Santa: Stalker with a Heart of Gold

My early Christmas memories are a mix of wonder and terror. Santa Claus was both the bringer of good things and a creepy peeping Tom who staged a home invasion on Christmas Eve.

The front door of the post-war Cape Cod house I spent my early childhood in had a round window like a porthole containing very thick glass. On the outside of the door, my mother hung a molded plastic Santa face, which was much like a cheap Halloween mask. When it was in position on the outside of the door, Santa’s face aligned perfectly over the round window. The sun would shine through and from the inside of the house it looked just like someone was peering into the house, with the face magnified and distorted by the glass, the blue eyes beaming like lasers. At night it became a shadowy image, like a photo negative of a somber stalker.

By night and by day, it terrified me. This was not a merry face but a serious one. When I had to cross from the bedroom I shared with my sister to the kitchen, I ran because I had to pass in front of the Peeping Santa. I did not go into the living room alone.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good so be good for goodness sake!”

Those words made my stomach queasy and heart flutter. My older sister stoked both my excitement and apprehension with various stories of Santa’s exploits and mysterious abilities. She had me at her beck and call with the fear and anticipation of Santa.

My other sisters would join in the act on Christmas Eve. Interestingly enough, on Christmas Eve the radio station they listened to would always broadcast an announcement on Santa’s whereabouts while I was out of the room. Hmmmm.

My sisters would announce with great portent, “I just heard it on the radio--Santa’s been spotted in New Jersey!” or “He’s over England right now” and I wouldn’t know whether to clap my hands or pee myself.

Our Christmas tree waited in glittery glory in the living room. All the bulbs were shiny glass and a silver garland circled the tree. It had colored lights, loads of silver tinsel, and the nativity set was set up under it. The tree itself was not very big, and on Christmas morning the presents would spill out in a huge radius from its center. Our stockings would be laid out on the sofa, always containing an orange and some nuts as well as small toys and candy.

The moment I came down the stairs, around the corner and saw the mountain of presents, I forgave Santa for all his indiscretions. I didn’t care that he’d been watching me a bit too closely or that he’d snuck into our house while I slept. I was blown away by his magic and ability to deliver so much happiness in one night. Santa: the stalker with a heart of gold.

Copyright 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 19, 2005

Poor, poor pitiful me

I woke in the night to the unsettling music of an orchestra from hell. First the slow building crescendo of a howling wind section was joined by the  percussion of rain splattering against the windows. The vibrating garage doors provided thumping bass. The flapping vent cover in the kitchen added its own discordant notes.

I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I was in a gothic movie, set on the windswept moors.

I am so tired.

Walking the children to the bus stop in the pitch black this morning, we were bundled up in big coats so only the white circles of our faces peered out from under our hoods. Wrestling our umbrellas, trying to stay one step ahead of the shifting wind direction, we nevertheless got wet.

I have to go to the chiropractor today—which means a 10 minute walk to the bus stop, catching the Metro into the center of Brussels, and then walking another 10 minutes to the doctor’s office. Half an hour later, I get to do the whole thing in reverse.

39 degrees. 30 mph winds. Rain, rain, and more rain.

How can Friday morning feel worse than Monday?

December 16, 2005

Confessions of a Clueless Consumer

Until I moved to Belgium , I took for granted the wealth of knowledge I had accumulated on the retail landscape in the U.S. I was a shopping guru and didn’t even know it. Years of experience and a nose for a bargain had made me a master of the retail universe.

I knew which grocery stores had the freshest produce, the best bakery, the slowest checkout lines, the lowest prices, the best service, the largest imported food section, and the best and worst delicatessens.

Inside the stores, I could locate the jars of pimento peppers, the canned black beans, toothpicks, cupcake liners, Splenda, and anything else I might need. I knew the difference between the types and qualities of the flour in the baking section, the subtle variations in the numerous kinds of canned tomatoes, when it was safe to go with a store brand versus a name brand, and when to avoid the crowds. I even knew what day the shelves were stocked and when the weekly sales were launched.

My knowledge of other retailers was also extensive. Sure Wal-Mart had better prices overall, but Target often had better designs on everything from clothing to housewares. Yet Wal-Mart had better quality kids’ shoes, but Target had better women’s shoes—see what I mean about having market intelligence?

Who knew Costco’s cakes were as delicious as they were inexpensive? A pleasant surprise since most discount bakery cakes taste like they contain petroleum byproducts.

