It was a lonely December in Adana, Turkey. As a 21-year old airman with a wife and a new baby, this was my first Christmas away from home.
Every morning before dawn, the loudspeaker outside our apartment would broadcast a call to prayer. A few faithful Muslim men would shuffle up to pray, feet bared, bowing toward the rising sun. It was a brew of smells, sounds and sights that stirred up my sense of wonder.
It was a strange feeling holding on to customs that no one else did, this Advent stirring I had. I now understand how foreigners feel when they come to this country and can’t find their favorite food or hear any music from home. The whole world — from worship, to driving patterns to conversation — is foreign beyond words.
Walking throught the crowded shopping district during December was different too. No garish signs. No midnight madness. No dogs barking Jingle Bells over the sound system. The rug sellers, the glass shops, the merchants selling fruit, “yes, the very best fruit around mister” were all oblivious to the American oddity of commercializing a Holy Day.
There was one shop owned by a man who spoke wonderful English, rich with the tonal qualities picked up from BBC broadcasts on shortwave. He loved Americans and wanted to show off his language skills and converse about American life. “Dallas, good TV show, yes? Farah Fawcett beautiful woman. Lovely teeth. Stayin Alive, Stayin Alive, ah-ah-ah!”
And to display his “complete understanding” of American culture, he propped a two-foot Santa Claus doll in his window, strung tinsel over his copper wares, and played the same tape of Christmas songs, over and again. “Silent night” and “Away in a Manager,” were songs he hummed, but didn’t understand.
Aside from this one haven, there were no twinkling lights, no decorations and no reminders of our precious season. To them, it was just another month — of survival.
In our little apartment, we decided to make it festive. Buying a spruce tree in this desert land was out of the question, so we found a two-foot lemon bush sold from a stand on street corner and decorated it with strands of licorice strands and popcorn strings. We hung a fig sprig over the doorway instead of mistletoe, playing Bing Crosby on the cheap tape player. Amazingly, we got the spirit.
But the best moment came on Christmas Eve. I went to the Base Post Office and there was a notice for me to come to the counter. The military mail clerk had me pull up to the loading dock where told he helped me load it into my 72 Chevy station wagon.
Once home, the three of us ripped open the box that was sent sometime in October — not waiting till Christmas morning. Our families had sent items from home — Cracker Jacks, soft toilet tissue, newspapers, a baseball glove, videotapes of the Bob Newhart show, and cherry chocolates. All the comforts of home.
Although the family situation has changed, I’m 25 pounds heavier and no longer wear those stripes, I still remember the simple joys.
And today, as a stranger in a strange land, an alien, I’m still trying to create things that last beyond the din of a world gone crazy.
Comment?
Over at Faith Barista, Bonnie Gray is hosting a blog carnival on faith. This week, the subject is the simplicity of Christmas.
Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert
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