Christmas in the Chapel

by

Alex Domokos

Christmas came to me in various settings. After the warm Christmas eve of childhood, I experienced cold and dark Christmases in war, air-raid shelters, prison camps, and deportation compounds.

But after my wife and I escaped to Canada our Christmases were peaceful again. Peaceful, yes, but the most important ingredient, the laughter of our child was missing. We were fleeing for our lives when we left the country we loved. Finally, in 1962, after six long years of waiting, our family was reunited. My mother and our daughter arrived in Canada. Christmas of that year was our most joyful in many years. Life became peaceful, secure and meaningful again.

That contentment gradually evoked a feeling of indebtedness in us. My wife and I both felt an inner urge to express our gratitude for our happiness, to do something for others without compensation. The memory of our escape, when we were helped by many people risking so much for us without any reward, was our example. We discussed our wish with a friend, a Catholic priest. We offered our services as missionary helpers to the Oblate Order where there was a need. After a lengthy preparation we were accepted.

We were posted to Iquique in northern Chile. That stretch along the Pacific shore is one of the most arid areas on earth. Our monastery compound was right on the water. The crashing of giant waves along the coast was the background music of our daily life. Sand dunes reflected and doubled the heat of the blazing sun with such an intensity that it became almost suffocating. The town's water supply was rationed.

"We will have an extra hour to get water for Christmas as a gift from the city administration," said my wife. In that summer setting, I had completely forgotten about Christmas. The priest was absent, offering mass for the natives on the Altiplano. The compound's chapel was open to the public, but because the collection boxes were frequently broken into, the Spanish priest had explained to me in sign language that it was my duty to close the chapel after dark.

We felt our mission was fruitless since our ignorance of the language cut us off from any meaningful conversation. This sense of failure rested heavily on my mind and I missed Christmas with my family badly. I missed the crisp air, the sparkling snow, the chime of icicles, the carols humming in the air. Most of all we missed our newly-found daughter, now a grown up lady, far away in Canada! "What am I doing here?" My doubts and feeling of futility did not boost my Christmas spirit.

The interior of the chapel was dimly lit by a few candles. My impression was that the church was completely deserted. I started to close its double doors, putting the crossbar in place, when somebody touched my shoulder. In the semi-darkness, I had not noticed that I was not alone. To my surprise a beautiful young girl, about my daughter's age, was smiling at me. She was saying something in rapid Spanish which was beyond my comprehension. She noticed my confusion and, with a smile, turned to sign language.

Spanish-speaking Chileans have a gift of making themselves understood by signs. Gesticulating and using facial expressions, they manage to communicate many things quite clearly, a skill lost to us sophisticated westerners. It became a strange conversation, but slowly I grasped the reason for her happiness. Bubbling with joy she showed me her engagement ring. Now I understood. She had become engaged to the man she loved. Her father had opposed the marriage until then, but that day, as his Christmas gift, he gave his consent and blessing. She had run to the chapel ecstatically to give thanks to the Holy Virgin because her name was Maria too.

Giggling, she went on and on. I stood there saying nothing, but in my mind I remembered those moments when I, as a stern disciplinarian, had opposed my own daughter's wishes. I realized I had a lesson to learn from Maria's happiness. Suddenly she noticed my awkward silence. She burst into laughter, gave me a fleeting kiss on the cheek, and danced out of the church like an angel on wings.

Slowly I closed and bolted the double doors. As I stood there in silence looking at the statue of the Holy Virgin, a soundless message came to me:

I realized that I had learned something: my mission was not a total failure.