Spiritual Things Matter

Love-which is God- will consider our sighs and tears as incense burned at His altar and he will reward us with fortitude. ~Kahlil Gibran

In 1995, my husband, Scott, was attending college and also working on weekends while earning his advanced degree in geology at the University of Houston. I was full time employed at a local medical clinic. We had no children at the time. We had decided to wait until the college years were behind us so I could raise our children and avoid putting them into daycare. Our lives were occupied with school, projects, field trips, homework, and our jobs.

It was on one such busy day that I received a phone call from my brother, Jean, who was living in Germany.  He had called to tell me that he was engaged to be married in May, and wanted to invite me to be a part of his wedding.

I have written here about the day he was adopted out of our orphanage and how I came to realize that I would not see him as a child again. Losing my little brother was a loss that would stay with me always. In time, I managed to bury the tears deep within me, and remove the memories from the forefront of my mind of that very painful day so long ago. It was a loss that I had to eventually find the courage to look at again, and again.  It was a loss that I could not make any sense of, and yet with time, I was able to accept it and find meaning in it, which brought some healing to my heart.

Words cannot describe how excited I was to hear from Jean again after all these years of wondering where he was and how he was doing. I quickly realized just how rusty my German had become, and I was much relieved when I realized that he was able to speak English.  That day, it became a mission of mine to regain my German language skills, to better communicate with my newfound family!   Because my husband was in college, flying to Germany was going to be more of an expense for us than what we could afford at that time.  However, the idea of our not flying to Germany to be a part of Jean’s wedding was out of the question. We were simply going to make that trip!

Some of my friends at work were so excited about the prospect of me seeing my brother again after so many years that they and my supervisor, knowing that my husband was in College, took up a collection to help out with our expenses as we prepared to fly to Germany.  Contributing toward this reunion was a very generous and kind gesture from those who did not really know me that well.  I was deeply humbled and thankful for their kindness and generosity.

As we flew to Germany, I was nervous and a bit apprehensive. I imagined every possible scenario under the sun.  Would Jean recognize me?   Would I recognize him?  Would we both feel comfortable with each other or would our time together be awkward?   When the moment arrived, and I saw Jean for the first time in 25 years, I felt something that words simply cannot explain.   I recognized him right away even though over 25 years had passed.  As we held one another in a tight embrace, the years melted away, and I cried. I cried for our loss.  I cried for our reunion.  I cried for this very profound moment in both of our lives.  The emotions that welled up in me were overwhelming as my heart raced and my body shook.  There was no awkwardness as we knew we belonged to each other.

The wedding was beautiful, and visiting with Jean and his new bride was a special time for us. They welcomed my husband with open arms, and the four of us had a wonderful time together.   During this busy time, Jean and I did managed to have some time alone. We spoke about our childhood and the day he was taken away from me.  Jean told me about his life with his new family, and we discussed how life had been for me staying behind in the orphanage and eventually moving to America.  Though there was much to talk about, there were also times we would not say a word.   Somehow, we understood each other as only siblings can. That understanding, we realized, was a part of the feeling of a deeper belonging and a deeper love.

In the years that followed, although we’ve spoken periodically on the telephone, I have not seen Jean since he was married in 1996.  Much has taken place in his life as well as in our lives.  As I spoke with my brother just a few days ago, we both knew it was time for another reunion.  We will be traveling to Germany again soon, and I can’t wait to see him and spend some time with him again.  I miss him.  My two children also look forward to meeting their Uncle Jean, and my husband will enjoy clanging his beer krug once again with his.

Life is good!  I am very thankful!

*Since we are getting ready to fly to Germany, I wanted to bring this post  back up from last January.  Finally, Jean and I are able to see each other again.  We are looking so forward to it.

Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories of love and kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmas time. ~Laura Ingalls Wilder

The days leading to Christmas were exciting in the orphanage since the atmosphere was filled with secrets and hope, wondering what kind of gift we would receive. All of us seemed to be on our best behavior, and we got along with each other more than usual since it was on December 6 that Nikolaus came to visit us. This was no small matter since he was one of the most important and majestic figures to come and visit. In some way, he seemed God-like to me and I stood in awe of him. This tradition of Nikolaus Tag (Nicholas Day) came from the 4th century with a man named Bischof Nikolaus from Myra (modern-day Turkey), who especially loved and looked after the children as well as the poor, as he delivered fruit and nuts to their homes.

