We were all poor a long time ago. Some are still poor. I seriously doubt any of us are wealthy today. I have yet to meet an Indian (PC – Native American) from my reservation who can boast of being rich, as in having tons of money. Some had a tumble weed for a Christmas tree, for crying out loud! But…so what? Well, being poor way back when has something to do with this event I am writing about. It’s a Christmas memory that I remember very clearly and fondly, even though I was just a little girl.
I grew up in the church. The first church building was a barrack left behind when the interned Japanese Americans were freed from their confinement. There were three internment camps on my reservation—Camp One, Camp Two, Camp Three—so there were many barracks left behind which the government handed over to the tribe. The Community Church received one. The congregation painted the barrack white and put up a cross to proclaim that it was a Christian church. The worshipers were poor Indian farmers who had very little cash to spare but gladly gave what they could, so the church continued on.
Mr. Wanamaker was a wealthy man from back east. Exactly where from back east he was from, I don’t know, or at least, I don’t remember. I’m not sure how he became a friend of Poston Community Church but he had, and every year he would send money to help with the church’s needs and upkeep. Periodically, he would travel down to visit the church to check on it and to reconnect with the people. He knew how poor the people were and that the children had very little. But he also understood that though we were poor, we were rich in other ways. We had our families, our community, and our church. My late parents had great respect for him for he never looked down on us. He had a heart for God and a desire to help.
On one visit he spoke to the congregation to discuss that year’s donation. He said (according to my mother) that the church could continue to apply the money for church repairs and upkeep but that year it would depend on the children. The children were to have the final say on how the money was to be spent. The parents, including mine, all tried to persuade the children to see it their way, which was to spend the money on the church. But Mr. Wanamaker called the congregation together. He had all the children sit up front on our woodened benches and he spoke the options: give the money to the church fund or use it to buy each of us a gift and a bag of candy. Of course, we all voted for option two. Some parents clucked at our decision but it was final. Mr. Wanamaker said the money was to be spent on Christmas gifts and candy for the children. I remember him smiling broadly back at us. I believe this is the option he had had in his heart all along.
After the Christmas Eve Service that year, we (the children) all formed a line and filed out of the church, receiving a wrapped present and a brown bag full of candy, one orange, and one red apple. A treasure to us! I never forgot the man’s name or that wonderful, joyous night he made possible for a poor little Indian girl.
When I donate to or fill a shoebox for Operation Christmas Child – Samaritan’s Purse, Mr. Wanamaker always comes to mind. To me, he was the first Operation Christmas Child.
Merry Christmas to everyone!