I slam the car door shut, trying to make a point. My three other siblings are piled into our Volvo.

“I know this isn’t your ideal Christmas Eve, but you’re doing a very good thing,” my mom says. I hate when she says that. She knows we don’t want to do it. So why does she make us? It’s my Christmas Eve too.

We drive. We drive past kids playing in the snow. We drive past snowmen. We drive past snowball fights. We drive past wreaths. We drive past festive Christmas lights. We drive past white picket fences.

Then we drive past chain link fences. We drive past chipped paint. We drive past cigarettes. We drive past broken windows with garbage bags taped over them. We drive past bars on doors.

We pull into a cul-de-sac. At the end stands a big white house. It must have once been majestic, overlooking a once thriving neighborhood. I think that house longs for the past. It’s aged. Chipped paint, crooked shutters, rusted gutters. This house isn’t what it used to be.

My cousins arrive right behind us. We all hop out of our cars. Us seven kids stare at the house in silence. We look around at the other houses. They all have the same story. Not taken care of, not loved. We are uncomfortable.

My mom and her sister lead us in. We walk up the uneven porch steps, careful to watch our footing. Then we open the door.

A large woman greets us. She thanks us for our time. She tells us she’s so excited to have us here. Yeah, okay.

As she talks, I pretend to listen. But I’m not. I’m scanning the rooms. To my right is a large room. This must have been the sitting room. I can imagine this old Victorian home restored to its former glory. I can envision what it used to look like: a love seat by the window, inviting you to sit; a grandfather clock by the wall, commanding attention; an oriental rug in the center, radiating royalty. It’s a shame it looks like this now. There’s little furniture. Toys are scattered everywhere. Not much decoration. The wallpaper needs work. That wood floor needs to be refinished, too.

I don’t have time to finish my scan, because it’s time to go upstairs. The stairs are very similar to those of the front porch: uneven. I grab the railing to steady myself. As I reach the top of the stairs, I see two large, open, spacious rooms. Windows give view to the outdoors. Those are lovely windows. It’s a shame that there’s no view to enjoy.

There are children everywhere. They all look so happy. They are all having fun. They are excited for Christmas tomorrow. This is such a sweet scene. But wait. I don’t know how they could be having fun. By the looks of it, they don’t have a lot of, well, money. Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.

The woman who greeted us tells us our task. It’s simple, really. Play with the children. I can do that.

I’m a little nervous at first. But then I get comfortable. These children are wonderful. They are so happy. They don’t have much but they don’t care. I could really learn something from them. My siblings and cousins and I play with their toys. They are not nice toys. Old, broken, dirty. But the children love them, so, hey, I guess I can too.

It feels like it’s only been a few minutes, when in fact, it’s been a few hours. We are all called to lunch. Lunch will be served in the other big room across the hall.
I’m starving.

“Ready Rachel?” I ask a little blonde three-year-old who has been clinging to me since the beginning. She motions for me to pick her up.

The lunchroom has long tables with many folding chairs. There’s one long table with no chairs. It’s a buffet table.

I make Rachel and myself a plate. Lunch consists of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and broccoli. The turkey is deli turkey. The mashed potatoes are from the microwave. The gravy is runny. The broccoli is mushy. But, that’s okay, I guess. It could be worse.

I sit down with my family. It seems that we’ve all acquired a new little friend. It also seems that for the first time all day, I’m happy to be here.

After lunch, it’s time for presents. My family, along with my cousins’ family, bought many presents ahead of time. Combine our gifts with those of the shelter, and each kid will get one gift. Normally, I’d pity those children. One gift for all of Christmas? Please. But I start to realize that Christmas isn’t about the presents. So if it’s not about presents, what’s it about? I’m still trying to figure that one out.

As we pass out the gifts, women begin to come upstairs. They must be the mothers of the children. Some of them greet me like they greet their child, with a big hug. I’m taken back at first, but then I hug back. They thank me. I thank them. Their children have taught me a lot.

Other mothers aren’t that kind. I don’t think they like me. I feel self conscious in my Ralph Lauren sweater.

Suddenly, I hear crying. I turn my head. It’s Rachel. Her mom is yelling at her. I instinctively want to run over to Rachel and pick her up. I want to hold her and rock her in my arms and sing to her, just like I’d done earlier today. But I don’t.

I feel sad. Apparently, these mothers are all addicts. This is their one time a year to see their children. I don’t understand why some would be mean to their children. This is their one time a year.


Rachel is still crying. Her mom is still yelling. Rachel is such a sweetheart. She doesn’t deserve this. I’ve still got some presents in my bag, so I walk over.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly to the mom. She stares at me, anger in her eyes.

I continue. “I’ve got a present for Rachel. She’s a lovely girl. We played together all morning.”

The harshness in the mom’s eyes vanishes. She accepts the gift. Rachel smiles.

Soon, the gifts are all passed out. The sky is darkening. It’s almost time to go. But first, we’ll sing.

The woman who runs this shelter calls everyone into the hall. I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a crowded place. Then she begins to sing “Silent Night.”

Everyone joins in. Beautiful, rich voices fill the air. I’ve never heard such wonderful singing. A woman next to me grabs my hand. I look around. Everyone is holding hands, swaying. I do the same.

Once the song finishes, everyone laughs and claps. The woman who began the song publicly thanks my family for our time. Everyone gives us a round of applause.

I give Rachel a hug goodbye. She asks me to stay. I tell her I can’t. I try not to cry.

We drive away, leaving behind the big white house that I first thought was
past its prime. Boy, was I wrong. The love and joy in that house is surreal. Some houses, with newly remodeled kitchens, Audis parked in the driveway, perfect paint jobs, lack that love and joy. I guess sometimes having little is having a lot. Those children have little material goods, but they have a lot of happiness and spirit.
As we drive, chain link fences turn to white picket fences, bars on doors turn to wreaths on doors. The car ride is silent; I think we are all reflecting on our day. I know I am. I think about my snobby attitude in the beginning of the day- being mad about coming, judging the quality of the house. I think about how my attitude changed- not turning my nose up at the lunch, singing along during “Silent Night”, having fun. I think about the children, who had so little, but were not at all the least bit bothered. Then I realize something. Christmas isn’t about how many toys or clothes you get as gifts. Those gifts aren’t important. Christmas is about giving the gift of yourself to others. Christmas is about appreciating the little things. Christmas is about family. Christmas is about love.

At Christmas Eve mass, the choir sings their first song: “Silent Night.” I smile. This song now has so much meaning to me.

Silent night, Holy night
All is calm, all is bright.
At the shelter, all was calm, and all was bright.

Round yon virgin, mother and child
Holy infant so, tender and mild.
Mothers were being reunited with their children. I think of little Rachel, so sweet, so innocent.

Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sweet dreams, Rachel. Thank you for sharing with me the true meaning of Christmas.