(Make-up for December 24, 2013)
When my
family went to visit my parents’ house on Christmas afternoon this year, I
found myself enjoying a (rare) quiet moment in the front of the tree with my
dad. All the kids (our five and Marc and
Liz’s four) were zooming under Grandma’s apron strings or blasting each other
to smithereens on the Wii. Dad reflected
for a while then asked about past Christmas seasons that stood out in my
mind. I’ve shared some of these on my
blog already, but I wanted to save this one for Christmas Eve.
Call me sentimental (and you might
get smacked), but probably the most meaningful Christmas Eve was the second one
I celebrated in Spain as a missionary.
I was in
Granada, proselyting in the Albaycín, right at the base of the Alhambra. (From one of the towers, you could spit on
our apartment.) The last day of my
mission loomed just over two weeks away: January 3, 1998. My feelings about going home were mixed. I
was ready to move on with my life, but I didn’t want to give up my time serving
the Lord. It had been two years since I
had been a part of the world. I was
scheduled to start school at BYU in the spring.
Would I even remember how to function in college let alone life?
On Wednesday
the 24th, our whole district (six of us) had been invited for a
Christmas Eve luncheon at a church member’s home on the other side of the
city. This kind grandmother wasn’t in
any position to host us, but we went anyway so as not to offend her. Lunch was simple, but satisfying—not a
Christmas feast, but good nonetheless: a thick caldo (broth) and some fresh
bread. We left with our pockets full of
cheap, stale turrones, mantecados, and polvorones—which we promptly gave away
to some neighborhood kids. I even wore a
Santa hat that I had picked up somewhere (I think someone mailed it to me.) as
we visited and caroled and soaked up the spirit of the season.
On the walk
home, there was an underpass that went under the freeway around the city, which
was meant for pedestrians only. Part of
the long, narrow path was fenced on both sides with chain link, but most people
could walk side by side with barely enough room to not knock shoulders. However, we had a problem as we filed along
in the chilly afternoon. Two teenage hoodlums
on a motoscooter were zooming down the sidewalk toward us, weaving, laughing,
shouting, and generally being obnoxious.
They buzzed a young mother pushing
a stroller. I don’t know what they said
to her, but the vulgarities that she directed at them could only have been
provoked by something worse.
And then they saw us and
accelerated. We shuffled over to the
side and stopped, pressing against the fence to give them the widest berth
possible. I, in my Santa Claus hat, brought
up the rear of our little troop.
The helmetless, jacketless, tactless,
brainless freaks edged closer. The idiot
on the back stood up and made some fairly acrobatic hand gestures. The balancing might have been considered
impressive had the peril not been so great.
If they didn’t pull back, they would run into us. At the last second the driver swerved away.
I exhaled in relief a moment too
soon. The moron on the back snatched my
Santa hat as they sped off down the sidewalk, spilling some stacked boxes on
the side before speeding into incoming traffic and around a corner.
I was shocked—utterly
speechless. Here we were, trying to
spread some Christmas cheer, and some imbecile kifed my Santa hat. Who does that? On Christmas Eve? To a missionary preaching about Christ on
Christmas Eve? I was genuinely
incensed. My anger rose, but I decided
to keep it inside rather than cause a scene.
The others started walking again,
not noticing my missing hat or knowing what had happened. It wasn’t until we started below the actual
concrete underpass that my companion said, “Hey, Elder Anson, where’s your
hat?”
The anger bubble burst, and
deciding not to take it out on anybody, I yelled at the roar of the traffic and
punched the wall (a habit from earlier high school experiences, but that’s a
different story). Now, for those who
haven’t already figured it out on their own, punching a cold, concrete support
wall in December when my hands are dry and cracking is not a good idea.
Everyone stopped and looked at
me. Looked at my hat. Looked at my hand. And decided not to say anything. I just shook my head—upset at the two jerks,
upset at myself for my reaction. We
shuffled on in silence.
What made it worse was that the
other two companionships in out district had dinner appointments to head to.
However, My companion and I had nowhere to go.
They split off from us as we had another thirty-minute walk back to our
area. None of the members living in our
area had invited us over. And it didn’t
seem right to knock on people’s doors uninvited on Christmas Eve, so we decided
to try to see if we could find anyone to talk to out in the largest plaza in
our boundaries—the one with all the fountains.
Right now the name escapes me, but I know it is not Plaza Nueva. We lived close to that one. Maybe someone can help me out. I can’t find it on any online maps.
Regardless, no one was out. And I mean no one. We stood in that plaza for forty-five minutes
without seeing another soul. The sun had
set by then, so we sat down and watched the fountains light up with holiday red
and amber and green and white. We
resigned ourselves to the fact that nothing we did that night would be
effective, and we talked for a while about a wide array of topics starting with
our current pool of work and ending with my imminent departure back to the
Sates.
My comp decided he needed to
stretch his legs and wandered over to the fountain and walked along its
ledge. I sat still and looked up into
the clear sky—rare in the city—and I noticed the calm that had fallen over the
mountains to the northeast, touched with the first snows of the season. The city noises themselves were going to bed.
The night grew cold, and as I sat,
feeling a little sorry for myself and for my missing hat, I flipped through the
blue hard-covered Book of Mormon in my hands.
I turned to 3 Nephi, Chapter 1, where the sign of Christ’s birth shone
in the America’s, far away from the Bethlehemic action. I reviewed my convictions and why I even came
to Spain in the first place. I knew that
He was born, lived, died, and lived again for me, just like He did for everyone
else. The message I was sharing was
true. And I knew it. And He knew that I
knew.
I turned my cracked and bleeding
hands over, and I realized that the Lord knew me, just as He did the Nephites, just
as He knows each of us; and that although I was far away (literally and
figuratively), I was not forgotten. It
didn’t matter if I wasn’t invited to a party or a dinner or if I had my two-bit
hat. My selfish thoughts turned to another
lowly setting—one two millennia earlier, and my self-pity dissipated. I calm, warm, reassurance replaced it
It’s difficult impossible
for me to relay my exact feelings that Christmas Eve sixteen years ago, but as
I attempt typing them tonight, I can still feel that burning that grew in me
that night. It still smolders within,
and it will never burn out.
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