It’s almost December. Our youngest son just turned 25 and my husband’s birthday is in two days. Yesterday the sky was clear and the air was crisp and cold. Our neighbors a few houses down have put up their lights already and soon the entire street will be lit up. I love this time of year.

There is a certain combination of lights against a certain style of house that brings me back a flash of my first December in North America. I was 8 years old. My family had moved to the US at the end of September. I’d been in third grade at Lincoln School since Oct. and now, it was Christmas time. The church that sponsored our family had stepped up to the plate when the church that had originally agreed to sponsor us backed out. My parents were told this when we landed in New York after an eight day stormy Atlantic crossing. The original sponsoring church wasn’t sure if we were a multi-racial family and decided that they weren’t able to sponsor us because of that. My father was Indonesian. Back in 1956, Chicago suburbs were bastions of Caucasian families. Multiculturalism was not part of the landscape.

Our first months were spent living in the parsonage of the church, but it had been scheduled for demolition to make room for a new church sanctuary and Sunday school building. The church community took us on at the last minute. They had already agreed to sponsor another family that had been on the same boat with us and had prepared for their arrival. They found us temporary living quarters for December. Someone in the community volunteered the use of their basement for our family. We strung blankets on lines hung in the basement to create two bedrooms, one for my parents and one for my brother, sister, and me, and a living room area. I don’t know what my mom used to cook on – a hot plate probably. Outside, there was a lot of snow – it must have been up to my knees at least and there was a swing set in the backyard.

And there were Christmas lights on the houses on the street. I had not ever seen that before. It was so magical! I can still see the glow of the yellow, blue, green, and red lights reflected off the snow. I can still see my brother and sister bundled up in snowsuits riding on the glider of the swing set in the corner of the backyard and my mom coming out of the bulkhead doors to call us inside.

During my teen years, I resented the church community that had stepped up to the plate and helped my family. I blamed them for the other church community’s decision to refuse to act on their promise. Last December, my daughter and I were in Chicago. She attended a dance audition. I hadn’t been back in that area since 1969. We met a friend of mine from high school that I hadn’t seen for 40 years and had a wonderful dinner together. The next day, Holly and I went to visit Lombard, the suburb where I grew up. We visited the First Church of Lombard that had sponsored my family. We walked into the building. I was struck by the generosity of the people who had contributed money to build this wonderful church building back in 1956/57 and the generosity of their community to take another immigrant family into their hearts and help them get a start in a new country. A huge weight fell off of my shoulders. A weight that I didn’t even know was there. I stood in the sanctuary and silently thanked all those generous people. It was a good feeling.

Holly and I then walked to the apartment building where we lived and followed some of my familiar childhood routes to the houses of my friends and to where Lincoln school used to be. It was a crisp December day, sunny and cold but no snow on the ground. We then walked back to the train station and back to our hotel to fly back home to Victoria the next day. I thought that the trip would be fun. I didn’t know it would lift a burden I’d been carrying. As we walked back to the train in the last rays of sunshine of the day, I felt peace flowing into my heart and gratitude flowing out to those people in the church community back in the late 50’s.