Adopt someone into your family this holiday season to shower with love by selecting from the following:
Open your home: Look at your circle of acquaintances with new eyes. Do you know a college student who can’t travel home this Christmas? A co-worker with no relatives? New neighbors in the house next door? A recently widowed church member? Think of them as extended family—and invite them to share your holiday dinner.
Adopt a grandmother: Contact an area nursing center or retirement home and request the name of a lonely, aged resident. Make her your honorary grandmother. Visit, call and bring thoughtful gifts. Give freely of your time—and remember to continue this new relationship throughout the year.
Become an angel: Take advantage of opportunities during December to reach out to others. Contribute to the mall mitten tree, to a single parent through your civic club or to a homeless teenager through a local shelter. Fill their requests, slip in a luxury item or two, and do it with the same generosity of spirit you’d show your own children.
Kindness
Mounting Evidence
“If you were arrested for kindness,” someone once asked, “would there be grounds to convict you?”
What an amazing concept, especially in a time when everyone is talking about it, but so few people seem to really be practicing it. Searching the Internet for the mere word brings a staggering 1,320,000 hits. Entire Web sites revolve around the topic. Countless essays expound complicated theories on the subject. Organizations like Compassionate Kids, Kindness Inc., Operation Kindness and the Human Kindness Foundation base their straightforward mission statements on it. Local, national and worldwide movements promote an entire revolution of it.
And with good reason.
These are hard times that try our souls. Hard times in the country, in the city, in the neighborhood, on the block. In all these places we find children wearing bruises and adults wearing hard faces. We find barren larders, drained pocketbooks and leaking hearts. We find wandering souls and aimless bodies. Withered minds and empty arms. The housebound and the homeless. Loneliness. Despair. Fear.
Suffering.
It may not be us personally, but the people are there.
Yet, underlying it all is mankind’s eternal hope. Hope that things will be better, people will be fixed, diseases cured, the poor made rich . . .
So for now we rely on human kindness, the healing balm for all that ails us. For it is by being kind, we have discovered, that suffering is eased and joy is spread.
Practicing the art of kindness makes life better for everyone— the giver and the receiver. Whether spontaneous or premeditated, uncomplicated or complex, kindness-in-action strikes a positive influence.
It’s a simple word, with an equally simple definition.
Kind: of a friendly, generous or warmhearted nature.
Kindness: the quality—or state—of being kind.
So how difficult is it to adopt this virtue? To make it a natural quality in ourselves? To actually become kind, warmhearted beings?
A college professor once said,“Kindness is inherent in all of us. It is our inner urge to imitate the divine, to give of ourselves.”
But even good intention doesn’t necessarily beget kindness. Just ask Gladys.
A generous gift-giver, she thought of the holidays as an opportunity to share her modest wealth with friends and extended family. However, at ninety-three, she found shopping to be a monumental task. Instead, she decided to insert checks of equal value in everyone’s Christmas cards.
In a rush to send them, Gladys kindly penned, “Buy your own present this year,” then she put the cards in the mail.
It wasn’t until after the holidays that she discovered all the checks—buried under papers on her desk!
Like Gladys’s mislaid checks, kindness is sometimes buried in the rush of life. And isn’t that a shame? Especially when it’s a character trait so easy to claim, so easy to incorporate, moment by moment and day by day.
Look around. Miss Manners preaches it: Be polite. Oprah— along with countless others—encourages it: Commit “random acts of kindness.” And the movie Pay It Forward spells it out: Kindness begets kindness.
It really is as simple as that.
Kindness is niceness, a common moral decency, or—plainly— doing what is right, what is polite. It doesn’t falter in the face of religion, politics, gender or race. Kindness anticipates needs, creates value and substance, makes a difference—on a scale large or small, in random doses or in huge gulps. Kindness generates ripples without end. The more we offer, the more we will have to offer. Best of all, it’s contagious—others pass it on.
