Читать книгу The Yuletide Factor - Tim Huff - Страница 7

Chapter 1: Bedrock and Bethlehem

It’s an interesting exercise to reflect on the influential personalities and icons of one’s youth, and bizarre, if not a bit sad, to realize that there might have been as many, or more, fictional characters as real ones. Truth be told, for many of us a number of those same fictional characters still weigh in considerably through adulthood. Such is the case for me.

Perhaps I would feel some better about it if those written-into-being characters near and dear to my own heart and mind were notably revered by scholars and well-read thinkers, fictional dignitaries the likes of Sir Lancelot and Hamlet or folksy VIPs such as Anne of Green Gables and Tom Sawyer.

But in reality, it is more than just a turn of phrase to say mine are very Mickey Mouse. In my case, the personalities and characters I held dear, and hold dear, are a merry mishmash of cartoon characters. A strange truth that no doubt helped, at least in part, land me in one of the world’s most renowned classic animation college courses upon graduation from high school.

To this day, the image of Fred Flintstone gives me a jolt of happy, warm familiarity, taking me back to the glee I knew rushing home from elementary school at the first ding of the lunch bell to spend half an hour in Bedrock and then sadly rushing back just moments after Fred’d shout “Wilmaaaaaaaaa” in the closing credits.

In fact, later in life, the very first time I felt any kind of crisis about my age, or aging in general, was in context to Fred Flintstone. Years ago, I was at home tending to my baby daughter Sarah Jane and stumbled across an episode of the Flintstones on TV. I happily left it on in the background as I played with my daughter on the floor. She was just starting to walk, wobbling and balancing her way from one piece of furniture to the next. At one point she ventured from the couch all the way to the TV stand and stood in front of it proudly, while on the screen behind her Fred’s daughter, Pebbles, crawled by, not yet at the walking stage. I gasped with extraordinary self-awareness. For the very first time in my life, just prior to my thirtieth birthday, I was completely taken aback that I must now actually be the same age as, or older than, Fred Flintstone! And not only was I now old enough to be fully understanding the adult plot lines about complex matters such as identity crisis, ageism, and relationship tribulation—but I was supposed to be relating to them.

It’s likely we all have Fred Flintstones in our lives. Time-stands-still characters that somehow find their way into psyches and stay there, no matter how silly they are. Or, perhaps more apropos, no matter how silly we are.

I might guess that one of the reasons cartoon characters sustain our interests and affection, generation after generation, is that while we age and move through all the crises, changes and challenges that come with growing up and aging, they never do. You can count on them not to. And there is some kind of inexplicable comfort in their impractical sameness and how it makes us feel.

And if that nutty sensibility is so for any of us, over any number of would-be fictional friends and heroes, it helps shed a great contextual light on the superstar status of the unstoppable, unaging beyond aged, one and only Santa Claus.

In fact, Fred Flintstone and Santa Claus do have something very poignant in common. For both, at the grassroots of their fiction is great reality.

The co-creator of the 1960s era The Flintstones, William Hanna, candidly admitted that Fred and company were an animated copycat of the 1950s classic television show The Honeymooners, which was borne out of a stark reality-check look at the challenging working class lifestyle and hardships faced by many young married couples living in Brooklyn, New York, apartment complexes at the time.

A grander jaunt, by far, the long and convoluted evolution of the Western world’s make-believe 20th and 21st centuries’ Santa Claus springs from loosely chronicled truths about an unconventional Christian saint thriving in (modern-day) southwest Turkey in the 4th century, living out a penchant for bringing cheer by way of great generosity to children out of his substantial wealth. Known as the saintly “protector of children and sailors,” by the time the 14th century Renaissance began unfolding, Nicholas’s popularity and lore had spread all across Europe. Ultimately, it was 18th century Dutch settlers that brought Sinter Klaas—an abbreviation of Sint Nikolaas (Dutch for Saint Nicholas)—across the ocean, tweaking a New York newspaper reporter’s interest in the settlers’ December celebrations commemorating the anniversary of the great saint’s death.

The evolution of Santa Claus as a “character” was spurred considerably when, on a wintery day in 1822, an American Episcopal minister penned a lengthy poem to entertain his three daughters on a sleigh ride, mashing together portions of the Claus story thus far with his own imaginative twists. Clement Clarke Moore’s “An Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas”—best known as “The Night Before Christmas”—was eventually, and anonymously at first, published in the New York Sentinel, conjuring up new images of the saint-turned-jolly-old-elf that persist to this day.

