By Gale O’Brien
I sat very still so I wouldn’t make creases in my new organdy dress. Its skirt was pale yellow, thin as parchment, perfectly pressed by my mother earlier this Sunday morning. Now, we were waiting for my father to come home; it was ten minutes past our planned departure time. My little sister peeked out the curtains. I willed the hands on the kitchen clock to stay still. My mother rattled the dishes, keeping her hands busy. I worried that wrinkles were being pressed into the back of my dress as I sat on it. I stood up.
My father had gone out to circulate a petition to install streetlights in our neighborhood. At 10:30 am, he was to drive us to church, where my Sunday School class would perform the Christmas story for the congregation. We had practiced for several Sundays, and I had memorized my verse perfectly. It was the weekend before Christmas.
“When is he coming home?” I whined plaintively to my mother.
The hands on the clock moved forward.
“Why isn’t he here?”
It was five minutes to eleven when I heard the click of the door.
I rushed to my father, “Daddy, we have to go! We’re late, we’re late!”
I could see by his face that he’d forgotten. He looked helplessly at my mother.
“There’s still time to get there,” my mother said.
We dashed to the car. My heart was beating rapidly, my breathing fast. I wrung my hands.
“They’ll wait for you,” my mother said.
I practiced my verse silently: “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”
We arrived at the modern, white Presbyterian church and entered. My class was descending from the pulpit! Too late! I ran down the aisle to my teacher and threw my arms around her, my face buried in her soft belly, sobbing. She stroked my hair.
“I’m sorry, Gale. We waited as long as we could.”
My class took the last row in the pews. My family sat a few rows in front. Through my tears, I saw the choir, clad in white flowing gowns, entering the choir loft like angels. “Joy to the World,” they sang. But there was no joy in my small world that day; my father had forgotten about me. I hated his silly streetlights. I hoped that the measure failed and that our streets would stay very dark at night.
As time passes, disappointments fade; maturity brings broader perspectives, and I grew to appreciate and to admire my father’s devotion to giving to the community. A chemical engineer by profession, he felt a call to community service. He gave of his time so our entire neighborhood could benefit. Eventually, streetlights illuminated our street. Through his efforts, we were annexed into the city of Long Beach, which allowed us the privilege of other city services.
My father’s greatest accomplishment was working against the realtors who had instigated the “white flight” in Compton for their own financial gain. My father was disheartened at the fear tactics that the realtors used and led an effort to halt them in their tracks as they sought to move south into our neighborhood. He gained agreement among our integrated neighborhood that we would stand firm and not sell, no matter how much we were pressured.
My father’s volunteerism became an example I followed throughout my life. His dedication to community service was passed on to me via osmosis, just as his blue eyes and chin dimple were passed on by his physical DNA.
Fresh out of college, I joined VISTA, where I worked in an impoverished neighborhood in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to create a camp for underprivileged children. After VISTA, I became a teacher, working with children with severe motor and sensory disabilities.
One of my favorite volunteer projects was working with The Portrait Project, where volunteer photographers, hair stylists, and make-up artists work together to create quality portraits for homeless people in the Bay Area. The project sets up a temporary photo studio with an assortment of fine clothing that homeless individuals can choose to wear if they like. There was an atmosphere of excitement that was contagious, and I found myself wanting to take the best portraits possible. As person after person stepped into the light, I could instantly see their posture straighten, their heads lift a little higher, sincere smiles. One gentleman—early fifties, wearing a stylish tweed blazer, dark hair brushed back and shining—posed with a big smile, displaying his missing teeth. As I handed him his photos, his smile returned, and he said, “I am going to send these to my mother in Idaho, so she can see that I’m doing good.”
I’m retired now, and I presently volunteer at Jack London State Historic Park. On the short list to be closed due to state budget cuts, it is now supported mainly by volunteer power.
A line in The Prayer of St. Francis says, “It is in giving that we receive.” Martin Luther King Jr. challenged, “What are you doing for others?”
By example, my father taught me the joy of service. Although life may toss many disappointments into our lap, we can find true joy in service to others. The minute hand of our life keeps moving forward at a steady rate, no matter how hard we try to slow it down. Giving our time to serve others is the most precious gift we can give. Serving others brings joy to the world. Good will toward men. This is where we find peace on earth. And isn’t that the true message of Christmas?