Mother Teresa urged:
Spread love everywhere you go. First of all, in your own house . . . let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier. Be the living expression of God’s kindness: kindness in your face, kindness in your eyes, kindness in your smile, kindness in your warm greeting.
Her message is clear. And simple. Those who follow it can shout in one voice,“The evidence is in. We’re guilty as charged! Convict us all on grounds of kindness!”
Drawn to the Warmth
Factoring in the windchill, I knew the temperature was below zero. The bitter cold cut through my Californian sensibilities, as well as my enthusiasm as a tourist, so I ducked through the nearest door for warmth . . . and found myself in Washington, D.C.’s Union Station.
I settled onto one of the public benches with a steaming cup of coffee—waiting for feeling to return to my fingers and toes—and relaxed to engage in some serious people-watching.
Several tables of diners spilled out into the great hall from the upscale American Restaurant, and heavenly aromas tempted me to consider an early dinner. I observed a man seated nearby and, from the longing in his eyes, realized that he, too, noticed the tantalizing food. His gaunt body, wind-chapped hands and tattered clothes nearly shouted, “Homeless, homeless!”
How long has it been since he’s eaten? I wondered.
Half expecting him to approach me for a handout, I almost welcomed such a plea. He never did. The longer I took in the scene, the crueler his plight seemed. My head and heart waged a silent war, the one telling me to mind my own business, the other urging a trip to the food court on his behalf.
While my internal debate raged on, a well-dressed young couple approached him. “Excuse me, sir,” the husband began. “My wife and I just finished eating, and our appetites weren’t as big as we thought. We hate to waste good food. Can you help us out and put this to use?” He extended a large Styrofoam container.
“God bless you both. Merry Christmas,” came the grateful reply.
Pleased, yet dismayed by my own lack of action, I continued to watch. The man scrutinized his newfound bounty, rearranged the soup crackers, inspected the club sandwich and stirred the salad dressing—obviously prolonging this miracle meal. Then, with a slow deliberateness, he lifted the soup lid and, cupping his hands around the steaming warm bowl, inhaled. At last, he unwrapped the plastic spoon, filled it to overflowing, lifted it toward his mouth and—with a suddenness that stunned me— stopped short.
I turned my head to follow his narrow-eyed gaze.
Entering the hall and shuffling in our direction was a new arrival. Hatless and gloveless, the elderly man was clad in lightweight pants, a threadbare jacket and open shoes. His hands were raw, and his face had a bluish tint. I wasn’t alone in gasping aloud at this sad sight, but my needy neighbor was the only one doing anything about it.
Setting aside his meal, he leaped up and guided the elderly man to an adjacent seat. He took his icy hands and rubbed them briskly in his own. With a final tenderness, he draped his worn jacket over the older man’s shoulders.
“Pop, my name’s Jack,” he said, “and one of God’s angels brought me this meal. I just finished eating and hate to waste good food. Can you help me out?”
He placed the still-warm bowl of soup in the stranger’s hands without waiting for an answe
r. But he got one.
“Sure, son, but only if you go halfway with me on that sandwich. It’s too much for a man my age.”
It wasn’t easy making my way to the food court with tears blurring my vision, but I soon returned with large containers of coffee and a big assortment of pastries. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but . . .”
I left Union Station that day feeling warmer than I had ever thought possible.
Marion Smith
School of “Hire” Learning
I wrinkled my nose and sniffed the air as I closed the classroom windows; still, I couldn’t identify the faint odor. But it was Friday afternoon, my first week of teaching, and—although already in love with my hardworking students—I was exhausted and ready to leave the building.
For the most part, my twenty-four fifth-graders were the children of seasonal agricultural workers on Long Island. Their parents were employed at the local duck farm, many on welfare. They lived in converted duck shacks, with outside privies, cold-water hand pumps and potbellied, wood-burning stoves.
So odors weren’t that unusual.
However, by Monday morning the foul smell overpowered the hot room. Like a dog scenting its prey, I sniffed until I found it: a rotting sandwich in Jimmy Miller’s desk, the bread smeared with rancid butter and the meat green. I rewrapped the sandwich, put it back in his desk and threw open all the windows before my students filed in.