In fairly short order, Santa’s mythical arrival on North American shores helped prompt a number of previously unimagined notions, such as large-scale gift giving to children and, as a growing capitalism would have it, subsequent advertising focused solely on Christmas shopping.

By the end of the 19th century, Santa Claus was such a goodwill icon that the Salvation Army began dressing up unemployed men in his likeness, sending them into the streets to solicit donations to fund Christmas meals for “needy” families.

The tales of other Clauses, their history and antics, are both literally and figuratively all over the map. From Britain’s Father Christmas to Italy’s Babbo Natale to Brazil’s Papai Noel, each one is nuanced with cultural charisma and social mythology. Even grander twists in his likeness can be found in Russia’s Ded Moraz (“Grandfather Frost”), accompanied by his granddaughter (“Snow Maiden”), Japan’s Buddhist monk Hotei-osho, and the Julenissen of Norway (“The Christmas Gnome”). Some countries’ Clauses even include unsettling accounts of his livelihood, such as an ancient Romanian fable of three unruly Santa brothers shockingly causing mischief and pain all the way into the nativity story.

But none has risen to the heights of mainstream welcome more than Clement Clarke Moore’s jolly sleigh-ride Santa. For by the time Norman Rockwell and Coca Cola had their way with that same Santa, immortalizing his image with compelling paintings in the early 20th century, there was no turning back. The ensuing decades have left little wiggle room for change. Thus, today’s uber-popular cartoonish Santa Claus is as far removed from 4th century sainthood as stone-aged Bedrock is from 1950s Brooklyn.

But I say, “No harm, no foul.” The soda pop Santa of my youth, while admittedly robbed of his profound social justice backstory, is simply kind and fun and generous and harmless, and that seems like more than enough goodness to play make-believe with. For myself, as a Christian, it totally negates any crusty debate that there might be a significant or disconcerting competition going on with the birth of a Messiah, as I have yet to meet an adult who has become a disciple of a pretend Claus.

As watered down as his cartoonish story has become, this is the Santa that I banked on as a little boy and cheered on as a dad. The one that’s been scrubbed clean from controversy, and worlds away from any of the dark, disturbing or complex mythological lore found in various would-be Claus chronicles.

In fact, some of Norman Rockwell’s paintings show Saint Nick donning a halo. While some might dispute Rockwell’s artistic license as heresy, I just plain like the added nuance, created by a few brush strokes, that says, “There’s only good going on here.”

This was the Santa I wanted my little girl, and later my little boy as well, to experience. Not just to imagine, but to experience.

And so, when my little girl was just three years old, I hatched a plan. One that ultimately, and very unexpectedly, grew into an ongoing and life-changing experience for me personally. It all started out quite simple, before rapidly turning into a wild and often unwieldy tradition.

All I initially wanted was for her to catch Santa Claus in action, during her very tender, imaginative and impressionable years. Not just an indoor staged mall Claus but the real deal, makin’ his rounds on Christmas Eve. So, I rented a Santa suit and began working a plan.

The whole bit of business was initially only meant to be a thirty- to sixty-second one-time gasp of an ordeal.

As an inner-city street outreach worker, I was often leaving home mid-evening to visit homeless youth and adults under bridges and in alleyways, so it was not uncommon for me to say early “goodnights” at home and depart until well past midnight. And early on, Sarah Jane was too wee to wonder why I would do that even on Christmas Eve. So, “to work” I went, or so she thought. But this time I simply drove my pickup truck around the corner, parked on a parallel street, snuck home on foot, entered through the side door, and crept down to the basement. In short order I was in costume and sneaking back out and into the backyard, all while my wife, Diane, kept Sarah Jane too occupied to notice.

All according to plan, Diane then beckoned Sarah Jane to peek into the backyard, cued by a snowball blast against the window, in a “What was that?” moment.

And there, in the snowy shadows of our maple tree, my little girl spotted the great Claus sneaking through the yard, stopping at the centre to look through his sack, just close enough to the window for her to get a good, shocking look. Sure enough, Santa would look up and see that he was caught in action and rush across the yard to hide behind the shed. And that was it, the whole shebang! An astonishing sighting at best, a fleeting did-that-really-happen experience in the least.

It’s always a jolt when things unexpectedly take on a life of their own, and this surely did! Friends and family heard about the caper, and the escapade grew. The following Christmas Eve I found myself visiting the backyards of a dozen friends’ and family’s homes where small children might be caught off guard with delight, having had my very own tailored Santa suit made and having purchased a theatre-worthy faux white beard and wig. Each visit was coordinated with precision, moving from west to east across the Greater Toronto Area on a rigid four-hour-plus timeline, so I could finale in my own backyard.

