Christmas-My childhood Memories

 “There is nothing sadder in the world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.” Erma Bombeck.

I grew up in a neighborhood where Christians were in the minority. Yet Christmas brought so much joy not only to us Christians but also to those who lived around us. 

Christmas preparation started early in October at our home, when my mother along with my two older sisters and I went shopping downtown for clothing and cake ingredients. Exchanging gifts at Christmas time was not a custom for us then. However, wearing pretty new clothes to church on Christmas morning, making the traditional Christmas fruit cake, and having a feast-like Christmas lunch with family and neighbors were part of the celebration.

The dark and moist fruit cake my mom made at Christmas was called Rich Cake, because almost all the ingredients that went into the cake were imported from either Britain or Australia and that surely cost a lot of money. Along with 25 freshly laid eggs collected from our chicken coup, large amounts of  imported raisins, currants, cherries, strawberry jam, butter and vanilla went into making this cake. At that time, we didn't have a cake mixer to beat the batter, or a food processor to chop the large amount of dried fruits or even an oven to bake the cake. Yet that didn't stop my mom from making the cake.

Along with my two older sisters, she spent long hours chopping the fruits and soaking them for days in brandy and golden syrup and beating the cake batter in a huge enamel basin with a wooden spoon. She then poured the batter into large baking trays and sent them to the bakery to be baked a month ahead.  Once the cake was brought back from the bakery, no one was allowed to see, touch or taste the cake until the Christmas morning. It was stored securely in barrel-like steel containers away from ants and the family’s sight. As a child, I wasn’t fond of the fruit cake, and so it didn’t bother me much. My favorite was my mom's fluffy raisin and cashew nut cake.

We didn't have Christmas lights blinking on our rooftops or a decorated Christmas tree in our living room. Instead red, yellow and green loops of crepe paper hung across our front porch and living room with clusters of huge colorful balloons pinned at every corner.  From the middle of December, Christmas carolers from our home church as well as from neighboring churches would start marching down our lane with candle lights in one hand and tambourines in the other, making a joyful sound to wake up any dozing soul. Yet, no neighbors complained nor did they throw a stone to show any displeasure. Love and respect for each other gave no ground to feud  over petty things.

On Christmas morning, we would wake up to the sound of firecrackers blasting in our backyard and far across our streets. My ears, in the mean time  would be perked up to hear another kind of sound, the jingling of keys on my father’s almirah (free standing cabinet) in the next room, and for my father's voice calling my name. No sooner did I hear that, I’d jump out of bed and run towards Dad’s room wondering what toy Dad would be holding in his hand this time. As always Dad would  be waiting with a huge smile and a gift in his hand-a beautiful doll in a box, or a winding toy-like monkey beating a drum or a shaggy dog barking , a toy train or a tea cup set . He would also present me with a beautiful taffeta or a frilly lace dress to wear to church that morning.  Since my sisters were old enough then to sew their own clothes, he got mine made at the seamstress' shop in downtown where he worked.

Until we returned from church on Christmas morning, we were not allowed to eat anything. But when we returned, we would find all kinds of Christmas goodies and cakes laid out neatly on plates on the table with bunches of a variety of plantains. Soon, Kaakka, an old Muslim man, who worked at  my father’s office would walk in to help my mom prepare the Christmas lunch. Kaakka resembled the genie poofed out of Aladdin’s lamp, and his broad toothless smile and gentle manners charmed anyone who came  across him.  In no time, he’d get ready to prepare his famous ghee rice and goat curry in two huge barrel like containers over open hearth under at our backyard The aroma of cloves, cinnamon, cardamoms and other spices in the curry and rice wafting in the air would soon bring the neighbors around to celebrate the Christmas meal with us. Invitation was not needed for anyone to drop in, and whoever came never left without eating on that day.

Apart from the neighbors, those who usually worked at our yard fixing fences, plucking coconuts from the trees and chopping firewood would also come with their children  to eat and take some food back home. Because of the caste system that prevailed, they didn't sit with us at the table to enjoy the Christmas meal. Instead, they sat under the mango tree at our backyard and ate on huge banana leaves. 

As a child, I couldn't understand why they were not invited indoors or eat with us, but I never questioned.  Probably, my parents feared that if they invited the workers to sit with us and eat, our neighbors, mostly Hindus, would object and would leave without eating. Looking back today, such things look stupid and outrageous. But at that time, no one questioned and no one wanted do anything about it. But I was happy to handout candies, balloons and firecrackers to the children at the end of the meal, while my parents presented  new clothing and money to their parents.

 I may have born in a Buddhist country and grew up in a Hindu neighborhood, but the joy of  Christmas experienced during my childhood was extraordinary.  I didn't have the pleasure of  walking down lighted streets or sitting on Santa's lap to take a photo or have a pile of wrapped up gifts under the Christmas tree, but I had everything what Christmas is all about- love, laughter and sharing.

Pain Could be a Blessing in Disguise

 It was one of those October afternoons in Madurai, South India in 1970’s when the sun was burning bright and wind was nowhere to be seen to blow on the Neem branches to make them sway and wave. Meanwhile, inside the building which was marked “Chemistry Lab,” on the outside door, fifteen women in their late teens with lab coats worn over colorful cotton saris were busy doing experiments at the bench stations or scurrying up and down the room with test tube or a beaker in hand to get the necessary reagent for their experiments. I was one among those final year chemistry major students in the room on that day.

