Crosscombes

I was sitting around Christmas Eve feeling a bit sorry for myself. I kept telling my family I was boycotting Christmas because it was cold and Christmas should be warm. I had been thinking back over my favourite Christmases… barbecues, beaches, bikes, and picnics… getting together with my family. Christmases have always been hard for me in Philly… cold, winter, being inside. It seems to just come and go so quickly.

This past Christmas Eve we were over at a friend’s place, where we usually spend Christmas Eve. It is always loud and crazy, with great food, presents and everyone eating as they come and go… no structure. The phone rings… my young friend tries to answer but misses the call. She is upset and her Mum gets frustrated. It was one of her brothers, calling from prison. Finally, he gets through and obviously he is hurting, locked up at Christmas… and here I am complaining about the cold! They talk a while, and then as we start catching up on family and friends all things come into perspective. A few friends are missing this year. One is at work…another isn’t allowed to cross the bridge because of probation (he was just transferred into New Jersey to be with his wife because they were both on probation, in different states). A young man who I began to talk to for the first time shares about how he is trying to help his younger brother. He wonders if he will be put in placement soon, like he was at that age. We catch up on a nephew who has been placed, another one running the street. My young friend is doing okay, been clean for a bit.
In the other room, my daughters show love (which they excel at) by sitting with an older lady, conversing with her in Spanish. Tony and his little friend seem to keep finding more presents to open, playing with their gifts. Conversations turn to a granddaughter who lives and goes to school in a Children’s home. Her brother is recovering from chemo (a few of us got to visit him not too long ago in the hospital). Grandma wonders how she can develop a better relationship with her granddaughter.

So what was it I was complaining about again? God seems to always put my complaints into perspective. What do I tell my young friend who just lost her baby…. who blames herself for the loss? Or what about the young man raising his kid brother… who was himself raised by a lady he calls “grandma”… or for the mother whose son is locked up?
While this exchange continued my “broken” friends keep feeding me crab cakes, the best pork, and rice and beans. I open my present from them… a trendy new duffel bag.
This is life in our community. By the end of the night some will be drunk, others high but I understand why…
This is Christmas. As always, my kids leave with bags of clothes and gifts from our friends…
This is love.