My jaw dropped in alarm as Joe slowly and painfully emerged from my husband’s car. I inhaled deeply, seeking the courage to reach out and greet this unexpected Christmas houseguest. But it wasn’t courage that came to me; it was the pungent odor of urine, wine, and cigarettes. I silently whined, Our perfect Christmas–Joe’s going to spoil it! Just that morning I’d sat with my coffee feeling quite pleased, if not smug, that I’d started back in September to prepare a flawless holiday. And I was ready.
Christmas this year fell on a weekend, so with the children still in school I spent the last week finishing my to-do list. When my husband, Ken, called from his office I’d only half listened when he told me about a homeless man who’d sought refuge under the freeway viaduct near his building. The weather had turned bitterly cold with the wind-chill carrying temperatures into single digits–unusual for Oregon. Ken had been checking in on Joe throughout the week as the temperatures crept lower and lower. Now Ken was getting ready to leave work for the last time before Christmas vacation.
The wind-chill blew through the phone when Ken’s words finally registered, “Yesterday, I tried to take him to a shelter, but he wouldn’t go. He said the young toughs beat him up and steal his things. Donna, I’ll try again to see if he’ll go to a shelter, but if he won’t, I’d like to bring him home with me.”
“To our home? You’re kidding!”
Sighing deeply, Ken announced, “I simply can’t come home to our Christmas and leave him to freeze.”
I was horrified at the thought of hosting a stranger from the streets. But I had no excuse; the house was ready, and I knew Ken would keep our family safe, just like he wanted to keep this stranger safe. So I said yes and, here before me, stood the consequence of my answer. Ken introduced Joe to our daughter Kasie, age 7, Scott, age 3, and then me. The children bounded forward in enthusiastic greeting and I, finally mustered the grace to shake his hand. I looked into his eyes–rather into his one eye. One was a sunken, eyeless socket, crusted closed, but the good eye sparkled appreciation. Despite his puffy, snowman appearance of layered, ragged clothing, I could tell Joe was frail. His hair and beard were crusted with . . . well, I’m not sure what. His mouth seeped saliva, and his little bit of exposed skin was thick with dirt.
Ken told me later that when he found Joe, his beard was covered with ice crystals, and that he couldn’t stand, much less walk. Ken had to pick Joe up in his arms and carry him to the car. To coax Joe to leave his post under the viaduct, Ken arrived with a carton of cigarettes and large bottle of wine. With cigarettes and wine clutched tightly under his arm, Joe shuffled and limped into the house. Both the eye and the limp, we learned, were the result of living on the streets.
Joe toured the downstairs level of our home: two bedrooms and a bathroom with the family room in the middle. He looked at the fireplace and TV in the family room and the spiral staircase leading to the upstairs, and announced, “I’ll just stay downstairs if that’s all right.”
Dinner was served that night on TV trays in front of a blazing fire with Joe snuggled as close as he could get to the fires. After dinner I stifled a “Hooray!” when Ken firmly announced, “Joe, you’ll want to take a hot bath to soak out the chill.” While Joe was in the tub, Ken whisked away Joe’s dirty clothes, replaced them with clean ones, and Joe emerged a new man, right up to his chin, where his face and beard remained the same.
Our family slept snug and safe that night with Ken on the sofa right outside Joe’s bedroom and our daughter sleeping upstairs with me. Joe’s life belongings were left in a heap outside our back door. He slept late into the morning under an electric blanket; when he finally emerged it was to an eager audience. The children welcomed Joe as a cross between an honored guest and their new playmate. He provided a distraction from their frenetic excitement about gifts.
Joe took up his vigil beside the fireplace where he happily watched our family be a family. All meals but one were served on TV trays by the fire. Kasie was filled with questions, and we learned Joe was French-Canadian, had a sister he loved but hadn’t seen for a long time and used to be a chef. I was doubtful of the last one, but became a believer when he described sauces and elegant desserts. Scott nestled in beside him, reaching out to hold his hand. Ken and Joe enjoyed watching television, a luxury for Joe. After every meal he lavished me with praise and appreciation, often taking my hand in a courtly manner, and kissing it. His appreciation, courtesy, and dignity worked deep into my heart, and I began to love this dear man. His belongings that had languished outside began to call to me. I knew we couldn’t change Joe’s circumstances, that he would return, by choice, to the streets; but I determined to return him with a cleaner, fresher “home.”
Separating the fabric items from the rest, I was surprised to find no extra clothes in his pile; he’d been wearing every piece of clothing he owned. I washed the clothes in our washing machine, but I was stumped with the five sleeping bags. They were too ragged to go through the machine. One by one, I washed them in the bathtub, holding my breath to keep from gagging at the smell. I spun the water out on the delicate cycle of the washing machine and carefully hung them to dry beside our gas furnace. Instead of the Christmas fragrance of cinnamon and evergreen, the smell of drying sleeping bags wafted through our home.
I spread out his other belongings on the kitchen counter–an incongruous array, absolutely nothing of value by my standards. There was a paperback book with a third of the pages missing, a pocketknife rusted closed, soggy matches, wet cigarette papers, a twenty-six ounce container of salt, a jar of jelly with dirt covering the top, and a box of sugar cubes that had melted together into one lump. Trying to respect his possessions and not presume they were without value, I cleaned and dried what I could. He had some spoons and knives that I soaked in warm water for hours before attempting to scrub off the thick grime.
Joe stayed with us five days. He asked to attend church with us and sat proudly with our family. He chose to come upstairs only once, painfully climbing our staircase to sit with us for Christmas dinner. After dinner, Joe cleared his throat to speak. “I have no presents to give, but I want to thank you for not preaching to me or trying to change me. One thing I can do for your family. I won’t drink any more while I stay at your home.” He kept his word. It was probably the most costly of all the Christmas gifts that year.
When the time came for Ken to return to work, the cold spell had broken, and Joe was ready to go “home.” Ken simply couldn’t deposit Joe back on the streets, so he took him to a hotel with a supply of groceries and a month’s paid rent.
For Joe our Christmas was a warm memory in his challenging, but unchanged life. For me, the “perfect Christmas” was forever redefined. Joe taught me the difference between celebrating Christmas and living Christmas.