By the time my son was born, I was up to an exhausting commitment of sixteen annual backyard Christmas Eve visits. Now working a tricky six-hour cross-city schedule built around a plethora of Christmas Eve family traditions, dinners and church services, I found myself spending the night before Christmas travelling solo in the dark—hopping rickety fences, navigating dog droppings, and occasionally ending up in backyards of total strangers, much to their astonishment. The whole gag had likewise evolved into a much more complex production, inclusive of playful three-minute skits in the moonlight, followed by the theatre of writing (previously penned) notes for each child with a three-foot-long magic crayon, and treats left on each back stoop before the climatic “Ho-ho-ho” rush away.

Of course, word spread quickly among friends and colleagues that I had a bit of a covert Santa gig going, and it wasn’t long before I found myself volunteering near and far throughout the month of December, in hospitals and group homes and for families with children too fragile to leave home to meet a shopping mall or church basement Santa. By the time the routine had taken me all the way to the orphanages of Romania, I had processed in my own head—although others may not have yet understood it—the sacredness of the opportunity afforded me when purposed solely as a wildly unique opportunity to bless and be blessed.

The truth is that early and often the whole Santa gig necessarily included a number of awkward refusals as well. With all of it as much of a shock to me as anyone, by word of mouth alone I could have filled my Decembers with daily Claus engagements if I’d wanted to. I began getting calls from friends and associates, friends of friends and associates of associates, looking for Christmas party and special event Clauses. Ugh. I could not have been less interested, then or now. And every time someone asked my fee, I knew the inquiry was as far, far away as could be from the heartbeat of what I’d meant to do.

While this brief overview of the evolution of my own intrigue with Santa Claus and the strange personal tradition that grew out of it will help contextualize a number of the chapters in this book, there is one more twist that not only shapes this book but continues to shape me. One that, as it’s told, sets a tone I pray deemphasizes me and my silly antics, lifts up a number of truly sacred souls, and stirs yours.

It is this…

Often there are lulls between backyard Santa visits, as I await families returning from Christmas Eve church services or generational banquets, in whichever end of the city I am already in at any given time. Small intervals of time to circle slowly through communities as I await timely homecomings. About the fifth year into my Christmas Eve backyard Clausing, these lulls in the schedule secured the added tradition of time spent tenderly among those I came across who were surviving on the streets, as you will read more about before these chapters end. They too have allowed surreal opportunities to enter a myriad of other lonely worlds filled with bizarre and beautiful moments I could never have anticipated or otherwise imagined.

Very few people are driving casually through darkened communities on Christmas Eve. From highways to main streets to backstreets, traffic is light at best, and always purposeful, as most vehicles are travelling to or from festivities, working around church services and mass, family gatherings and bedtimes. And it’s almost startling to see the lights off in nearly every store and business in North America’s fourth largest city. But for major gas station franchises and the occasional doughnut shop, it is the only night of the year when the metropolis truly shuts down.

I especially love the slow dark drive through what were once identified as “working class” communities, allowing me to take notice of tiny shops and handmade signs I’d never take in otherwise. Imagining the people who either hustle from dawn to dusk to make their stores thrive or suffer through relentless small business woes and economic challenges. It was during a wander through such a community that I spotted a woman who stole my heart.

I approached a stoplight, taking note from a distance of a single dimly lit facility among the multiple darkened venues on both sides of the road. A coin-operated laundromat. I sat long and alone at the stoplight, with no other moving vehicles in sight, and peered in. There she was. A thin young woman, all alone behind a grimy plate glass window, folding laundry beneath a flickering fluorescent light. Nowhere else to be. No one to be with. Taking on a task that spells out anything but celebration. My heart melted as I watched her move in small, slow measures between the machines and a rickety folding table.

Among the greatest casualties of the new millennium rests the long lost certainty that any act of compassion will not come under scrutiny. Daily, unbridled lawsuits stem from serving coffee that’s too hot, congratulatory pats on the back that are too suspicious, and mere tones, if not words, that are too demonstrative. Paying special insurance premiums is now often recommended before serving church meals and driving senior citizens home, as second-guessing every “cup of cold water” moment becomes standard procedure. “Do unto others,” but don’t assume you are safe believing that “as you’d have them do unto you” will stand up in court. The risk of uninhibited compassion has become too great. An entire generation is having to put an unnatural courage at the centre of compassion, where previous generations were simply compelled by kind hearts, humane instincts and godly moments. It’s a quandary that can’t be ignored as predators and careless people act in the name of social justice and as occasional frauds play victim. But when a thoughtful person is forced to hesitate before a compassionate act, we must revisit the line in the sand that we have all but covered up. In a prayerful, heartfelt moment, the singular calling God has placed on our souls—whether we know it or not—is to bless one another with kindness, grace and compassion. There are few greater acts of true heresy than to pull away from these.

