Holidays

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“I am only trying to help you, Josh,” my father says. His help is never free and this is no exception. If I want my dad’s assistance, it will cost me.

“Thanks anyways, Pop.” Refusing his offer feels good after listening to such a wild idea. His solution would delay my family’s financial ruin but there is a huge catch; he proposes that another family from the church move in with us. They are struggling with money too but their case is worse. The husband has been without a job for nearly two years.

“I know this is hard to swallow, Son, but you’ve got to look at what’s right in front of you.” He says as he points to the financial documents I prepared to support my plea for help. In short, they prove I’m floundering in debt. Asking my dad for aid isn’t easy but I didn’t expect him to treat me like a member of his church. In the end, he offers to help me if I help others.

We leave things amicably but resentment begins to daunt me. On my drive home, the feeling grows.

As I turn onto a street that leads to the cul-de-sac where my house sits, I notice a few Christmas decorations starting to light up the neighborhood. In other years, the sight has brought me joy but this year it hurts to think about the cost of such extravagance. My home looks plain and dark. I dread the coming nights when I’ll drive through the festive subdivision and arrive at my dreary house.

When I open the garage I am surprised to see Mary’s car missing. Then I remember that we sold it to pay a number of “last notice” bills. I am not use to its absence yet but at least it is nice to know that she and our two children still have a roof over their heads.

Since we sold the car, my family is always home to greet me after a long day of work. But tonight no one calls my name when I walk through the door… and that isn’t all that is missing. The frosty chill of winter spreads throughout the entire first floor. “O, Dear God,” I lament inwardly in the tone of a curse, not a prayer. “Not the furnace!”

On the kitchen table there is a note from Mary saying the house has been without heat all afternoon and that I can find her and the kids next door at Ilene’s. After checking the furnace to confirm my latest fear I walk next door to retrieve my family.

Our single neighbor (and the adopted grandmother to our children) answers the door with an empathetic expression. She points me in the direction of Mary who sits at the kitchen table with a long face and a steaming cup of tea.

“What did your father say?” Mary asks dryly.

“I can fill you in later. Let’s get the kids bundled up to go home.”

“Nonsense!” Ilene interjects. “You can stay here for tonight… or until you can get someone to fix your heat.”

“No thank you, Ilene. That won’t be necessary.” I grab her hand and kiss her cheek, already feeling indebted to her hospitality. Then I yell for the kids.

When they get to the door Mary helps them with their coats and Ilene brings down extra blankets for us. “I’m only trying to help.” She says, handing me the neatly folded fabrics. I take them, not wanting to reject her twice.

As we walk away from Ilene’s and toward our cold, dark house, my stress returns. There is a mixture of fear and anger—two different feelings that often come in a pair when rooted at the source of evil. “Money, money, money.” My inner voice says in a sardonic tone.

When we arrive home, Mary and I pile blankets on the kid’s beds and bury them beneath the warmth of borrowed covers. After they fall asleep, I begin to tell Mary about the meeting with my father and his proposal.

“Oh, we should!” She says with a hint of hope.

“What?” This sounds harsher than I intend.

“What other choice do we have?” Her voice is straightforward, which is unusual for dear, soft Mary. Then she continues with a cautious whisper, “… and now with the furnace…”

I don’t respond verbally. Instead, I turn off the light and pull my wife close to me. I feel the heat from her body and her sense of peace; I hope to contract them both. With this, I decide that tomorrow I will accept my father’s help.

“Oh, Bless you, Son! The Holero’s will be so happy. They’ve been praying to be in a home by Christmas. Right now they are staying in the church basement.” He rambles a little before promising to have the furnace fixed immediately.

We think we have plenty of space for the Holero’s before they arrive but when they move in it becomes a challenge. A mixture of displaced items, theirs and ours, fill the basement. Many adjustments ensue.

There is a lot of noise throughout the house. The washer and dryer are always running and a string of conversations between Mary and Marisole creates a constant buzz. Hector is always asking annoying questions. “What night does the trash go out? Does this window need fixing? Can I put up the Christmas decorations?” Even though he is attempting to be helpful I feel like he is trying to take over my household duties.

Their only son is withdrawn for the most part. I rarely ever see him and when I do he is wearing his iPod and being of little help to his parents. I am less likely to leave our upstairs corridors of the house. In fact, I only enter the main rooms before going to work or when the Holero’s take Mary and the kids somewhere in their car. It is an unusual treat to be alone in the house.

Tonight, everyone but the boy goes Christmas caroling with Ilene, which means I’ll be home by myself—well… almost. At first, I enjoy the solitude but after a while I miss my family and regret not participating in their Christmas fun. This season has been anything but cheerful; the house, inside and out, remains a reminder of our despair.

As I lie on the couch, decaying into the cushions, watching the “The Grinch” and eating an eclectic array of Christmas cookies, my remorse grows. Then, I’m hit with the realization that I’m the Grinch in this household; I’m stealing everyone’s holiday cheer because of my grief. When I see how my behavior mirrors that of the evil, green creature on the screen, my heart, too, grows three sizes. Immediately, I turn the movie off and begin to search for the decorations that I’ve been neglecting. I want to bring Christmas cheer back to my home.

Rows of boxes confront me as I descend the stairs to the basement. They range from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. I know where the Christmas decorations are though; they are in the back corner. There is no path to them, so I start to displace boxes one by one. I’m lifting the warped pieces of a heavy cardboard box when my path ends suddenly. Pain rushes through my entire body except for where there is no feeling at all… in my right foot. I let out a retched cry that precedes the sound of barricading boxes. Uncomfortably lodged between books and toddler toys, I yell out again, expelling the frustration of my pitiful errors—all of them.

Then, in the midst of my cry a blinding darkness falls on the room. I knew the overdue electric bill would catch up with me at a bad time. Following this is a pounding noise. I count 15 steps urgently approaching the bottom of the stairs before a dim beam from a weak flashlight flickers in my direction.

“Josh?”

I swallow hard and reply to the Holero’s son by jostling the boxes that crush me. “Over here,” I manage to say.

“I’m coming to help you!” Accompanying his words is the sound of shifting materials.
Javier frees me from the boxes and helps me up the stairs just as the doorbell rings. We hobble over to answer it. Without releasing his sturdy arm that wraps around my waist, he opens the front door with his free hand.

A familiar Johnny Mathis tune enters the house on the cool breeze of Winter’s night. “We need a little Christmas now!” The family chorus sings expressively. Mary, the kid’s, Ilene and the Holero’s illuminate the front porch brighter than any amount of lights can. Their voices linger making my face soft with emotion. In my eyes form glistening tears—not ones of sadness but of Christmas cheer.

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