The Gift of Love

By Joyce Bennett

The last gift was wrapped and ready to go to its new home. Gifts were piled high all around me, and as I sat there I started to reminisce about a time that changed my life forever. It had been about twenty years ago when I was visiting a small village called Low Mountain on the Navajo reservation. It started with a visit to a small boarding school in a remote area and bringing “Santa bags” filled with toys and clothing for families who needed a little extra help. “Santa” and his helpers personally delivered these bags along with turkeys and all the trimmings for a holiday dinner.

We stayed with a Navajo lady, Hazel, who would translate for us when necessary, as well as help us navigate the rough terrain. Since that visit, I have continued to visit Low Mountain during the holiday season with friends who want to experience the joy of giving. The following is what took place twenty years ago: We had just finished our “Santa visits” and were on our way back to Hazel’s house, when Hazel asked us if we could stop to see a family she had recently discovered who was in trouble. Even though we virtually had no more gifts, since “Santa” still had his suit on we decided to stop and have Santa play with whatever children we found there.

Trailing two sets of tire tracks leading to a small house nestled up to a hill, our vehicle propelled its way through the muddy mixture of snow and gravel that once had been some sort of road. Cold, hungry, dogs greeted us with wagging tails that hung between their legs, and hearts that were obviously broken by one too many defeats. Watching the dogs and chickens fight over the last 5 lb. bag of dog food we had and wondering how they could survive in this desolate place, we entered this broken down house through the back door.

Standing in the kitchen, next to the only piece of furniture-- a table filled with chopped wood-- was a little girl with eyes filled with wonder and a smile that was infectious. A boy of about twelve, wearing a shirt that was too small, stood in front of the living room window that was covered with plastic. He was smiling and seemed to be feeling a sense of excitement brought on by our appearance. Another boy who looked a couple of years younger stood very close to him, feeling some apprehension with yet another little one in diapers, who seemed perplexed by the goings on. My heart became heavy and filled with pain as I spotted an albino boy around seven, only wearing a shirt and a pair of shorts, no socks or shoes. He was standing alone trying to look up, but due to the light that was coming in through the window, he was unable to do so. I knew immediately that he was an old soul, someone who was sent here to teach the world compassion and of our unity with each other. A woman sat on the edge of one of the three beds, looking down at the dingy wood floors. She looked like she was feeling very confused and a bit embarrassed by our presence.

However, the appearance of Santa Claus brought looks of disbelief, wariness and joy to all of their faces. Santa took his rightful place in a big overstuffed chair and motioned to the little girl with the infectious smile to join him. With exaltation she climbed up on his knee and nestled herself in his lap. I could tell she was feeling like a queen and her smile just got bigger when she saw the picture I took of herself with Santa Claus. As I took each child’s picture, I could feel my adrenaline flowing and I became high from the love emitting from all the hearts in the room. Even though this little shabby house was dim and obscure, there seemed to be a light that was not coming from outside through the windows, but from inside, through all of us.

When Santa emptied his bag of the few remaining Golden Books and stuffed animals, an overwhelming sense of sadness fell upon me as I realized Santa did not have what this family really needed. Leaving with heavy hearts and tears streaming down the face of one of Santa’s helpers, we waved goodbye to the little faces that were pushed up against the one and only windowpane. We knew what we had to do. Walking the aisles of the little trading post with $102.50 -- all the money that we had collectively -- the Christmas turkey dinner with all the trimmings started to appear in our cart, along with little cars, puzzles, games, coloring books and crayons. Peanut butter and jelly even found their way into the carrier. As we headed back, the words “over the snow and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go….” kept going through my mind, connecting me with the warm feelings from the past.

Prevailing over the muddy ruts that led to the sounds of drumming and singing, we stopped in front of what looked like a Hogan. That was my first of many experiences with a sweat lodge. Hazel climbed out of our vehicle and headed towards the small draped opening of the round, canvassed hut-like building. A head popped through the draped opening. Looking very confused as she listened to Hazel, an older woman exited the little hut. As she approached our vehicle, I was feeling just as confused as she looked, for I had no idea why we had stopped here. It became clear to me as it was explained that this lady was the grandmother, and head of the family that we were going back to -- Grandma Clay. She had been part of a prayer ceremony held by the community’s medicine man since early that morning.

The little faces that had been at the window were now hanging out the door, with eyes and smiles that lit up with wonder and hope as they watched us stop and unload the brown paper bags. Emotions were high as these barefooted little angels looked at all the food and toys. Puzzles made their way to the floor, toy cars began being pushed and the peanut butter was immediately tasted. Chills covered my entire body and my eyes filled with tears as Hazel shared with us that Grandma Clay had not just been part of the prayer ceremony, she was the reason for the prayer ceremony. The medicine man, his singer and drummers and several people from the community, had been praying since dawn to the Great Spirit for food for her family.

Disbelief and gratitude covered her face as she looked around the room at the children playing with their newfound treasures, at the turkey and the canned goods that were sitting on the table, and at us. She was in awe of how fast the Great Spirit had answered her prayers, and looked upon us as a gift from God. Whether we were manifestations of her prayers and God’s gift to her, or just Anglos that happened to find their way on to the reservation, didn’t really matter. What did matter was the love that was exchanged between us, and how this experience deeply changed all of our lives.