At noon, the children got their lunch bags and fled to the playground picnic table. I saw Jimmy unwrap his sandwich and pretend to eat. Making certain the kids didn’t see, he wrapped it again, put it in his pocket and slipped it back into his desk when the class returned.
My stomach knotted in empathy over Jimmy’s poverty . . . and his pride.
After a private discussion, another teacher and I “hired” Jimmy for classroom chores like cleaning the chalkboards. As payment, we treated Jimmy to lunch with us each day. We also encouraged him to study and provided him with after-school tutoring. Before long, Jimmy took pride in his special lunches and earned top grades in all his subjects. As word traveled through the faculty grapevine, Jimmy was “rehired” by each year’s succeeding teacher.
After a time, however, I accepted another teaching position and moved away.
It was on a trip back eleven years later that my friend Chris asked if I remembered Jimmy. “He’s attending college now and is home for Christmas break. When I mentioned that you were coming, he asked to see you. “
“Really? He was just a little shaver when I knew him.”
“He’s grown some since then.” Chris tried to hide a smile. “Says he has a Christmas present for you.”
“A gift? For me?”
Jimmy drove up a bit later, and I walked out to meet him. At 6'6" and pushing 280 pounds, he certainly was no longer a little shaver.
“Happy holidays.” Jimmy stuck out an oversized paw. “I hear you got your doctorate. Congratulations! Do you mind if I call you Doc?”
“It’s all right with me, Jimmy.” I tilted my head and looked up the full length of him. “What have you been doing?”
“Well, I got a four-year football scholarship, and I’ve made the dean’s list every semester. I graduate in June.”
“Great work. I bet you’ve signed a pro contract already. Big bucks, you know.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a few offers, but I’m not goin’ into the pros.”
“No kidding. Why not, Jimmy?”
“I have other plans.”
“Oh?”
“I finished my student teaching last week, Doc.” He smiled when I registered surprise. “I’ve decided to be a teacher—just like you.” For a quiet moment, Jimmy gazed over my shoulder . . . and into the past. “I know you fellas invented those classroom jobs for me.” He cleared his throat. “You helped me keep my dignity, and I’ve never forgotten.”
I felt a lump in my own throat as Jimmy looked me full in the face.
“When teachers really care, students know it,” Jimmy said. “That’s why I want to teach. I want to be there for my students the way you were there for me.”
What a Christmas gift, I thought. And, a little teary eyed, we shook hands.
No longer teacher and pupil, we were now two men with the same hopes—and the same goals.
Edmund W. Ostrander
Surprise Santa
A few days before Christmas, a devout Christian couple held the hands of their young son and walked briskly to their nearby church. But the boy pulled back a bit, slowed and came to an abrupt halt.
“Santa,” he whispered. “Santa!”
The four-year-old broke free of his parents’ grasp and ran toward an elderly gentleman with a long, flowing white beard.
Tugging on the stranger’s coattail, the youngster begged, “Santa, will you bring me a teddy bear for Christmas?”
Embarrassed, the couple started to apologize, but the man merely waved them aside. Instead, he patted their son on the head, nodded once, winked wryly at the youngster and—without a word—went on his way.
On Christmas morning, a knock interrupted the family’s festivities. In the doorway stood the old man holding out a large bear with a plaid bow around its neck.
“I didn’t want the little fellow to be disappointed on his holiday,” he explained with an awkward grimace and turned to leave.
Uncomfortable and stunned, the parents could only stutter a weak, “Uh, th-thanks. And M-merry Christmas to you . . . Rabbi.”
Henry Boye
In the Bag
As I step from the damp winter chill into the warmth of Carmen’s living room, her cocker spaniel announces my visit with high-pitched barking.
“I’m in here,” Carmen yells.
I pass the tabletop Christmas tree and find Carmen sitting in her wheelchair beside dozens of white paper bags standing at attention on the dining room table.
