One card

When I worked in the Clifton diocese, I had many wonderful experiences, some scary ones and many that, to this day, have made me think, especially at this time of year.

It was a week before Christmas, and of course we were very busy in school with plays, carol concerts, Advent  services,  the usual occurrences just before finishing the term for the Christmas holidays.  In the middle of it all, my parish priest telephoned and asked me to visit an old man, newly-arrived in the parish, who had broken his leg and therefore was housebound.

When my companion and I got to the house, we found that it was a two-roomed apartment in an area which was very run-down.  To our surprise, the man himself opened the door to us after some time of shuffling about and fumbling with locks.  I thought that he might have had a friend or a carer with him to help him, but he was completely alone.

His smile of welcome was heart-warming.  He had not seen either of us before, but it was obvious that we were an unexpected Christmas treat for him.  He sat us down with old-world courtesy, and offered us tea which he gave us in the manner of a butler in a large house serving refreshments to honoured guests, even though the tea was poured out in chipped mugs.

 I looked around the room.  It was sparsely furnished, but very clean and tidy.  His few possessions were lovingly cherished: he had two pictures which must have come from better days hung on the walls, and they brightened up the room, giving it a character it wouldn’t have otherwise possessed.  Then I saw a string tied around the mantelpiece.  On it was hung a large Christmas card.  This was displayed in the most eye-catching part of the room so that he could look at it often.  One card.  For something to say I said:”You’re putting up your cards, I see!”  His face broke into a smile. “Yes” he answered. “Isn’t this a wonderful time of the year? I love it!”  He then went on to tell us that this card had come from the St. Vincent de Paul Society in his last parish.  “They are so good!” he said.  They always came to see me, and gave me a present at Christmas!”  He got the card down and showed me.  It was thumbed, worn, often read.  I turned it over.  It was last year’s card.  With a smile I handed it back, making a resolution that he’d get a load more if I could help it.

One card.  Last year’s card.  Not chucked in the bin, not given to a charity for recycling, but loved, cherished, precious.  He talked with pride about his children.  His wife had died some years earlier, but he had three children, one a barrister, another a high-profile business man, and a third living abroad in a taxpayer’s haven.  All able to reach him.  All with the means to make his life more comfortable.  All too busy, or too involved with other concerns.  Yet he loved them and prayed for each of them at night.

I left that room a very changed person.  So did my companion.  We talked about it on the way home.  We had no idea how he came to be so poor when he obviously had seen better days, but the amazing thing was that he wasn’t bitter.  He was lovely.  I’ve always remembered him.  When I told a group of women who came to the Convent a little about him, without revealing who he was, they all said ”Oh can he come to my family for Christmas? We’d love to have him!”  Good, loving people.  I think he made friends, and received help.  But it would have been good if his family had remembered him. Loneliness is the disease of our times.  There are so many, and at Christmas it seems more poignant, doesn’t  it?

So let’s remember Jim – we’ll call him that. There are many Jim’s and Joan’s around us. Jesus came to offer love and friendship. He didn’t have much either, but he shared what he had.  In these days of recession, let’s do that too.  Have a lovely third week of Advent, and, like Jim, rejoice  because “Christmas is a wonderful time.”    So it is, for the generous of heart.