Another Christmas Post from a Jewish Blogger

Looking at the back of my car, you might think you'd caught up with Santa's sleigh.

Toys for kids of all ages!

As I have done for probably about 30 years or more, I have been a happy partner in a toy drive in conjunction with a Hebrew School for the holidays.  This year is no different, and I will deliver the toys today to a shelter which keeps women and children safe from abusive situations.

Typically, like today, I deliver the toys alone, quietly in the middle of the day.  According to Jewish tradition, this is the way to go actually.  Anonymously (although when I remember, I do get a form for our taxes), and allowing the recipients to keep their dignity.  They don't know the donors, and the donors, in this case, members of our congregation, don't know where I am bringing the toys. 

But one year, things happened a little differently.

In a turn of events I never could have expected, I found myself in the middle of Hackensack, NJ with a car overflowing with toys, and my own toddler son about to engage in a mitzvah (elevated good deed) that I would never forget.

That year I had been asked to collect toys for Jewish young people who lived in several group homes in Hackensack.  The students in my Hebrew High School delivered above and beyond.  The night we were to wrap the gifts, the amount was simply overwhelming.  Back in those days, I drove a big old Chevy van, and it's a good thing. 

My van was full of huge garbage bags of gifts, each wrapped in Hanukkah paper, and labeled for a boy or girl, and the age for whom the toy was appropriate.  Also in my car was a small pile of toys we deemed inappropriate for donation:  Christmas books, baby toys, and anything that looked used.  I'd deliver those to a shelter at another time. 

I got to the drop-off location, and they took as much as they could use.  But, to our surprise, I really had too much.  The director asked me to come to their Hanukkah party so I could see the faces of the young people when they opened their gifts, but I had to teach that night, so I had to miss the fun.  But I left with my van still HALF FULL of wrapped Hanukkah presents. 

This was before smart phones, so home I went.  I opened this book we used to get called a phone book  and started to look for homeless shelters in Bergen County.  I made a few calls and I found a shelter - coincidentally right back in Hackensack - and even more coincidentally - if I could come back tomorrow - it was their Christmas Party!  And their usual donors had not come through- they had nothing under their tree as of now.  I wanted to tell them it was beshert (meant to be) but I think they knew that.  I made a plan with the director of the shelter to meet the next day.

That day, Thursday, my little son Jacob, who was about 3, did not have his pre-school, so I popped him into his car seat, bundled up in his little snow suit.  No MapQuest or GPS - I navigated by sense of direction back then! And with Jacob's favorite Hanukkah cassette tape playing we drove back to Hackensack with a car full of toys.  Every so often I'd hear his little sing-song voice say, "Waldo!" as he had found the "Where's Waldo" Christmas book from the pile in my van and was finding Waldo in the North Pole scene, then in the busy shopping scene, then in the snowball fight scene.

I got to the shelter, and it was set up like an apartment house, with a common room and a front office.  At first I didn't see any residents, just the office staff, who helped me bring the heavy bags into the common room.  There was a little Christmas tree, decorated with ancient decorations and bright lights.  There was an old television, that was on for no one in particular.  The old couches and chairs looked comfortable, but worn and threadbare.  The room was clean but smelled like smoke and although decorated for Christmas, was anything but festive.  

As promised, there was nothing under the tree.

The director as me if I wanted to put the presents under the tree. 

Um, sure, ok.  I un-bundled little Jacob and took my coat off and we got to work.  I was a little worried he would want to open the presents himself, but he had fun putting the presents around the bottom of the tree, and quickly learned that the side with ribbon and the tag had to go up.  With the tv news as our background music, the job went along smoothly.

While we were working on this I realized we were being watched.  A mother and her baby had come into the room.  He must have been 2 or younger.  Despite the fact it was freezing outside and pretty cold inside, the baby was dressed in only a t-shirt and diaper.  Nothing on his feet.  I'll never forget the juxtaposition of my bundled up boy sitting amid plenty and this little guy, in just a shirt and diaper.

The mom and I smiled at each other.  Jacob and I were almost done.  I said to them both that I thought Santa might be coming soon.  I went in to the office to let them know we were finishing up.

The director had a shocked look on her face.  I asked her what was up?  She told me that their Santa was just arrested.

"Do you want to be our Santa today for our Christmas party?"

Wow.  I'd would have loved that!  But I had to say no,  I had to pick up my other two children at school and then go to work.  But what an opportunity for a Jewish woman!  Still to this day, I think I would have been a great Santa!

As we were getting ready to go, I whispered to Jacob, "Do you think that little baby would like that Waldo book?"  Jacob thought that was a great idea.  So we went out to the van and got the book.  Jacob handed it to the baby who clutched it to his chest tightly.  His mom got tears in her eyes that matched mine.  I looked over at the director of the shelter.  She was wiping away tears as well. 

We turned around and looked at all the Hanukkah presents under their little Christmas tree.  The room seemed to sparkle in a way it didn't when we got there.  The director turned the tv on to cartoons for the little boy. He was still clutching his book  when we left.  The mom was thanking us.  Jacob scored a candy cane, probably his first. 

I forgot to ask for a receipt.

Maybe I did get to play Santa after all. 

Santified version of me by Peter White 2015

Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.