In the mall I could tell you the best place to buy men’s shirts, and who had the best selection of ties and the lowest prices on khakis. I knew the starting price for a pair of Levis , the most common sale price, and the truly good deal. I could tell you where to buy a fabulous leather handbag or a special occasion dress for your daughter.

I could predict when items would be marked down and how far. I knew all sales were not created equal and could spot a bogus 50-percent-off sale a mile away.

I knew where to buy appliances and furniture and who delivered and how fast. I could tell you which brands were rated highest by Consumers Reports and who had the best selection of everything from washing machines to children’s bedroom furniture to leather sofas.

I had Lowe’s and Home Depot’s respective strengths and weaknesses tallied on a spreadsheet in my head. I could tell you where to buy paint and which brands were best for different applications. I knew that you should not buy hardwood flooring at a giant DIY store but get it directly from the mill. Never heard of that tiny family owned mill? No problem. I’ve got their number.

Despite living in an area with a remarkable number and density of stores, I was not overwhelmed by my choices. I was lord of the shopping universe, moving with confidence and grace through my kingdoms.

And then I moved to Belgium , where I became a hapless and clueless consumer. Nowhere was this more evident than in the grocery store, which looked so straight-forward but was full of hidden puzzles designed to confuse and humiliate.

Sure, the produce section was self-explanatory, though we committed a big faux pas in not weighing our purchases before going to the checkout at Carrefour. The checker and the other patrons were remarkably patient as my husband dashed back to the scales on a busy Friday night.

We quickly figured out how to use the bread slicing machines, though we occasionally came home with the wrong type of bread. (Oh no, this isn’t raisin bread? What are those brown things in the bread? Nuts? Why does it taste bitter? I thought this was a sweet bread!)

The meat section was challenging because we couldn’t distinguish the different cuts of beef and pork. A Southern girl, I wanted to make BBQ sandwiches but didn’t want to humiliate myself trying to explain to the butcher I needed a “pork butt roast.”

It was the dairy case, however, that was our complete undoing. Was the selection really as enormous as it seemed or did I just not pay attention in the U.S. ? I’m not sure, but my impression is that Belgians enjoy as many varieties of yogurt as Americans have types of soft drinks.

I was baffled by the rows and rows of dairy products. How were they different? Were any of them low-fat? Which bottle of milk was skim? And what about all these blocks of cheese—what was what?

I’ve come home with yogurt when I thought I was buying sour cream. I once unwrapped what I thought was a block of cheddar cheese and was quickly overcome by its vile smell. (Not feeling adventurous, I tossed it straight into the trash and took the bag outside so it wouldn’t pollute my kitchen.)

One morning I opened and poured what I thought was milk into my coffee and it curdled. Oops, that was buttermilk in disguise. Ewwww.

With the dairy section at the grocery store leaving such a sour taste in my mouth, it was clear I had to be better prepared. I knew I needed a Dutch-English dictionary but where to find one? Once again, I was lost. It took me weeks of wandering into bookstores before I triumphed.

However, my elation was short-lived. One problem solved, another revealed. It’s not enough to own a Dutch dictionary, I must bring it with me to the store. Somehow I always forget it and keep repeating my shopping mistakes.

Hmmm, if only I could replace my foggy brain with an upgraded model that has improved memory. Anyone know where to purchase that?

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 15, 2005

December

The last of the leaves have lost their grip, and autumn’s blue skies have turned pewter gray, hunkered down under a blanket of clouds. The landscape broods, the rain falls, the Christmas lights defy the somber mood.

The sun is like a bad employee, showing up late and leaving early. At 8:30 a.m. , the streetlights are still on and the pedestrians shuffle along the sidewalks like ghostly souls waiting for redemption.

The mercurial sun paints the horizon ivory with touches of sherbet pink and orange. Sometimes as the sun sinks, the earth tenderly wraps the trees in a veil of fog. Twilight falls like an indigo shawl on the shoulders of the house and we gather in the kitchen for a bowl of soup and a slice of bread, our backs against the radiators.

The mail brings love and good wishes, and I stack my blessings in a sturdy basket on the table. I gather the year’s griefs on a string in my pocket and handle them one by one.

Prayers, like colored threads, weave through my hours: for J who is going through a divorce, for S whose brother died this week, for M facing her first Christmas as a single mom, for E who works with the severely retarded, for M who has had his second heart attack, for S whose dad has been fighting cancer this year, for N who is being ravaged by three serious conditions at once, for M who is fighting drug addiction, for K who is pregnant after years of trying.

