A Christmas Visit
 
By Debby Giusti
 

Following a three-year military assignment to Germany, my husband was
transferred to Fort Polk, Louisiana, in 1984. Our European tour had been filled
with opportunities to help others, and at no time did our outreach seem more
meaningful than at Christmas.

Each year we opened our house to the men and women from my husband’s unit who
were unable to go home for the holidays. To my three small children, the meaning
of Christmas wasn't merely Santa Claus or the toys under the tree but the
opening of heart and home to others.

As the muggy days of summer shortened into fall, I wondered about the direction
of our holiday outreach. My husband’s office was staffed with married personnel;
everyone had a home to go to on Christmas. But the stockade on post held thirty
men who would have no visitors.

A family meeting sealed our commitment, and a call through channels authorized
our visit. Eagerly we began our preparation. We purchased gifts: paper tablets,
pens, envelopes and stamps to encourage the recipients to write notes to loved
ones far away. Toilet articles, socks, jigsaw puzzles and decks of playing cards
were carefully wrapped by little fingers before being tucked into larger gift
boxes.

Their slippery hands greased in butter, the giggling children formed gooey
cereal into festive red and green treats. With glee they wrapped each one in
colorful plastic secured with festive bows. Pumpkin bread, baked in individual
loaf pans, filled the house with a pungent aroma. Thick chocolate fudge, poured
hot into baking pans, cooled into mouth-watering treats.

Pocket-sized New Testaments and Scripture verse cards recounting the birth of
the baby Jesus were included, along with our own personal holiday greetings.
Then, we sprinkled candy around the gifts before the outer boxes were covered
with brightly colored paper and shiny ribbon.

On Christmas Eve, we packed the gifts into our car and left the warmth of our
quarters. Riding in silence, we passed row after row of houses outlined with
glowing bulbs. The children, usually bouncing with energy and anticipation, were
noticeably subdued.

The final path leading to the stockade stretched dark and desolate. The dreary
compound, surrounded by a tall fence topped with barbed wire, stood in stark
contrast to our cozy, cheerful home.

My husband showed his identification at the guardhouse, and we were given
permission to proceed. Without a sound we gathered up the boxes and entered the
stockade. The men stood in formation to welcome us.

As we presented our gifts, my husband and I shook each man’s hand, wishing them
well, hoping they could feel our compassion and concern. While we filtered
through the ranks, the children babbled their Christmas greetings, bringing
smiles to discouraged faces.

That simple outreach started a family tradition. The following Christmas other
families joined us, and the next year even more people became involved. I don't
know if we took Jesus into the prison with us on those cold December nights; I'd
like to think we found him there.

Debby Giusti