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By Mary Ellen Mitchell, Lydia’s House co-director
At 2pm on Christmas Eve I started gathering vases and table cloths to head to Lydia’s House because we were hosting “songs and stories” and an Italian dinner by candlelight, an event Meridith and I concocted to try and make things more festive at a homeless shelter. I typically hate Christmas, but the guests at Lydia’s House take it to a whole new level, often fighting, drinking or withering in honor of the birth of our Savior. As such, we thought it might be nice to give them something, besides sadness, to focus on.
I arrived at our expansive dining room and started to set the tables, make flower arrangements, and pull out catering to be heated. Meridith busily printed programs while Sam practiced “We Three Kings” on the keyboard; his reprisal of piano playing the only gift I’d explicitly asked for this year. Annie was home making a birthday cake for baby Jesus and would soon walk over.
At 4, the stated start time, no one had arrived. I knew this would be a problem because, after I scheduled our blessed event, I got told again and and again, “I get off at 4.” Our guests work as home health aids, clean houses and manage fast food restaurants. Christmas Eve is indeed an eve for them; think of Bob Cratchit getting off and his family gathering after sunset. December 24 is a work day.
At 4:15 the clock was ticking because I wanted to make it to Mass that evening. Ben was carefully attempting to time out the food, including cooking spaghetti, because it’s better hot and not overcooked… but precise timing is a fool’s errand with people whose cars won’t start or whose kids refuse to put on shoes. By 4:30 our first guest arrived. At 4:45 we were up to 3 attendees and Meridith said, “Should we just start?” I was frustrated, and then doubly so, because I had set up something based on my need to attend church, not the needs of those I’d wanted to host. By 5pm we were up to 12 in our make shift pews so Meridith hastily assigned scripture readings and Ben started the pasta.
Each of my kids had liturgical jobs. As they alternated getting up to read about the predicted Savior, the town of Bethlehem, and Mary’s aging cousin Elizabeth our youngest participant, a 4 year old shelter guest, squirmed on the couch. She snuggled up to Annie, who held her hand. Sam announced that the Savior had been born, Ben brought out the cake, and the squirmy one blew out the candles.
To end the service, Sam played Silent Night, we gave the 4 year old a battery operated luminary, and the earnest crew processed into the dining room by candle light. The guests were seated to plated salads, plastic champagne flutes, and carefully crafted Canva menus. That night our family would serve them, acting as waiters, complete with notebooks for orders and towels draped over arms. We poured ebullient fizzy apple soda, overflowing the flutes. I circled with fresh grated Parmesan and one woman exclaimed cheerily, “This is like Olive Garden!”
By 6pm, as more guests kept arriving, I’d fully let go of going to Mass that evening. The emotional roller coaster I’d started climbing at 4 settled, and I was grateful to be Catholic, because church options are plentiful. Toddlers tromped in donning Christmas dresses or Christmas pajamas, depending on what mom could handle in her rush. Older kids came in holding newly un-boxed toys. We opened seating at a second table and quickly poured more cider. Ben left his pasta post to rush home for a pump, allowing one 12 year old to inflate his just received “glow foot ball.” The lighted orb incited a game in the back yard and Jacob stripped off his Christmas blazer to join as happy screams resonated through the open door, made possible by the balmy evening.
Inside, I drank tea with women we’d known for years, all former guests. One, a friend who’d been with us in the shelter 11 years ago, was particularly spirited as she looked me in the eye and said, “Girl. I watched your kids do those readings. I can’t believe it. They are so old, so grown up. So beautiful. Each one of them, more than the next. Annie, that Annie. I mean, wow.” She really had watched them grow up and she isn’t the type to offer false flattery, so I was (honestly) touched.
As we put away chairs and I swept, I thought of all we’d been through. With that guest in particular, so many iterations, un-tanglings, hard conversations; literally laughter and tears. Just as I’m not sure when I developed a dread of holidays, I’m not sure when these people and this place became my home and my family: Ben by love and marriage, Meridith by soul and time, Annie, Sam, and Jacob by sleepless nights and blood, the former guest by shared suffering and heart ache but also goodness.
When I got home, I thanked Sam for playing piano and sticking out the food serving to the bitter end. I thanked Ben for managing the kitchen like a boss. He told me, “really it was my best Christmas Eve ever. There’s no people I’d rather be with more.” We, eventually, made it to Mass but if I’m honest, our Christmas Eucharist was foccacia, delivered by my friend Maria, served in baskets accompanied by overflowing sparkling cider. This past year I’ve often wondered, “if I learn that my life will be much shorter than expected, will I change it?” The answer, obviously, is no.