“Did you bring the goods?” she asks.
I nod, offering her thirty packets of Famous Amos cookies. Carmen smiles as I drop a package inside each sack. On Christmas Eve, Carmen delivers them to the thirty residents of Shalom House, a homeless shelter in Kansas City, Kansas, where her friend Mary Kay lives and works. I’ve heard about the bags for months and wanted to be a part of the fifteen-year tradition.
My understanding of homelessness is the guy on the freeway ramp carrying a cardboard sign asking for work or the men lying underneath bundles of blankets on the streets of Manhattan. Somehow, the packages of cookies seem too small an offering for men who need so much.
Seventy-five-year-old Carmen fastidiously prepares the Christmas gifts like a doyenne tending to a queen. A shiny red Christmas card, embossed with a picture of gift-bearing wise men, is neatly taped to each bag. “May the Peace of Christ Be with You” is written across the top.
Carmen’s cheery disposition and sense of purpose belie a myriad of health problems. Besides diabetes and congestive heart failure, neuropathy has destroyed the feeling in her swollen fingertips. It takes her a long time to move a pen or tear off a piece of tape.
“Look at all the stuff in here,” I exclaim, noting that each bag already contains a razor, deodorant, Cheez-Its, Chex mix and other items buried on the bottom.
“There’ll be more.” Carmen proudly rattles off the names of friends yet to bring goodies.
The tradition began with Christmas cards containing a few crisp dollar bills. Over the years, she added shampoo, a pair of socks, a snack. Regardless of her meager Social Security check, she managed to increase the gifts each year.
Friends started to offer contributions. How about candy? A pair of gloves? The project evolved into a group effort involving dozens, each contributing thirty identical items.
“This year’s bags are worth seventy dollars each.” Carmen bobs her head in delight. “And they’re stuffed so full that next Christmas I’ll need even bigger ones!”
I wonder about the men at Shalom House and decide to visit the shelter after Christmas. It sits at the end of an
empty lot, as abandoned as a beat-up toy. The inside is clean and homey, but unexpectedly quiet this time of morning; the men left early, hoping to find work.
But Carmen’s friend, diminutive Mary Kay, is here. Resident mother and grandmother of Shalom House, she tends its day-to-day operations with stoic perseverance— as she has for seventeen years now.
“By the time they arrive here, the men have no place left to go,” she says. “Shalom House represents hope— clean clothes, a hot meal, a bed and a family atmosphere. At least for a few days.”
When I admire the well-adorned Christmas tree in the corner of the dining room, Mary Kay invites me on a tour.
The back room is lined with fifteen metal-framed bunk beds. A stuffed panda swings from a red ribbon over bunk #14. Shirts hang from the rafters because there is no room for dressers or lockers. A large closet is full of clean shirts, pants, underwear and socks.
“Most of the men arrive with just the clothes on their backs,” she explains.
“What about Carmen’s goodie bags?” I ask.
“Those sacks are the only present many of the men receive.” Mary Kay points to a bunk bed, and I recognize the unmistakable evidence of Carmen’s trademark taped above it: a shiny red Christmas card embossed with the picture of gift-bearing wise men.
“And do the men enjoy the gifts?” I wonder, still worried that it’s too little, too . . . insignificant.
But Mary Kay rolls her eyes. “They love them. Why, the men immediately sit on their bunks, pour out the contents and start bartering. They get as excited as little boys trading baseball cards!”
Back in my car, I sit for a minute and start brainstorming about what I can contribute to Carmen’s project next year. Umbrellas would be nice. Woolly stocking caps could be good. Or maybe some hand warmers?
Sheila Myers
Stroke by Stroke
I pushed through the crowd huddled in winter coats. There lay Blackie in the snowy street. I fell at my collie’s feet and spread my arms around her as if to protect her from further injury. Not a car stirred that cold Sunday morning—nothing moved at all except her soft tricolor fur and my tears.