The end of the year is a curious mix of death and life, joy and grief, celebration and mourning. Just when it seems darkness will overtake our days, the balance shifts, the sun stretches, the lights come on, hope glimmers, faith triumphs, and we find a warm hand to hold as the calendar announces a new beginning.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 14, 2005

Overheard at My House

10-year-old son examining his rather round stomach:

“I wish I would grow up so my stomach could grow in.”

8-year-old daughter after spending an hour with her favorite “Facts of Life” book:

“I love kids, Mama, but I think I’m going to adopt.”

8-year-old daughter observing her mother at breakfast:

“You look tired. You need to wake your face up with some makeup.”

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh ChristmasTree

OK, after delivering my nice holiday sermon on the excess of Christmas in the U.S. , my two-faced heart showed its other side and reminded me that no matter how I might downsize my holiday celebration, low-key and simple are not words I want to use to describe my Christmas tree.

Sure I can leave all the holiday snowmen, lanterns, decorative plates, greenery, ribbon, gingerbread garland, carved wooden reindeer, candle holders, placemats, kitchen stuff, and window decorations in storage. No real sacrifice there and a lot less hassle. But the tree and all its accoutrements are the centerpiece of our holiday celebration—no way I’m settling for less.

I have three big Rubbermaid boxes of Christmas ornaments, most of them by Hallmark, others made by the children or friends or purchased one at a time at holiday bazaars and the little shops in my hometown. In 24 years, I’ve accumulated A LOT of ornaments, and I brought them all with me.

However, I left my American Christmas lights behind, figuring it would cost more to buy a transformer to run them from than it would to just replace them with 220 V lights. Friday night we went to Ikea to get some. Everything in that store is so cheap, we didn’t even check prices or shop around. Why bother?

There were stacks of lights to choose from. The boxes indicated each strand was 50 feet long. Wow! That’s a lot of lights! We bought three boxes because we weren’t sure how far they’d go. We figured, what the heck, we can always return the extras. We merrily headed to the checkout stand humming Deck the Halls.

Shock Number One: Show me the money, honey!

Hello?! Each box cost more than $15. Didn’t I pay about $5 or less for the same thing in the U.S. ? Of course, those were probably made by human rights activists imprisoned in China ; these were probably made by Union employees in Europe . In the interest of holiday cheer and Amnesty International, I don’t let the price get me down. Besides, these light strands are extra long so it’s worth it.

Ka-ching. Ka-ching. Pay for the bling.

Shock Number Two: Where’s the watts?

We were startled to discover when we unboxed the lights that the length “50-feet” applied mostly to the very long cords attached to the light strands. We bought a lot of cord, not a lot of lights! Uh-oh. We’re really going to have to spread them out on the tree.

There is a black hole in my Christmas fantasy, sucking the radiance out of my tree.

Shock Number Three: Dim as Jessica Simpson

We plug a strand in to test the bulbs and discover they are Jessica Simpson lights—rather small and not too bright.

And to add insult to injury, the lights flash or twinkle. No option for burning steady, the traditional Christmas look.

I have never liked twinkling lights. They remind me of the sad, neglected Christmas trees in bars and restaurants which seem kind of spastic and forlorn, just like the drunks at closing time.

I don’t want my tree to look like it’s having a seizure, yet there it stands in all its epileptic glory having light spasms.

Shock Number Four: Where’s the juice?

Yes, we spent almost $50 on what turned out to be three puny light strands, and they don’t plug into one another end to end. Each strand of lights requires its own outlet and has a big black box at the plug which means they’re too bulky to put into a power strip.

European homes are not known for being well equipped electrically. Economy is the norm, even in nice homes. They normally lack light fixtures, have limited circuit capacity, and are short on outlets. My three sickly strands of lights commandeered all the outlets in the room and put my lamps out of commission. We are entering the twilight zone in our own house.

To make matters worse, the cords are crisscrossing the floor in their desperate bid to find a plug to call their own. Hmmmm. Maybe if I get creative, I can make the cords form a star of David.

The Bright Side

In the end, we accept our plight. We resist the temptation to sing, “Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, how dimly lit thy branches.”  We squelch our whiney Scrooge instincts. We strive to look on the bright side. 

We applaud our energy-efficient display--we're having a green Christmas. We tell ourselves that the tree looks lovely and old-fashioned, despite its blinking lights and illumination ADD.

