Silver Bells

Ring-a-ling…It’s Christmas time in the city. The Salvation Army bell ringers are out in full force everywhere you go. The red kettles beckon us to give, and give again, for the less fortunate.

The work the Salvation Army does is well documented. 83 cents of every dollar collected goes directly to client services. This is one of the highest percentages of any non-profit in the world. They don’t just provide meals at holiday time; they provide disaster relief services, day care centers, summer camps, services for the aging, AIDS education, medical facilities, and shelters for battered women and children, among many other services. More than 30 million people a year are aided in some form of service provided by the Army.

The Salvation Army had been depicted in the movies as a soup kitchen, with sitting through a sermon preaching the evils of “demon rum” as the price of admission. They do in fact have an aggressive program devoted to defeating substance abuse. They run 120 rehabilitation centers across the country, treating those who can no longer cope with their addictions, supplying housing, meals, necessary medical care and work therapy.

The Army is not perfect. People run the organization on a local as well as national level, and people are not perfect. I’ve heard stories where a local head of the church picked clothes from the donation bin that were particularly nice for his own children, rather than sell them to the more needy of the community. I’m sure there are other similar tales of corruption, but overall, the good they do far outweighs any minor, local indiscretions.

The Salvation Army is a Christian religious organization, devoted to helping their fellow man. I know of people who refuse to donate because they are not their church. The charity the Salvation Army gives, the work they do, the causes they support, are given without prejudice.

My daughter and son-in-law have decided to make bell ringing an annual tradition. They stand outside their local Target and ring the bell. They smile and wish everyone, whether they give or not, a merry Christmas. The bell ringers come from all walks of life and from all religions; and they stand outside in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the wind, hoping to fill the kettle before the next shift comes around. I knew a bell ringer once, an elderly man, who stood outside and sang songs and rhymes of his own creation to the passersby. He was very entertaining and always had a kind word for those who stopped at his kettle. One year he wasn’t there. When I enquired about his absence I was told he was no longer at that location because he had offended some patrons with his pleas for donations. It’s a sad world when we can’t take a bit of good natured teasing about how we spend our money. Evidently he pricked a few consciences a little too hard.

When you pass a red kettle this year, pull out your wallet or fish for change, and give. I know it’s hard for me to not put money into every kettle I see, but hopefully the bell ringer will understand that I’ve already given or mailed in a contribution. Smile and wish them a Merry Christmas and thank them for the work they do. The money they raise may help you or someone you love some day.

Saying Goodbye

Such Sweet Sorrow

It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.

The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.

I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.

She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.

I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.

It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.