It is night.
The night is for stillness.
Let us be still in the presence of God.
It is night after a long day.
What has been done has been done;
what has not been done has not been done;
let it be.
The night is dark.
Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives
rest in you.
The night is quiet.
Let the quietness of your peace enfold us,
all dear to us,
and all who have not peace.
The night heralds the dawn.
Let us look expectantly to a new day,
new joys,
new possibilities.
In your name we pray.
Amen8
That Christmas Eve I realized that the darkness was not so bad. In fact, in the darkness my fears could rest in God, the quietness of God’s peace could enfold me, and I could wait for the dawn of new life and love to be born.
Each year, Trinity Cathedral hosts the Boar’s Head and Yule Log Festival, a Christmas tradition dating back to the fourteenth century at Queen’s College in Oxford, England. Following the great procession and adoration of the Christ Child, at the end of the festival, the Dean and a young sprite skip out of the darkened cathedral carrying a candle into the night. Some think this is cute, others believe it’s irreverent, and the most cynical say it’s downright hokey. Personally, as the one appointed to carry out this annual task, I take it very seriously and almost literally. It is not only my responsibility but also my privilege to bound joyously into the world with a child in hand bearing the light of Christ. What a perfect role for one who, as much as is humanly possible, wants to light up the midwinter night and sing out to remind the world that the Word of God is very alive. Sometimes as I skip down the aisle of the cathedral into the darkened night, I feel like singing, “This little light of mine, I’m going let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”9 But instead I give thanks for the interruption of the dark because I now know that the two cannot be separated. Without the darkness, the light cannot shine.
Just Another Homeless Family | PATERSON, NEW JERSEY, 1998
Just Another
Homeless Family
It was early winter, not too cold but cold enough. Becky and Bill had come from Detroit. They had heard there was work in Paterson, and Becky had some family that might be able to help. Anyway, there was no reason to stay in Detroit.
Bill was an unemployed autoworker. He had been laid off and looking for work for over two years. He’d had a few odd jobs: packing cartons in a warehouse, night clerking at a convenience store, washing dishes in a diner. His unemployment had long since run out. He was hoping for an extension, but now it looked hopeless.
Becky once had a steady job in an office, and then at a department store. However, with the local economy suffering from so many plant closures, she couldn’t even find a full-time waitress job. Besides, she was now nine months pregnant. Recently, nobody had been willing to hire her.
Life had been hard for the past few years. First, the auto plant had closed. Then the house had sold with just enough profit to replace the transmission on their late model used car, pay some overdue bills, and make a deposit on an apartment—the deposit that the landlord kept after they got evicted for back rent. To make matters worse, their health insurance had expired months ago, and they didn’t know how they were going to pay for the baby about to be born. So they packed up the few belongings that hadn’t been sold or repossessed and headed for New Jersey.
They had been in Paterson for a few days, staying in a motel on Broadway, the one with the broken coke machine and the sign advertising weekly, daily, and hourly rates, the one across from the big church with the men’s shelter. They had received help from its food pantry, but without a kitchen, it had been hard to cook, and eating out had taken every last dime.
Now their money had run out, and they were running on empty. The hotel manager said that they had to go. “NO CREDIT—PAYMENT IN ADVANCE” read the sign behind the Plexiglas barrier at the registration desk. The manager’s wife whispered something to her husband about Becky’s state of pregnancy, but all she got was a scowl and a muttered, “I told you that we can’t keep doing this.”
Bill and Becky went down to the local welfare office. Having patiently waited in line for over two hours, they were met by a haggard and hurried social worker trying to get away for the holiday weekend. Politely but curtly, as if to avoid eye contact, she said without even looking up from her desk, “It’s going to take a few days for your paperwork to be processed. Come back early next week.”
“Where do we stay for now?” they asked. The caseworker opened her jam-packed file cabinet and pulled out a list of family shelters as well as the men’s shelter at the big church on Broadway. “What about a place for my wife to stay if we have to be separated?” asked Bill with a worried wrinkle on his brow. Still avoiding eye contact, the social worker shrugged her weary shoulders and replied, “Unfortunately, there are no shelters for women in this county. Our only one was closed a few months ago. Perhaps you can find something in the next county over.”
Becky and Bill looked at each other in the determined way couples do, knowing the unspoken thoughts of the other. No, they wouldn’t be separated—no matter what. Resolved that somehow things would work out, they left the welfare office and spent all day looking for a shelter that would take them both. They had no luck; the shelters were full.
They were sitting in a restaurant, drinking cups of coffee, staying warm, and wondering what to do next. They needed to find a place to go before dark. They walked out into the parking lot and saw a woman in her mid-twenties standing alone, leaning on a building across the street and staring at the passing traffic. Every now and then, she would run up to an approaching car, yell, “Hi there,” and lean into the window to talk with the driver. She seemed like she knew her way around, and she had a friendly smile.
Becky and Bill looked at each other and thought, “What do we have to lose?” They walked up to her and asked: “Do you know where we might stay for the night? We’re not from around here; we’ve run out of money; we’re waiting for welfare; the shelters are full; we’re expecting a baby; and we’ve got to find a place—just for tonight.” With expectant eyes, they pleaded, “Can you please help us?”
The woman looked at them for a few seconds, and then with a grin she said, “Sure, follow me.” Off they went, following this stranger, not knowing exactly where they were going, but knowing that they really had no options left. As they walked, the woman introduced herself, saying her name was Lisa. She barraged Becky and Bill with a constant stream of friendly questions, but interrupted their answers with a running commentary on the neighborhood.
Eventually, Lisa led them to a big, dilapidated house on Van Houten Street. Paint peeled from the broken shingles, garbage filled the overgrown yard, and several abandoned mailboxes hung on the front porch. The house was boarded up, but a piece of plywood had been preyed loose from one of the windows. Lisa and Bill helped Becky through the window and then climbed in behind her.
Once inside, as their eyes adjusted to the darkness of a building without windows, they could see many rooms