Exile

By Patty Wysong

"Therefore, as God's chosen people,
holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves
with compassion, kindness, humility,
gentleness and patience."
Colossians 3:12

xile to Siberia couldn't be worse than this. I wrapped my heavy sweater closer about me as the sharp wind whistled through the converted monastery, instantly chilling me. 

A nun with rosy cheeks led us across the compound and I watched as my classmates were transformed before my eyes. Their smiles lit their eyes and they followed eagerly, while I felt like I was being shoved into the heart of Siberia instead of being led into an old folks home high in the Andes Mountains of Ecuador.

I grabbed Debbie's arm. “I only know one or two Christmas carols in Spanish!”

She wrapped an arm around me for a quick hug. “It doesn't matter, Joanie, just smile, and sing in English.”

“But I can't sing, have you forgotten that?” Panic closed in around me just as surely as the stone walls crowded around us.

“So? Our being here is what's important to them, not how good we sing.”

How did Debbie get so wise? I decided it came with being born in the mission field and those of us new to being missionary kids had a lot to learn—fast.

We passed through an arch and then into the commons room where people were huddled around a weak fire. Thin blankets wrapped around their stooped shoulders. Watery eyes blinked at us, a few smiles greeted us, and hands reached to touch us, as if they were trying to convince themselves we were real. My friends stopped along the way, holding boney hands within theirs, gently patting shoulders and smiling as they spoke with the people.

I trailed behind Debbie, shocked by their shivering misery. I jumped and pulled back when a leathery hand clutched my arm, but she held tight. There was wonder in her eyes as she looked at me and when she pulled me down, I knelt beside her chair. Gnarled fingers gently touched my hair, then combed through my blond curls.

My throat tightened and began to burn. It had been almost a year since I had seen my grandmother, almost a year since she had combed through my hair and crooned to me like this at the airport. This was my first Christmas without her. I knew she had sent gifts but I would've traded every gift I'd ever received if we could just be together for this one too.

I joined my classmates and shoved clenched hands deep into my pockets. Singing Christmas carols was the last thing I felt like doing but Debbie's nudge and smile reminded me of my duty. I looked at the lady I'd knelt beside and found her watching me, her knotted knuckles pressed to her lips as if she were willing me the courage to sing. After several attempts, my voice finally made it past the tennis ball that was lodged in my throat.

I sang, returning the smiles of the old people as they joined in with their rusty voices. Debbie was right. They didn't care that I sang half in Spanish and half in English, and they didn't care about my bad voice. They were hungry for smiles and a touch of Christmas joy to brighten and warm their cold lives.

Time after time my gaze returned to find her eyes on me. She'd smile and nod, her lips mutely moving. “Oh santisimo, felicisimo, grato tiempo de Navidad! Cristo el prometido, ha por fin venido: alegria, alegria, cristioandad!”* Christ, the promised One—the reason we celebrate Christmas. The reason my family had left home, so others could know Him, too.

Tears ran down the crevices that time had etched on her face but her eyes shone. She pulled out a hankie edged with green lace and patted her brown cheeks dry before drawing the edges of her shawl back around her.

After singing, we handed out the small candy bags we had prepared for them and I returned to my lady and knelt beside her again.

“Feliz Navidad,” I said as I gave her the bag, marveling at the pleasure the small gift gave her. I wondered when she'd last received a gift or even a piece of candy.

She looked into my eyes, as only a grandmother can, and pulled out a hankie, edged in purple lace and neatly folded it. She pressed it into my hand. “For when you cry. Feliz Navidad, mi hijita.”

I looked down at the hankie, stunned by her gift. My voice broke and I bit my lip hoping to hold back the flood.

She gently cupped my cheek and leaned forward to place a kiss on my forehead. Her hands were so cold they almost stung my face. When she kissed me, as my grandmother often had, I knew exactly what I was going to do and I felt the joy we had just sung about—Christmas joy.

The others were heading for the door, so I hurriedly took off my sweater and gently wrapped it around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. When I saw her tears, I dried them with the hankie she had given me. “Gracias.”