As we decorate, we talk about our favorite ornaments, build a fire, make some popcorn, share Christmas memories and soon there's a warm glow in the room. I have a Grinch-like epiphany. It is our love, not our lights, that makes Christmas merry and bright. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

©2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 12, 2005

A Holiday Break

“Everything is bigger in America.”

I’ve heard more than one Belgian make this comment. And it’s true—from the size of our country, cars, and skyscrapers to our homes, highways, and stores, everything is bigger in America. I’m ashamed to add that includes our personal debt and our behinds.

Those last two are not entirely our fault. Americans have been conditioned by evil geniuses in manufacturing and retailing to consume, consume, consume! Shopping is the backbone of our economy, and it’s almost considered unpatriotic not to participate in this national sport of acquisition.

At no time of year is this more evident than at Christmas—which is the ultimate season for consumption, much to the delight of the economists looking for a fabulous end-of-year finish.

Christmas, the one-day holiday, has expanded to fill the whole fourth quarter of the retail year. Holiday items first appear in stores in September, and the official shopping season opens at least a month before December 25.

In America, the last Thursday in November is Thanksgiving, the time we are all supposed to thank Almighty God for the blessings in our life. This celebration of thankfulness for what we already HAVE doesn’t lend itself readily to commercialization, and thus this humble holiday has been transformed from a day of appreciation and family togetherness to the official launch of the season of excess: Christmas.

On the Friday after Thanksgiving, people queue up in the pre-dawn cold outside their favorite retailers waiting for the doors to open on gigantic sales that will only last a few hours, from say 6 a.m. until 9 a.m.

Each year the media cover the “door buster sales” like a sporting event, interviewing the “players” and giving blow by blow descriptions of their successes and failures in getting their carts loaded and purchases rung up in record time.

Meanwhile, back at home, the men of the family, who normally don’t engage in the feeding frenzies at the shopping centers, face their own challenges. They are typically in charge of the outdoor light displays.

With energy to burn, Americans feel obligated to spend hours outlining everything outside the house in lights: rooflines, gutters, trees, and walks. If this isn’t enough, some buy giant figures to light up as well.

It’s the man’s job to drag all of the supplies out of storage, untangle all the cords, test the circuits, replace the broken bulbs, and risk life and limb on ladders while decorating his not-so-humble abode. There’s normally a lot of cursing involved.

By the time the missus comes staggering home from the shopping Olympics, every one is a bit grumpy but pretending to be happy in the name of holiday cheer.

Over the course of the remaining days of the weekend, the tree will go up, there will be more shopping and every flat surface of the home’s interior will be cluttered with knick-knacks and greenery and all that glitters.

If one accomplishes all the events in the pre-Christmas decathlon, one is exhausted. If one fails to do so, one is stressed with the effort of catching up with one’s neighbors who have already plugged in their lights and prominently displayed their holiday decorations.

To make matters worse, in between all the shopping and decorating, we’re supposed to be attending school and community events and parties, baking, and helping those less fortunate than ourselves. Celebrating Christmas is like taking on a second job.

I wish I could say I’ve been immune to the madness, but that wouldn’t be quite true. No, I’ve never participated in the after-Thanksgiving shopping brawls, but I’ve done much of the rest. When holiday depression instead of joy came knocking on my door a few years ago, I began downsizing my own celebration, refusing to run the holiday gauntlet or apologize for not baking cookies or hosting parties.

I will not sprint through December, jostle for position, or queue up at the stores. Instead, I will amble through Advent and arrive at Christmas with everyone else on December 25.

I’ve pulled out some candles and set up my nativity set. I’ve put a green tablecloth on the table and filled a bowl with potpourri, but all the other holiday decorations are tucked away and waiting.

The Christian liturgical season of Advent, which begins four weeks before Christmas, is all about waiting. It is not a time to celebrate the birth of Christ but to reflect on His eventual return. Traditional churches don’t hang the greens until dusk on Christmas Eve, and a generation or two ago, Christmas trees didn’t show up in people’s homes until then as well.

I’d like to say theology is at the root of my life-in-the-slow lane approach to all things Christmas, but that would be giving me more credit than I deserve. Like mothers the world over, I’m a bit tired. Plus, having orchestrated more than 20 Christmas celebrations in my adult life, I’ve learned from experience that less is indeed more.

Now that I’m here in Belgium, I can feel good about my leisurely pace. No one here appears to be in a hurry to make the holidays happen far in advance of the big day. My neighborhood isn’t lit like a carnival. There aren’t many wreaths in sight. No one is turning shopping into an extreme sports event. All is calm and not too bright.