And if I believe that for me, and if I believe that for you, you can bet I believe that for Santa Claus! Even a pretend one. And on his account, paying homage as his imposter, I am always willing to gamble all the reindeer, a sleigh filled with toys and every elf worth his salt on it.

With no traffic waiting on me, I sat in place while the light turned green and pondered my unique place in the moment and if and how an act of compassion was requisite.

The etymology of the word “ponder” begins with the Latin word ponderare (“to weigh”), ultimately finding its modern meaning in the 14th century Old French definition “to estimate the worth of.” I can’t help but think that if we all received that definition and truly pondered matters, the societal plague of narcissism and self-righteous behaviour might be lessened substantially. How often have I thoughtlessly hurried my words and actions, arrogantly assuming that they would surely help fix things, change outcomes or better lives, when what I really needed to do was “to estimate the worth of”? I have no doubt that ultimately the best recipe for truly binding up the broken-hearted includes fewer words, slower movements and a quieter presence than most of us cook up. I cannot imagine any greater pathway to humility than a commitment to prayerfully ponder. And surely, if this loud and crowded world is starving for one sane attribute among its occupants, it is humility.

In the here and now of then and there, I decided that few words would be doable. Slow movements would be doable. But quiet presence—hmmm, tricky while dressed head to toe in red velvet. Regardless, pondering no more, I circled back to a doughnut shop that I had noticed was open and purchased a hot chocolate and muffin at the drive-through. Moments later I found myself bumbling out of my vehicle and sheepishly inching my way towards the laundromat door, praying that God would spare the young woman and myself, in any portion, from what one might assume would inevitably be a fearfully awkward moment and provide a tiny sanctioned Christmas miracle.

As I slowly opened the thick glass door, she lifted her head from her clothing basket. She looked at me blankly, sighed as if to say “whatever,” and proceeded with her folding as if no one had entered—let alone a fool in a costume. Too elsewhere in her head to be curious, too elsewhere in her heart to be afraid, too elsewhere in her spirit to be present.

“Just doing some Santa visits for friends,” I sputtered nervously.

She glanced at me, sacrificed a polite smile, and nodded.

I pondered. I estimated the worth of.

Without an ounce of confidence, but lost for any other recourse, I continued on, armed with nothing more than uneasy transparency. Working hard to be efficient with my words, I did my best to explain that the sight of her folding laundry in the only lit cubbyhole for miles drew me in, for no other reason than to offer a kind word and a snack while she laboured.

And if I didn’t know better, I would swear that she pondered in return. After several moments of silent folding she offered a faint word of thanks and reached for the cup and bag I had set before her.

In the very moment she chose to speak, I noticed it was children’s clothing she was folding.

“It’s the first time I have ever been without my children.”

With a deep anguished sigh, she continued, “I just can’t sit in the apartment alone and remember.”

Then, finally, “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

And as though she had risked her final breath in life with these few words, she dropped her face into her hands, dropped her elbows onto the table, and sobbed.

There is no more of her story that I can tell, for there was no more shared. Where her children were, and how she lost them, was not revealed. No insight into a custody fight or an addictions battle, no clear signals of having been abused or having been an abuser, no indication if her children were destined for a group home or in residence with an ex, no clarity between the shame of consequence or the sorrow of a lost decision. Ultimately, all of it rightfully left as a complete mystery to me and overwhelmingly owned as a complete reality for her.

As vital as these truths would be for her in order to navigate a way forward, whether she had been wronged or done wrong didn’t feel poignant for me in those heartbreaking moments. What I grieved for her most was her aloneness in it.

Time alone and aloneness could not be more different. While time alone can be rich with reflection and calm, aloneness is fraught with isolation and sorrow. And while I know countless people who pine for a bit of time alone in the Christmas bustle, I know not one who was seeking the suffering of aloneness. In fact, the Christmas story gently directs us, one and all, that aloneness has no place in God’s design. For there, deep within the supernatural angel-filled miracle of God attending earth in human form, are a few ragtag pedestrians there not by chance but by heavenly providence.

