Indoor Camping: Fixing Up the Fixer-Upper

Friday, December 24, 2004

Gifts

“We decided to give some money to a few of our single parents,” the executive Pastor calls and says. “Could you arrange to deliver it?”

“Sure,” I said. I have no idea why he chose me. I volunteer for my church every now and then but I’ve never been Santa Claus. I don’t tell the executive Pastor I’m so stressed out by Christmas and family issues that I’ve sprung a big red rash on my face. I hope I don’t scare the single parents.

I make the arrangements to call the recipients and pick up the checks. The executive Pastor thought there would be six. There are fourteen. One of them lives in Vancouver. This might be a lot of work.

I start calling and realize this is a different job than coordinating volunteers or selling something. I don’t think I’ve ever called people and not wanted their money or time. I’m used to selling.

“This is Jill from SouthLake,” I say. “I have a gift for you from the church. When will you be available?”

“For me?” they say. “What did I do?”

Nobody told me why these people were picked. I don’t even know who picked their names. I know they’re getting a check, but I don’t know how much. I don’t know anything. I could easily make up things.

“I work for the executive Pastor,” I say. “I’m just delivering.”

“I don’t even know the executive Pastor,” they say. “I didn’t know we had one. Who do I thank?”

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“How did they know about me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do they do this every year?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. I wish I would have thought of asking these questions.

I finish calling people right before ten pm. The phone rings. I assume it’s one of the single parents or Cheyenneh, my 16 year-old who I haven’t seen for several days except for brief moments when she runs out of money.

It’s not. It’s Charlie’s boss. Charlie asks questions about license plate numbers and street locations and I assume there’s been a traffic accident. In this little town, nothing much happens. When it does, everyone knows about it. When you’re married to a cop, you know about it first, even if you don’t know what “it” is.

Charlie only tells me, judging by the license plate, it isn’t Cheyenneh. I call her cell phone. There’s only one road linking our house and most of her friends’ houses. The accident is on this road.

She answers her phone and doesn’t obviously know anything. I tell her to come home now and find another route. She can sense there’s something wrong. I don’t tell her. She’ll find out more than I will even before she gets home.

I try not to think about it. Cheyenneh tells me her friends are passing around pictures of the accident on their cell phones. They call her up all night long, worried. One of the cars is red, like Cheyenneh’s, and one of the cars is an SUV, like Cheyenneh’s. They tell her a kid was killed.

If it wasn’t deadly, Charlie would be home by now.

I arrange to meet one single mom and her 13 year-old daughter at Peet’s. I put on a lot of make-up on my rash and it doesn’t look so bad. I am now more concerned with trying to get these checks to the single parents than I am about my own weird family Christmas crap. If I had any time to worry, I’d worry about what this make-up is doing to my rash. At least it isn’t itching anymore.

The single mom didn’t know what I looked like but she walked right over to me. The rest of the people at Peet’s, I notice, are exchanging nicely wrapped gifts and talking loudly and happily. I could be very cynical about these perfect people. Instead, I gave the single mom her check and she almost started crying.

“I’ve only been going to this church since March,” she says. “You don’t know what this means to me. Thank you so much.”

”Don’t thank me,” I say. I’m getting an excuse to hang out at Peet’s in the middle of the day. I’ve forgotten my own holiday stress and instead concentrated all my fears and worries on getting these single parents their checks. My kids are alive and refills are free today. I couldn’t be happier.

“This has been a difficult year,” she says. She tells me of her move across the country and some personal difficulties which remind me of my own horrible single days. Then she says, “My daughter goes to George Fox University with the boy who was killed last night. I’ll take my bad year over that any time.”

Me, too.

A little help? [] 6:41:27 PM