesus,” I said.
“Mommy, are you going to put our baby in a manger?” She asked.
“No, dear, we have a bed for the baby, and Mommy is going to make a new blanket for the baby,” I said as I patted my growing little one. “Come, let’s go. It’s getting cold.”
A wave of warmth rolled over us as we entered the fabric store with the jingle of sleigh bells on the glass doors. The aroma of apple spice and cinnamon gave a cozy wintery feel to the greenery and holiday décor. We moved toward the back of the store to look over the flannels.
Christie, ever full of questions, tugged on my sleeve. “Mommy, what’s this? It’s so soft,” she said as she fingered an end display of fleece blanket throws.
“Oh, that is a fleece blanket. It’s made out of wool.”
“What’s ‘hole’?” she asked.
“Wool is the hair on a sheep.”
“Can I get a sheep blanket?”
“Why do you want one?” I tried to put her off.
“So I can be cozy when you read to me,” was her logical answer. “I want to get one with my money. Please!”
“But, it would use up all of your money,” I objected. “Wouldn’t you like to get something else? A toy, or purse, or stuffed animal?”
“No. I want a blanket made out of sheep wool.”
In the end it was an easy choice for her. She passed up the reindeer print, the wolves, the pine trees, and even the snowflakes. She chose the fleece with lambs on it, for it was made from sheep wool, she said.
I had my material cut, picked up a little batting, and we paid for our purchases. We left to the jingle of the sleigh bells and then walked around the corner to a coffee and tea shop. There we bought hot drinks and some donuts. Decaf for me and cocoa for Christie. My daughter and I sat and chatted about everything with her legs swinging back and forth.
Through the window I could see the snow was starting to accumulate and I thought of Gabe who would be coming home soon. This cocoa could take all evening. I wondered if we shouldn’t have just shared a cup. “Are you ready to go, dear?” I asked.
“I am not done with my cocoa,” she said. Truth is she had probably only taken three sips.
“We can take it with us,” I decided. I wiped off her crumbs and cocoa ring on the table and put the remaining donut in the bag. Christie hopped off her stool, picked up her lamb blanket, and we set out for the four-block walk down the snowy sidewalk.
Christie wanted to stop in front of the church again and to see the baby in the manger. I shivered as we stood on the sidewalk, our breath making little cloud puffs. A snowflake landed on my nose and lingered a moment, before melting and sliding off.
“Who’s that man?” Christie wanted to know.
“It’s a shepherd,” I replied.
“Why is he sleeping on the ground?” she asked. Then I saw the man that she was pointing to. It was our homeless person from the garbage can. He sat up behind the manger and I could see straw sticking in his hair and matted beard. Oh dear, I even caught a whiff of him. I was shocked, but before I could respond, Christie ran over to him. “Aren’t you cold, Mr. Shepherd?” she asked.
“A little bit,” the shepherd with a mistaken identity said awkwardly.
“Why are you sleeping on the ground?”
“There’s a couple of reasons,” he replied. “It is a little warmer here out of the wind, and I kinda like to be close to the homeless baby.”
I was taken aback. I mean, I had said earlier that there was no room for them at the inn. But to hear the Christ-child called “homeless” sounded so crude. Especially coming from a reeking form of an intruder at the stable. I found my tongue and stammered, “You shouldn’t be back there!”
“Why not? I ain’t hurtin’ anyone.”
“People don’t want you in the stable,” I countered.
“Probably not,” he responded. “But people probably didn’t think the shepherds should have come either. They weren’t upper class. They smelled like sheep and they slept outside too.”
It felt like ice was dumped all over my objections. I was forced to be quiet. For the first time I imagined the shepherds around the manger as unbathed and smelly—undesirable to many, yet welcomed by the homeless child. Maybe others wished they had stayed away. And maybe the homeless man at the manger was more like a shepherd than I thought.
After a moment, Christie pulled my mind back from its wandering. “Mommy, can I give the shepherd my blanket?”
What could I say? I just nodded.
She pulled the blanket from her bag and handed it to the homeless man. “I bought it with my birthday money,” she told him. “You can have it. It is made from sheep hair and there is even little sheep on it.”
He smiled and gave her a hug.
Tears stung my eyes as I shamefully joined my daughter at his side. “I’m sorry,” I said. “And thank you for reminding me of the homeless baby and the shepherds.” I gave him the last donut and the almost full cocoa. As we turned to go, I wished him a merry Christmas.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Shepherd,” Christie sang.
We pulled into our driveway and Christie shouted, “Daddy’s home!”
Bursting through the doors, she ran into his arms and declared, “Daddy, did you know that Jesus was homeless?”
“I guess so,” he said. “Who told you that?”
“The shepherd did. Shepherds sleep outside.”
Gabe looked up at me with a question in his eyes. I just smiled and nodded. “I’ll tell you later,” I said as I gave him a kiss. I turned to the closet to hang up Christie’s coat.
As I pulled out a hanger, I caught a lingering whiff of “the shepherd.” Should I wash her coat? No, not yet. I needed to remember that Jesus was homeless at Christmas.
“For ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich.” (2 Corinthians 8:9)
“God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.” (James 4:6)