There is much theological deliberation as to why angels would reserve their astounding announcement of the birth of a Saviour for the unlikeliest of recipients. Shepherds literally and figuratively existed in the furthest margins of society and were considered lower class, with little influence. Even still, they were the chosen firsts to receive “good news that will cause great joy for all the people” (Luke 2:10). Clearly, shepherd imagery is sacred throughout Scripture. Perhaps the grandest words of comfort known to humankind come from the 23rd Psalm, beginning with “The LORD is my shepherd.” And in the New Testament, Jesus declares himself “the good shepherd” to Pharisees too filled with fear and ignorance to understand (John 10:11). Of course, Abraham, Moses and David had all been shepherds who’d received the promise of deliverance, perhaps synergetic to the honour of the angel’s broadcast and an angelic choir’s chorus. Ultimately, Christian scholars generally agree that the angels’ extraordinary announcement and song delivered to those who were considered socially, politically and economically unimportant is God’s profound statement that there is no one too lowly or insignificant for His abounding love and light. So, I find little fuss in understanding the “why.” But I find great intrigue in the “what for.”

There are no degrees hanging on my walls that would suggest I might have any scholarly insight into any of this. In fact, among scholars, metaphorically I am merely a shepherd. Even so—or maybe because of this—I find myself brazen in light of God’s acceptance of my own ineptness and can’t help but think out loud that much of it is simply about the blessing of presence. Bringing humble assurance. Providing warm affirmation.

Who can even begin to imagine how Mary felt when the angel Gabriel shocked her with his astonishing appearance and then with his unthinkable message? How could anyone subscribe to the words of an angel met in an apparent dream, as Joseph did? And still, both accepted their bewildering and divine appointment. Surely, all of this serves as the ultimate example of what it is to trust God beyond all human rationale. And so there is no doubt in my mind they would have carried on to the manger in Bethlehem with or without the whole shepherd scene.

But it didn’t go down that way. Those shepherds had a sweet role to play, unbeknownst to them as it was.

The gift of their presence.

For when they arrived in Bethlehem, jazzed and jabbering to anyone who would listen about what they’d been told and by whom, Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Words, tone, the comfort of affirmation and simple presence—to treasure and estimate the worth of in her heart.

I never learned the name of the young woman at the laundromat. I stayed just long enough for her to pull herself together and complete her laundry. Clearly, she was in great need of expert direction and counsel for the days, weeks and months ahead. But on this night, what she needed most was a friend. Not a poor substitute found in a stranger in a strange costume—but a real friend. The kind of friend that Henri Nouwen calls out in his book Out of Solitude:

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions or cures, have chosen to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in our hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing…not healing, not curing…that is a friend who cares!

Or perhaps a friend who would simply join in folding laundry on Christmas Eve. Oh, that we might choose to be that kind of friend.

But even if not a friend, that we would always choose to be a people that bring the presence of a kind word and tender heart to all those we encounter. To friends, loved ones and strangers alike.

For whatever reason, I have never felt I pass muster to receive indisputably bold signs from God as I hope and guess my way through life. No flashes of light, writing on the wall or booming voices. While this is treason to the very theology I subscribe to—that God might choose to guide even me in such a manner—it remains a reality of my own insecurity. So I am shy to look for them and lack the confidence to ask for them. Rather, I am glued to the notion of God taking care of me in my smallness through gentle words of encouragement, simple acts of kindness or the warmness of acceptance. Often from a friend, or loved one. But, too, surprisingly often from an acquaintance or even a complete stranger. Simply, thoughtful gestures and generous words received as gifts, regardless of the source. Much of my wellness, and all of my journey, has been the result of these. And so, if I was ever challenged to stake a claim on a single notion of who God might want me to be, or any of us to be—prolific champion of the faith and resounding voice of leadership versus lowly participant in godly goodness—I would absolutely chance erring on the side of the latter. More shepherd than king.

Throughout our unusual twenty-minute encounter, I was able to guess at but one more thing. Her missing lambs on Christmas Eve were likely a little girl and a little boy. For the final portion of her folding was what appeared to be a single set of little girl’s pajamas and a single set of little boy’s pajamas. Folded slowly and lovingly, with the boy’s pajamas placed on top of the pile. Tiny soft flannel pajamas imprinted with several images of a single familiar face. Perhaps a face that will always remind her little boy of being home, as he grows, as he ponders, wherever he might be. A friendly face I had come to know so well during my own little-boy years.

Fred Flintstone.

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