Our orphanage included not only the six houses the children and social workers lived in, but also a large kitchen with its own staff and a celebration hall. We often performed plays, choir music, and any other kind of festivities. At Advent, we would dress in our finest, and our choir would sing beautiful Christmas songs there. Nikolaus always came to that big hall where all six groups of 15 to 18 children each, were gathered.

Nikolaus looked majestic as he was dressed in beautiful garments and carried with him a long, golden staff. He had a long white beard and carried with him a black book and a golden book. In those two books, he would read the name of each child and a little summary of his or her behavior during the year. The child would walk to the front of the room, and Nikolaus would hand him or her a small bag of fruit and nuts along with some chocolate. It was an exciting time for each child in the room; even the older children enjoyed this time of acknowledgment. Most of the time, Nikolaus would read out of the golden book; only on rare occasions was someone in that black book.

At the ripe age of about seven or eight, I was one of those few children whose name landed in Nikolaus’ black book. I was one of only two people in the black book that year. The other person was a teenage boy from the Buben Haus (Boy House).

Before Nikolaus called my name that fateful day, I somehow knew something was not quite right. I then had this terrible feeling in my stomach as I walked up and approached this huge and mysterious being. As I heard the words being read aloud for everyone to hear, I wanted to hide in a closet, put a blanket over my head, and stay for a while. In those years, I was a tomboy and often protected the little girls from the boys when walking home from school; often I arrived late for lunch with my clothes and hair all tattered because of it. I was more of a challenge to my social workers than I realized until this particular Christmas time. I was humiliated as Nikolaus had me turn my backside to him so he could give me a swift pop on my bottom. The pain I experienced was not my bottom but to my pride. My face was as red as a beet, and as I walked back to my seat, I did not want to look up and see the many eyes looking back at me. My friends felt bad for me, and others chuckled underneath their breath as they secretly were thrilled at my dismay.

I determined in my heart never again to get myself in that kind of predicament, and I changed my ways. The little girls would have to fend for themselves from now on, and I too became a bit more of a young lady.

This was the only time I had a negative encounter with this mysterious Nikolous whom I looked up to and admired so much. I kept Christmas time in the orphanage as a special time in my heart and continue to have fond memories of it to this day.

Sometime before Christmas Day, all the children would walk around the city with candle-lit lanterns we would have made. I loved the dark outside as everyone’s candles were lit and the children sang Christmas songs as we walked together. Many children would be out in the streets, and it was a delightful time. I remember smelling the crisp fresh air and looking up in the sky admiring all the twinkling stars that joined us in this festivity. There was something so beautiful and pure about those moments.

Christmas trees and gifts were a part of our Christmas, too. Our social workers did a lot of work to prepare these while we were at school. Part of our living quarters were sectioned off with a curtain so that a beautiful Christmas tree could be erected with presents under it. No one was allowed to peak behind the curtain to see who was working there, and the mysterious things that were taking place.  Around the dinner table each evening in December, one child was allowed to open one advent gift from a advent calendar that was put up. In the middle of our table was a big advent wreath with four candles, and each week a candle would be lit until December 24. Each one of us would make gifts for our social workers and our best friends. We would wrap them in paper that we would stamp with potatoes carved into various shapes and dipped into paint. The designs we would come up with were creative and fun, and each paper was printed with a different design.

We always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve as each child made him or herself look as beautiful and as handsome as possible. I remember how anxious we were to finish our evening meal and clean up so that the big curtain could be pulled back. Everyone was so excited as we gathered around that curtain. We would sing Christmas songs, and then, finally, the curtain would be pulled back. I would have to fight back tears because our bond of togetherness and love was strong during Christmas as we sang beautiful old songs. I loved looking at the manger as the social workers would read to us the story again of the miracle of Christ’s birth. Candles were lit on the Christmas tree as the room was dimmed. It was a holy moment for all of us.

Each child usually received one or two presents, and each year one child would receive a bigger gift. On one such Christmas, I received a green bicycle. I loved my bicycle, and I was so proud to have received it. I have a photograph in my album of that day; and my pride shows. Such memories will always stay fondly tucked in my heart.

I wish each of my dear readers a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  May it be filled with true meaning and true purpose once again.  May Peace always be your guide and may Love always be your portion!

Fröhliche Weinachten!

Portions of this post have been previously published