Women give significantly more to charity than their male peers—around twice as much—even though women generally earn eighty cents for every dollar men earn.
When I was a resident at CLARE, donors showed up at Christmastime with gifts, and I was given a cuddly teddy bear. My roommate wasn’t there that day, so the program director suggested I hold an extra teddy bear for her, but then changed her mind. Later, when my roommate returned, the director asked me for the second teddy bear, but I told her I only had one. She didn’t believe me, and I had to give up my own cuddly bear. Looking back all these years later, she was probably just confused, but you couldn’t have told me that then. I was deeply hurt, and it was so early in my recovery that feeling like I wasn’t being believed could have been enough to tip my boat.
When the first Christmas came around at A New Way of Life, I thought about that teddy bear and made a commitment that every resident would get a gift of her own. It had been a long time since I’d had any type of Christmas, but the day after Thanksgiving I bought a tree, just like Daddy had done, and we all decorated it. Then I got to work soliciting donations so I could buy gifts.
In the winter of 2002, I was asked to speak before the Orange County chapter of Women of Vision, a faith-based volunteer organization. Afterward, Nancy Daley, a petite brunette, approached me. “You are anointed to do what you’re doing,” she said. I chuckled, saying if only she knew how I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off making sure everyone in the house had a Christmas gift. A smile spread across Nancy’s face. Then she asked if her group could be our Santa Claus.
Back at the house I instructed everyone to make a Christmas list. One woman looked at me, puzzled. A list? It was her first Christmas in twenty years.
“Write down things that you wish for, but also that are practical,” I explained. So many of the women had never before been asked what they wanted, and they were filled with joy at the simple act of writing to the Women of Vision about things they loved, their favorite colors, and what they needed. I sent the lists to Nancy, and she paired one of her women to shop for each one of ours.
Two weeks before Christmas, fancy SUVs pulled up to the house, and out hopped a couple dozen white women and a handful of children. But the Women of Vision hadn’t shown up with just one gift for each woman: they had carloads of gift-wrapped presents.
The amount of gifts—and the quality—was remarkable. No expense had been spared: ten computer tablets for the women’s schooling, a TV, a printer. But more than that, each gift included a card with a woman or child’s name on it. Most of the residents were accustomed to hand-me-downs, if anything at all, so to hold a beautifully wrapped gift with your name on it, a gift that was purchased especially for you—that really meant something.
“Thank you for allowing us to come into your lives,” Nancy announced as we gathered together. “We pray over your names and your gifts, and we want the best for you.” Song sheets were passed around, and everyone clasped hands, women and children, black and white, South L.A. and Orange County. Together we sang “Silent Night” and “Jingle Bells.”
This marked the beginning of a wonderful tradition. For fourteen Christmases now, the Women of Vision have come with their arms and hearts full, wanting nothing in return. Each year, as we gather together, I ask if any of the women would like to say thank you and tell a little about themselves.
One year, Rachel, who was the sweetest woman and relatively new to A New Way of Life, stood up before the group. Ready to go to her job at a nearby sandwich shop, she was outfitted in a matching cap and apron. “I got caught up in gangbanging and trying to be part of something I wasn’t,” she said. Then she paused, as the tears came. The Women of Vision gathered around her, grabbing hold of her hands, rubbing her back. Rachel took a deep breath and continued, “They told me we were loyal and a family, but I witnessed awful crimes where women were taken advantage of. And I stayed silent.” When Rachel had first arrived she told me how a gun was put to her head and she was ordered to go get another girl. She did, and the girl was gang-raped. In court, Rachel had been too scared to talk about what had really happened, terrified the gang would seek revenge against her family. She was also shamed to the core that she’d played a part in this crime, even though she, too, had been a victim.
She continued, her lip quivering. “Now I am a registered sex offender.” She cringed at the words. “I have a curfew, and have to wear this ankle monitor. I am so ashamed. I always wear flare legs to cover it. I encourage the kids here, stick with your families. Listen to your mom, and know that you always have your family. I thought I had nobody, but that wasn’t true. I am so bitter I stayed silent when I saw awful things happening.”
“There’s a difference between hurt and bitter,” I offered up. “And I don’t see bitter in you, Rachel, I see hurt. But you will heal.”
Another woman who was new to the house, Tara, was next to tell her story. “I found out about A New Way of Life in the prison yard,” she said, then her face turned steely. Tara’s guard was raised high, because that’s how she had survived a life of people taking from her and preying off her.
“What are you grateful for, Tara?” I asked.
She crossed her arms. She started sentences but kept stopping. I knew what was going on, because Tara reminded me of how I’d once been. Gratitude was buried so far under a heaping pile of hurt and pain and disappointment, it wasn’t even an emotion you could access. Miraculous growth was possible, though, and, some months later, Tara would come to me after her tennis bracelet, a cherished gift from her mother, who’d died while she was in prison, went missing. She told me it was so hard not to react with violence. “But how you’ve been talking with me, Ms. Burton, that was teaching me how to respond.” This, to me, was a major marker: having the maturity to handle what life throws at you.
Next, a soft-spoken woman, her hands resting on the shoulders of a teenage boy, stood before the Women of Vision. “This is my son,” she began. “This is the first time I’ve told my story in front of my children, but I’ve written them about it. I am ashamed of what I’ve done, but not of who I am. I abused my stepdaughter. I had become a product of my rage and hurt. I was being abused, and then I hurt someone I had power over. By the grace of God, she forgave me, she’s twenty today. I’m not my past, my past doesn’t define me.”
Though we were supposed to wait for Christmas Day to open the gifts, some of the Women of Vision snuck upstairs, where Sonya, a young woman who’d done well at A New Way of Life, was packing a suitcase to move to Oregon, where relatives and a fresh start awaited. “Open them now,” the Women of Vision urged. Sonya unwrapped a pair of Ugg boots and a colorful fleece. “Ooo, I need warm things for where I’m going,” she said, beaming.
“I know you wanted a Bible,” one of the Women of Vision said as Sonya unwrapped her final gift. “So we got you a pink one. Whenever you pick it up, know we are thinking about you.”