I’m fully at peace in my village this dark December, waiting quietly for lights to shine in the night, convinced that the holidays, in due time, will be merry indeed. I can honestly say I’m happy to be thousands of miles away from America.

I’m at home in the heart of Europe. Tonight, I don’t feel like an expatriate at all.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 9, 2005

Granola Grrrl Gives New Meaning to the Word "Anal"

(Today's entry is provided by the brilliant Granola Grrrl, a gnarly branch on V-Grrrl's twisted family tree.)

"Anal" is usually used to describe someone whose attention to detail is a little over the top (isn't that a nice way to say that?). Sometimes that is me, for sure. The Martha Gene kicks in occasionally. Parenthood has been an exercise in letting go. But that's not what I came here to tell y'all about today. What I have to say is completely tasteless and lacks any decency whatsoever. You don't have to tell me if you laugh. Probably best not to admit it to anyone....

In honor of the upcoming holiday travel season, I will share with you my favorite adults-only car game. It needs a name, I think (suggestions, anyone?), but the premise is simple: for any given model of car, place the word "anal" in front. Some of these will be stupid, like mine; I drive a Toyota Sienna, and "Anal Sienna" just sounds dumb.

However, try it with the following from Ford's increasingly ridiculous line of SUVs (not out loud, especially if there are kids nearby that you might have to explain it to, or coworkers who will think you have some sort of sick fixation) : there's the Freestyle, the Escape, the Explorer, the Expedition and the Excursion.

My favorite, I think, is the Nissan Armada-- how terrifying is the idea of an Anal Armada? What the hell is an Anal Armada? The one that made me giggle in the car the other day was the Ascender from Isuzu. Ouch!

If everyone would play this game, Road Rage would be eliminated. How can you possibly take a guy seriously when he drives an Endeavor? He'd cut you off, and you'd roll your eyes knowingly and say, "Of course! He has issues."

How about a Nissan Frontier? Perhaps that person is merely going where no man has gone before (you see how far down the spiral this goes, and oh, how very quickly).

So for merry holiday travels, simply strike up a game of [insert new title here] with your co-pilot (it's fun by yourself too, trust me). I'll have plenty of time to play. Twenty-two hours each way, to be exact. Like I said, you don't have to admit that you find this funny. My feelings won't be hurt. But it can sure change the way you approach the whole driving experience.

I am definitely reconsidering my fondness for the Chrysler Crossfire....

Note from V-Grrrl: I drive an Oldsmobile Intrigue, and until we moved to Europe, E-Man had a Ford Ranger and a classic Ford Maverick. (I never knew about THAT side of him. Oh my.) When my car was in the shop after an accident, my rental was a GM Envoy. Go ahead and laugh, y'all, then tell me what YOU drive.

 The Anal Game--once you start, you can't stop-- laughing or playing.

The Grrrl I Used to Be

On Thursday, the E-Man is getting an award at work, a happy occasion calling for an appearance by the Family Unit and a reception with champagne. Why am I ambivalent? Because I am experiencing a major wardrobe malfunction.

All the appropriate office-style clothes I own don’t fit. Oh sure, everything buttons and zips but then the fabrics start to grab me in all the wrong places, like a perverted fashion molester. Botticelli may love my belly but my black dress pants and my basic black skirt do not. And with my black pants and skirt mourning the Grrrl I used to be, I have nothing to pair with my various professional shirts and jackets.

So with my tailored business clothes out of the running, I pull out a black velour dress I bought last year at the end of the season from Isabella Bird. It has a basic A-line shape, a subtle hippie vibe, a keyhole neckline trimmed all around with black embroidery which is echoed at the hem. I’m thinking a bold pair of earrings and my favorite black boots and I’ll be good.

I try the outfit on and it looks all right--a little funky and artistic. I add a black suede belt and I think it looks even better, a bit more pulled together and flattering. Then I poll other members of the Family Unit for their opinions.

E-Grrrl doesn’t like the belt; she thinks the dress looks better without it. My 10-year-old son thinks the outfit is just OK. But E-Man, the guy about to be honored by his superiors and peers, doesn’t like any of it, especially the boots, which he hates.

“Maybe you need to go shopping,” he suggests.

This is code for “Please don’t wear that outfit to my office.”

I’m torn. The E-Man never comments on my clothes—he doesn’t feel it’s his place to tell me what to wear or how to dress. He’ll only give his opinion if asked, and most of the time he’s fine with whatever comes out of the closet.

