Much of what I have learned about the meaning of this season has come in the coffeeshop and at the street corner. Here are a few holiday stories from which I have learned in recent years.
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TIM taught me about being "stuck," about how difficult it is to break out of the long slide into living on the street -- even when you're young.
He was 16 or 17 when I met him. He was living behind a dumpster. I was at a street corner waiting for a friend when he came up and asked for spare change. I gave him a few dollars and asked him what turns in his life had brought him here. He said he'd left home after his dad beat him again. Mother? Didn't know exactly where she was, except that she was long gone
He'd come to this town with a little money, but it had quickly run out. Now he was on the street. I asked him about getting a job, noting that the fast food place next to his dumpster had a sign in the window. "I couldn't get a job," he explained, "because then I would lose my place to live."
I didn't know what to say. He filled in the silence. "I guess you could say I'm stuck."
I didn't know what to do either. I gave him the name of a friend at a
community center nearby -- and a little more money.
Just then my friend came. I said a quick goodbye to Tim and turned to leave. "Thanks, mister," he said, "and Merry Christmas."
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MELISSA taught me about how strong is the desire among young people for a family "that works" on holidays. We happened to be in the same coffee shop one Christmas night. She was in a corner, along, crying softly.
"She's been there awhile," the cook said. "Would you go over and try to talk to her."
I pulled a chair up beside her. She told me to go away. I didn't say anything, but pushed my chair back a little. After a few more minutes, she looked up and said: "I thought I told you to go away."
"You did," I said, "but it's hard to leave when you're sitting here crying."
"You wouldn't understand," she said. "You probably have a family and everything was fine today. My family is all screwed up. This year I thought things would be different. I tried so hard to make everything work. Then my dad and stepmom started criticizing my friends. We ended up yelling at each other...and then I left. I came here because I didn't know where else to go."
I waited a minute and then responded. "Isn't it great that this place is here -- and open. I like it because it's almost a second family. I wanted to spend a little time with this family, too, on Christmas, so I came here tonight.
"Someone once told me a story about families. There's our family of chance -- the one we were born into. Then there's our family of choice -- the one we create as we go along in life. Sometimes the families of choice and chance are the same. But for lots of people and lots of reasons, that doesn't always work out.
"You tried to make yours work. That's wonderful. And it's an inspiration for those of us who are older and may have given up trying. Thank you."
She looked up. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"
"No," I replied. One of my heroes is a woman named Jane Addams. She talked about young people wanting to make the world a better place -- from their own families all the way to way to world peace. Here you are tonight reminding me that wish is still alive. Thanks. Say, can I get you another cup..."
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ONE recent year I gave a talk to a women's club about my experiences working with young people. A theme in the talk was that young people want to be noticed, recognized, acknowledged.
When I finished, there was time for comments from the audience. Most people generously applauded my work with young people. But then came this question: Tom, I wait for the bus every morning with two or three young people. There is this one guy with purple hair and it stands up in spikes. He stands on top of the bus bench and shouts. Are you saying that I should say hello to him?
Yes, I replied. I know that he may look a little scary. But it seems to me that he is saying with his whole body: "Please, somebody, notice me."
Later that year, just before Christmas, the woman who asked that question called me:
Tom, it worked, she said. What worked? I asked. She then reminded me of the talk I had given and her question. She said she left skeptical, but decided to see if she could talk to the guy with purple hair. One morning, she said hello; he said hello back.
Gradually during that fall they started talking. She said she started looking forward to their meetings at the bus stop. On occasion, they even sat together on the bus. One, she gave him a bag of cookies.
But this morning had been special. This young man -- still with purple hair in spikes -- had given her a flower. It was their last day before the holiday break. "Hey," the young man said, "I just wanted to thank you. I didn't know a lady like you would be interested in what I had to say."
"I thought you were nuts for suggesting I talk to this young man," the woman said. "Now, I just wanted to call and say thanks -- and Merry Christmas."1