The Red Kettle

The Red Kettle 

This is an insanely personal post. The kind of post I don't normally share, but today somehow felt the need to do just that. 

30 years ago, I was impacted by the Red Kettle. 

I had just turned 10 years old. My mom, who was several months pregnant had just made the most daring choice of her life and moved us 500 miles away from our friends and family to a city where she thought we could make a complete life change. She was barely 27 years old. She had 3 little girls and another "bundle of love" baking in the oven. The father of her two oldest children was at best, MIA, at worst a complete deadbeat of a father. Her husband had recently been convicted of a most heinous crime in our little town and was sentenced to prison for the rest of eternity, or 2019. Whichever came first.

A new start seemed like a breath of fresh air. Married, but might as well have been single, no skills to speak of, virtually no money, she packed us up and we piled onto a grey hound bus bound for Buffalo NY. An eternity later, we arrived at the front door of our new life. And the first Blizzard Buffalo had received since 1977.

We ran out of money almost immediately. We moved from the hotel room that the state gave us vouchers to pay for, and into the Buffalo City Mission's women shelter. We lived there for about 6 months. I remember my mom saying that God loved us because they never let women with children live there that long.

I remember the house. A beautiful, large Blue Victorian home on Linwood Avenue. We occupied the first rooms on the main floor with expansive floor to ceiling windows that let the light in. We had a couch, and a bed, and cots to sleep on. No TV, no phones, just books and crayons and dolls to keep us busy until before and after school.

In the evenings, a white van would come to bring us to the City Mission for Dinner. The driver's name was Bob. He was a stout bearded fellow who had a great laugh, and a kind spirit. I think he was sweet on my mom. He made us laugh with different stories from the mission. We would arrive at the mission, attend Chapel, and then eat in the hall with all the other people who either stayed at the mission or came for dinner. Hundreds of people there, but everyone I remember were kind.

This story isn't about the mission though, it's about The Red Kettle.

The Mission told my mom about the Salvation Army, on Main Street, which is about 1/2 a mile or so away from the beautiful Victorian house. We walked down that long main street, past the businesses and the Delta Sonic gas station, past 2 very large apartment buildings where we would move to the following spring, past what would eventually become my son's daycare center, past two very beautiful large, ornate catholic churches, past what would become our new church (New Life Assembly of God), past restaurants and to the Salvation Army.

My mom spoke with a person at the front counter. She explained to them that we were living at the women's shelter, she had no money, Welfare wasn't giving her any money because she had left one city and there was a 'waiting' period. She had no daycare for us so she could go to work.

They ushered us into a room, and there was Christmas. I remember a large woman standing over me and telling me "Now child, don't just stand there, pick something out!"

There were tables and tables of toys. Brand new toys. Beautiful dolls and cars and robots and My little ponies and pink boxes all piled high. I was overwhelmed. Even as I type this I am overcome with the emotion of it. I remember my mom telling me we were being Santa's helpers and her telling me to pick something out for each of my sisters as well to wrap up for them. After thinking about it for a long time, I finally chose 3 items for us to take home, and then being given a candy cane and wished a Merry Christmas.

We walked home. I beamed, I was so excited. Other people gave us gifts, and clothes, and toys. We had a nice Christmas, we were blessed.

But I remember the Salvation Army. How they gave to us when we had nothing.

And now, I give. $1 here, $5 there, $20 when I have it to give. Every single time I see a Bell Ringer. I cannot walk away from them and not give.

Because in my mind, I imagine another little dirty blonde haired girl standing there in the stacks and stacks of toys, trying to choose just one toy that her little sisters might love.

Thank you Red Kettle. Thank you Bell Ringers. Thank you Salvation Army. You made an impression, and now, 30 years later - I can do a little more than just say Thank you.

2 Corinthians 8:2
They are being tested by many troubles, and they are very poor. But they are also filled with abundant joy, which has overflowed in rich generosity.