Sure, I want to represent him well, and I could go shopping, but I do not want to buy new clothes while I’m channeling my inner Botticelli. I’m superstitious that if I cave in and dress my new figure, I’ll never again be the trim Grrrl I was a year ago (before I discovered Belgian chocolates).

And while I probably could have made quick work of finding a dress in the U.S. , it would be an ordeal here. I don’t know the stores, where to find what I like, the sizing, or what to expect price-wise. It could take forever and cost a fortune, and I’m not motivated to take the “shopping in a country where I don’t speak the language” challenge.

I know E prefers a tailored, traditional look, and I dress like that sometimes. I came of age in the preppie era and I’m still mighty fond of khakis and loafers and even own a sweater set (how white bread is that!). This is an important occasion for him, and if I were a Good Wife, I’d be channeling Martha Stewart and not my inner bohemian.

But you know, I exiled my inner Martha a long time ago and unapologetically suspended all claims to being a domestic goddess or a career woman. I’m not a Perfect Wife or a Perfect Mother and the perfect GPA I earned years ago means little to me now. Today I see myself as a (mostly) Good Grrrl and a Mighty Fine Writer. I may not be a Martha, but I trust my fashion sense. I’m going to wear the artsy dress.

E has been with me since I was 17 and witnessed my evolution. He’s seen me through all my permutations and tribulations. I love him for hanging with me for better and for worse. I’m sure he won’t abandon his Good Grrrl in her Bad Boots, especially when she and the smallest members of the Family Unit are beaming, channeling how proud they are of him.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 7, 2005

The Dark Side of the Season

Checking the Belgian news, I read that three homeless persons had frozen to death while I was on holiday in Paris.

I thought of my 8-year-old daughter.

While we were in Paris, walking through a fashionable neighborhood near the center of the city, she cried out to me, “Mama! Mama!”

I followed her pointing finger and couldn’t see what she saw. There was an element of panic in her voice that I didn’t understand. Where was the emergency? Finally I spotted the source of her despair.

A homeless man curled into a circle on the floor of a phone booth.

It was bitterly damp and cold. It had snowed the day before. We were chilled even in heavy parkas, scarves, and gloves, but we were heading home to a warm supper and a cup of tea.

This man was going nowhere.

And for the third time in as many days I struggled for words to comfort and enlighten my daughter. I’d had to explain about the man in the Metro wrapping his feet in rags and lining his clothes with discarded newspapers. I’d had to explain to her why there were crude tents and an informal commune under a lavishly decorated bridge over the Seine. I’d had to justify my decision not to toss change to the woman with the begging cup targeting English-speaking tourists on the Champs-Elysees.

Amid my broad explanations on the causes of homelessness and some of the ways we have helped those in need, my daughter saw not our successes but our failures. She didn’t care about our charitable donations or our work in a soup kitchen last summer—she cared about the sight of another human being sleeping on pavement in freezing temperatures.

“Why couldn’t we at least have bought him a hot chocolate? Why couldn’t he have a warm place to sleep?” Back at our apartment, my daughter threw herself down on the bed and wept, all the joy drained out of her holiday. Is it my role as a parent to try to harden her tender heart? Or is it her place as a child to deepen the compassion in mine?

From our American home near Fredericksburg, Virginia, to Baltimore, Maryland, to Washington to New York to Paris to Brussels, the faces and fates of the homeless have challenged our thinking, our politics, our inner peace. They highlight our helplessness to affect real change. They spotlight our confusion over the nature of their problems. They remind us of our failures to make a difference. They make us uneasy or arrogant about our wealth.

And they die on the steps of a church in Brussels.

From city to city, continent to continent, the problem of homelessness is one we can’t escape. We can move across the globe and become “strangers in a strange land,” but the harsher reality is that the homeless are often strangers in their own lands. They are expatriates in their own lives, homeless in every sense.

Yet in my daughter’s eyes, they aren’t strangers at all. They aren’t easy to forget or ignore. Theirs is not a complicated problem. They are simply people in need, and we are people in a position to help.

As we move into the holiday season with its glittering attractions and religious celebrations, let’s seek ways to share the actual and figurative warmth in our lives, to acknowledge without judgment the plight of the “expatriates” on the streets of Belgium and in the towns and cities of our home countries.

The poor will always be with us, but as we travel the world let’s be certain that compassion follows us from place to place as well. Let’s not avert our eyes but choose instead to face our shared humanity, expatriate to expatriate.

First published on Expatica.com

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.