Every
year my daughters and I picked angel cards off the Salvation Army Christmas tree
and went shopping for three mystery children who wrote to Santa Claus. It was
fun hunting the wish-list items, wrapping them, dropping them off, and
imagining the joy when the children opened their packages from the North Pole.
Today,
on my way to the grocery store, I heard the bell and the Salvation Army bell
ringer before he came into view. His presence on this balmy and sunny December morning
reminded me of the day, long time ago, when April and I were the volunteer bell
ringers at our local superstore. It was the coldest Saturday in a long, long
time, 30 degrees Fahrenheit to be exact. It was so frigid that stores ran out
of gloves. That never happened in the clement South even in December. We were
bundled to the eyeballs, jumping in place to keep warm. Once in a while the
store manager brought us hot tea. We were so delighted when the bucket was full
– we could go home and warm up, happy that we had reached our goal, helping
someone else less fortunate than we were.
Americans
have always been very generous with their time, money, expertise, and help. My
southern neighbors were exceptionally giving, rising to any occasion. Even
those who considered themselves poor donated a dollar bill or a five because
they knew that the Salvation Army distributed most of the money to the cause of
helping, feeding, and housing Americans who were in need. There were no
millionaire executives with the Salvation Army Church and no jet-setters among
their ranks.
A
former student, a double-amputee veteran, who lived in pain most of the time,
struggling to walk, drive, and live his life on crutches, always volunteered in
the Salvation Army kitchen – he helped
cook and serve hundreds of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. His altruism and
stoic demeanor were inspirational to me. I knew how much pain he endured after
many botched operations, yet he never complained. We helped him sometimes – I wanted
my children to be ground in humility and sharing.
I
looked the bell ringer in the eye as I squeezed my donation through the slot
into the red bucket – it was almost full. I saw kindness and sadness in the
momentary glimpse into his soul. I don’t know if he had a hard and painful life
filled with obstacles. His toothless smile lit up his creased face when he
wished me a Merry Christmas. A sudden sadness overcame me, I choked up, and my
eyes filled with tears – I felt humbled; my Mom’s oft-repeated words echoed in
my mind as I walked away into the store, “God keeps the world for the poor and the
downtrodden.”
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