Open your heart—open it wide; someone is standing outside.
~Mary Engelbreit
My foster mother stooped in front of me and slicked back my hair. “We want you looking real nice when you go to meet these people today. They’re thinking about adopting you, you know.”
I sighed and looked over at my younger brother and sister. Even though I was only nine, I was old enough to know that this day could be the most important one of our lives. Whether we would be better off after this day, though, or worse, I had no idea.
By any standard, our lives had already been tough. Raised by impoverished Native Americans, we had moved more times than I could count. By the time I finished second grade, I had attended seven schools. We had even lived on an Oklahoma reservation for a time. Both of our parents were alcoholics.
We learned early in life that nothing could be counted on, that no one was dependable. Sometimes our parents would take us to the afternoon matinee at the local theater, then not return until after the final evening show was over, if then. We sat and watched the same movie over and over until the theater manager told us we had to leave. Then we’d go outside and sit on the curb until our parents finally came.
There were already six of us when my mother went to the hospital to have another baby. Only, she came back without the child. We found out later that she had given the little girl away to someone at the hospital.
Then my father left. We didn’t understand why. We just knew that he was gone, and I, as the oldest boy, thought it must be my fault. Why else would a father leave his family, unless the children were just terrible?
After that, two of our sisters were taken away. We didn’t know they had been given up for adoption. We only knew that everything around us was falling apart, and we were terrified of what would happen next.
We were headed for disaster, and it seemed that no one had the power to prevent it. All crammed into one bed, we often fell asleep crying with hunger.
Then one day, my mother met a man who said he loved her but didn’t want a ready-made family. I don’t know if the decision was hard or easy for her, but at the end of my second-grade year, she signed us over to an adoption agency and walked out of our lives.
Life in the foster home wasn’t too bad at first. Although we missed our mother, at least we had beds to sleep in and got three meals a day—plain, unadorned food, yes, but when you’ve gone to bed hungry as often as we had, you learned to appreciate the basics. Our foster mother was nice enough, but we soon discovered that our foster father also had a “drinking problem,” along with a violent temper.
And now this. What could we expect to happen this day? Would the family like us? Would they want us? What if the adoptive family had “drinking problems” too? Worst of all, what if they only wanted one or two of us, but not all? I didn’t think I could stand losing any more of my family. As we bundled into the car with the adoption worker, my stomach knotted in apprehension.
We were supposed to meet the family at a church in a small neighboring town. As we pulled into the church parking lot, I saw a man and a woman get out of a car and walk toward us. They looked nice, but I had already learned that looks could be deceiving.
We met the people, whose names were Don and Dixie Hill. I don’t remember much that was said, but after a while, Mrs. Hill suggested that since it was almost Christmas, we should all go over to their house and have a snack. The adoption worker agreed, so we climbed into the car once again and followed the Hills to their home.
I’ll never forget the moment I walked into that house. An intoxicatingly sweet aroma permeated the house and assaulted all my senses. What was it? My mouth watered and my stomach growled a pitiful request. Mrs. Hill looked down at me and smiled.
“I’ll bet you’ve never had Christmas fruitcake, have you? I just baked one fresh this morning. Would you like a piece?”
Would I? As we sat at the table and waited for our treat, I looked around the warm, comfortable house and realized I would like to live there. But life had been filled with so many disappointments already that I knew not to get my hopes up.
Then the fruitcake was placed before me. I could see the dried fruits and nuts oozing out of the rich brown cake, and the smell was even more tantalizing now that it was so close.
I looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Hill, who were smiling encouragingly. I looked at my younger brother and sister, who were already eating ravenously. I picked up my fork, cut a piece carefully, and slipped it into my mouth.
I had never tasted anything so delicious in my entire life—the sweetness was beyond anything I had ever imagined. How could people who didn’t even know us share such an incredible treat with us? Surely they had important grown-up friends they could have saved this for. Each bite I took filled a need in my stomach but opened a bigger one in my heart.
These people didn’t know how bad we were, I remember thinking. They didn’t know we had driven our own father away or that we were so terrible that our mother chose some strange man over us. They were probably just being nice because the adoption agency worker was there.
But as our visit ended and we prepared to leave, I knew I wanted to live with this family forever. Oh, how I hoped they wanted us too!
It turned out that they did want us—all of us. That Christmas, a childless couple in northern California opened their home and their hearts to three little Indian kids who had no concept of unconditional love.
In the days and years to come they would teach us about Jesus, the first and best Christmas gift, and the God who loves us all, no matter what side of the tracks we come from. They gave us a home and a hope, and pointed the way to God and His eternal love. And it all started with a fresh-that-morning Christmas fruitcake!
