Christmas lesson from Chicago
What a Poor Chicago Family Taught Me One Christmas Eve (article by Lee Strobel - posted by Bible Gateway - Lee Strobel worked on the Chicago Tribune.)
The Chicago Tribune newsroom was eerily quiet one day before
Christmas. As I sat at my desk with little to do, my mind kept wandering back to
a family I had encountered a month earlier while I was working on a series of
articles about Chicago’s neediest people.
The Delgados—sixty-year-old Perfecta and her granddaughters Lydia and
Jenny—had been burned out of their roach-infested tenement and were now living
in a tiny two-room apartment on the West Side. As I walked in, I couldn’t
believe how empty it was. There was no furniture, no rugs, nothing on the
walls—only a small kitchen table and one handful of rice. That’s it. They were
virtually devoid of possessions.
But despite their poverty and the painful arthritis that kept Perfecta from
working, she still talked confidently about her faith in Jesus. She was
convinced he had not abandoned them. I never sensed despair or self-pity in her
home; instead, there was a gentle feeling of hope and peace.
I wrote an article about the Delgados and then quickly moved on to more
exciting assignments. But as I sat at my desk on Christmas Eve, I continued to
wrestle with the irony of the situation: here was a family that had nothing but
faith and yet seemed happy, while I had everything I needed materially but
lacked faith—and inside I felt as empty and barren as their apartment.
I walked over to the city desk to sign out a car. It was a slow news day with
nothing of consequence going on. My boss could call me if something were to
happen. In the meantime, I decided to drive over to West Homer Street and see
how the Delgados were doing.
When Jenny opened the door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Tribune
readers had responded to my article by showering the Delgados with a treasure
trove of gifts—roomfuls of furniture, appliances, and rugs; a lavish Christmas
tree with piles of wrapped presents underneath; carton upon bulging carton of
food; and a dazzling selection of clothing, including dozens of warm winter
coats, scarves, and gloves. On top of that, they donated thousands of dollars in
cash.
But as surprised as I was by this outpouring, I was even more astonished by
what my visit was interrupting: Perfecta and her granddaughters were getting
ready to give away much of their newfound wealth. When I asked Perfecta why, she
replied in halting English: “Our neighbors are still in need. We cannot have
plenty while they have nothing. This is what Jesus would want us to do.”
That blew me away! If I had been in their position at that time in my life, I
would have been hoarding everything. I asked Perfecta what she thought about the
generosity of the people who had sent all of these goodies, and again her
response amazed me.
“This is wonderful; this is very good,” she said, gesturing toward the
largess. “We did nothing to deserve this—it’s a gift from God. But,” she added,
“it is not his greatest gift. No, we celebrate that tomorrow. That is
Jesus.”
To her, this child in the manger was the undeserved gift that meant
everything—more than material possessions, more than comfort, more than
security. And at that moment, something inside of me wanted desperately to know
this Jesus—because, in a sense, I saw him in Perfecta and her
granddaughters.
They had peace despite poverty, while I had anxiety despite plenty; they knew
the joy of generosity, while I only knew the loneliness of ambition; they looked
heavenward for hope, while I only looked out for myself; they experienced the
wonder of the spiritual while I was shackled to the shallowness of the
material—and something made me long for what they had.
Or, more accurately, for the One they knew
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