Because our professor Miss.Rhine was away that afternoon, we were at ease to smile and exchange some funnies whenever possible. Always watching the clock on the wall and the supervising TAs walking around the room, we tried to some fun amidst tiring work and pungent smell of chemical fumes coming out of our experiments. Being on our feet and doing experiments all day long had been hard enough, but managing the time to finish the task in hand was a challenge to most of us in the room. Especially, to someone like me, who was slow and a perfectionist.  Time seemed to be running fast , and  It was then I realized I was running short of a reagent.

Quickly grabbing a small measuring jar off the rack, I hurried to the shelf on which stood strong acids and corrosive liquids. Scanning through the printed labels on the brown bottles across the shelf, I quickly spotted Phenol, the reagent I needed for my experiment.  The bottle being full, felt heavy when I took it off the shelf.  In my haste, I overlooked the nature of the liquid and tried to pour it into the narrow mouthed - cylinder from a rather heavy bottle. Result- the corrosive liquid quickly overflowed the cylinder and ran down my left arm within seconds.  At first, it felt like cold smoothy running down my arm; but, within seconds its coolness turned into vengeance and started to scorch my hand with intense pain. I felt as if my whole arm was set on fire and I was about to faint.

Quickly, the cry of those nearby alerted our lecturer and the TA to rush to my side and apply first aid. After my injured arm lavishly powdered down with baking soda like substance, I was rushed to a nearby hospital in a taxi with our college nurse. At the hospital, the wait was long and my pain became intense. Because my case was not life-threatening, the staff at the hospital let me wait till they attended to more serious ones. After sitting an hour or so on the hard wooden bench in the emergency room, I was finally called in to be seen by the doctor. The doctor quickly me a tetanus shot in the other arm and applied my left forearm from elbow to the wrist with a dark purple ointment. Painted in purple, my arm would have looked perfect to wave on a parade, but the scorching pain made me to whimper and groan instead.

Back in my room an hour later, I blurted out in a loud cry.  Far away from home, I longed for my mother’s touch and her gentle strokes on my back at such a time. I also longed for the company of my brothers and sisters, who would have tried to make me laugh and forget my pain by their humor and comical gesture at a time like this. On any other afternoon, especially,  after standing long hours in the laboratory, the gentle breeze coming through my wide open windows on the upper floor would have lulled me to sleep. But, not that afternoon. Utterly feeling alone and homesick, I cried out to the Lord in self-pity.

“ Lord, I’m in terrible pain. My whole arm is burning as if it’s set on fire. Why don’t you do something Lord? Please make the pain go away soon.”  I tried to remind Him of His promises and expected Him to make my pain go away at once.  No miracle took place. The pain remained intense and unbearable.

Then something strange happened. Suddenly my attention turned to the suffering of Jesus Himself on the cross. I began to see the pain He underwent on the cross, with huge iron nails piercing through his palms and feet, and a crown of thorns poking His head all around. What an agony, Jesus must have gone through at that time. In comparison, the pain in my arm was like a pin prick. If the Lord could endure such pain patiently for my sake, what am I wailing about? Why am I making a big fuss over a little pain in the arm. How much more Jesus should have complained of the terrible pain He underwent for you and me? To my surprise, the more I thought about it, the lesser I became aware of the pain in my arm.  In fact, the moment I took my eyes off myself and focused on Jesus, I felt my pain sliding away. Within minutes, the scorching pain left me without a trace.

Truly I couldn’t even believe it at first. But it did happen. The pain that was tormenting me all this time simply vanished. When I shared this experience with someone years later, she thought it might the injection the doctor gave me. I was told the shot the doctor gave me was a tetanus shot and not something for pain.  Even if the doctor had given me a pain killer shot, I doubt whether it would have brought me instant healing like this. We could call it a coincidence, medical intervention or a miracle. I would call it a miracle, for I had never experienced such an instant healing like that ever before or after.

 Yes, God has the power to heal us when we cry to Him in our need. But, His methods differ from time to time. Sometimes He does it miraculously; sometimes through medication and other times through changing our focus, hearts and circumstances.  God has His unique way of answering our prayers.

I also saw this incident as a blessing in disguise. Many in my resident hall, including my juniors, to whom I haven’t even uttered a “hello!” before, came to my aid when I needed to use my injured hand. Because I needed to keep that arm from getting wet to prevent any inflammation, I could only use my right arm. In our college at that time, we didn’t have the luxury of dishwasher or taps in our dining room or kitchen. We had to wash our own plates and tumblers by pumping water from the ground by hand.

So, when the girls in my hall found out about my injury, they offered their hands to help me wash my plate, carry my books, comb my hair, dress up in my sari, and making me comfortable in every way. Not only God enabled my pain to go away, He also opened my eyes to see the love and care of my fellow colleagues-Christians as well as Hindus.

This incident taught me a great lesson which I’ll never forget. When our eyes are on Jesus, our mindset seems to change. When our focus is on others’ needs than on our very own, our problem  seems to matter less.  What a better way to overcome pain and strife?***