This Reminds Me

“It’s not always about you” is a difficult lesson to teach children.  Because for their first few years, “you” is exactly what it’s all about, every minute of the day, every day of those years.

Slowly they learn to wait.  To join.  To participate.  Eventually – to give.

When my kids made cards for much-loved family or friends, I didn’t care that the edges weren’t straight or the hearts weren’t symetrical.  The people getting them  didn’t care either.  They liked the cards because the kids made them.  And besides – they had plenty of lovely, perfect, store-bought cards.

But giving to strangers is different, especially when they have no lovely, perfect, store-bought things.  And particularly when the gifts are given in Jesus’ name – as are Samaritan’s Purse Operation Chistmas Child boxes.

When we last saw our 95 Samaritan’s Purse boxes, they were stacked at church, ready for someone else at the next step – the collection warehouse.

Keith, Lois, Hannah and I decided to become “someone else” for a morning at the borrowed warehouse in a not-so-prime corner of San Antonio.  (Hannah:  “Oh, Daddy, they have dogs!”  Keith:  “Those are guard dogs, Hannah.  Do not go near that fence.”)  Rachel stayed home sick; we decided Julia was better off at a neighbor’s house.

First a quick worship service with prayers written on balloons.  I’d never done that before but I suppose it’s no different than appending scripture to couch pillows or attributing billboard slogans to God.  The sincerity, conviction and dedication of the warehouse workers shone through.  Most have been volunteering for years.  A cadre of about 10 organizers personally prepared 2,200 shoeboxes this year by bargain-shopping through the year, and holding a garage sale to raise money.

Boxes from First Baptist Church of Universal City, unloaded fire brigade style.  Many faiths and organizations contribute.  Some groups delivered thousands; individuals often arrive with onesie twosies.

Band, stack and count the boxes.

Now crate and stack on pallets.

Can’t figure out how to “vertical-ize” this video clip of shrink wrapping the pallets – but doesn’t the audio remind you of an ultrasound?  I wanted to wipe jelly off my tummy.

The San Antonio collection warehouse expects to send about 18,000 boxes onto Denver for further processing, which – in addition to a check for contraband (chocolate, melty stuff, liquids, sick things) – I hope includes a sanity check.  Because the contents of many of the boxes made no sense.  A single folded T-shirt?  One small stuffed animal and a piece of bubble gum?  Obviously used Happy Meal toys rattling around with a few blunted crayons?   Those are not gifts.  Those are dregs scraped from the bottom of a toy box.

I believe – I must believe – those boxes were prepared by children with no adult shepherding.  Surely no adult could think those boxes were acceptable for a desperately poor child surrounded by friends opening other (hopefully better) boxes.

Most of the boxes were just fine.  They held a variety of little treasures – toys, school supplies, socks, Chapstick, toothbrushes, candy, etc.  But a disappointing number appeared scanty at best and trashy at worst.

I truly struggled with myself at the warehouse.  What I really wanted to do was shout, “Whoa!  Let’s dump a dozen of these things and make a couple of good boxes.  This is a child’s whole Christmas.”  The same reason I do not let well-meaning but untrained children pack unsupervised is the same reason I would have culled, emptied and re-organized the most pitiful offerings   – the boxes aren’t about “helping” or patting yourself on the back or feeling smug about what you’ve done.   They’re sure not about meeting any kind of number you want.  They’re not about you.

They’re about the kids that open them to see a (native langugage) pamphlet about the Christmas story laying right on top of their treasures.  That’s what they’re about.

And if little Johnny has to shepherded to create an appropriate gift - fine.  Isn’t it better to guide little Johnny so he thinks and learns rather than pat little Johnny on the kid and ladle on praise for how wonderful and generous he is, ohhhhhh, such a good boy?   Step away from the Play Station, Johnny, and consider a child who likely doesn’t have electricity.

We believe the folks in Denver will combine box contents to create gifts worthy of a Christmas story pamphlet.   At least we hope so.

After all, it’s the season for hope.  And gifts.