Dec 15, 2023 4 min read

Sizing down to a smaller place meant a smaller Christmas tree, and so when I saw the post on a social media site this week, I got out a box and started culling.

The post was from a woman who is facing the holiday without a home. She was asking for help to give her several children – and her aging father – at least something of a Christmas. She wasn’t asking for money, but for decorations, maybe clothing for the kids, and even food if someone could help.

I poked through my boxes of decorations and found things I no longer need: strings of lights, some red and gold plastic balls, a rope of evergreen garland, a plastic sleeve of silver jingle bells, and a table runner that never did quite fit my dining room table.

And then I went to my pantry and pulled out some of the things I buy too much of because when I’m in the store, I always forget what I have at home. There were boxes of mac and cheese, a bag of unpopped popcorn, cans of soup, ramen noodles – things like that. Altogether it was two bags of simple things that might brighten and warm up a hotel room.

Because that’s where the family is spending the holiday – at a hotel. I drove the 10 minutes there, took the items to the lobby and asked for the woman by name. As I waited for the family to come down to the lobby, I spoke with the desk attendant.

She told me some of her rooms are filled with people who are running away from something: domestic violence nearby or a war far away. She said that one man sleeping there tonight had lost his home to fire.

Social service agencies place homeless and refugee families in hotels, paying the $70 or so per night and offering transportation, food and other support to help them get settled here. Some residents stay a week and others stay for months.

“Sometimes the language is a barrier,” the lobby attendant said, noting that the adults resettled here from other countries often send their young children to the front desk to ask for help, because the youngsters learn English more quickly.

You’ll see these hotels all over our communities, large and boxy buildings with names like “suites” and “extended stay.” I’ve always thought they were mostly designed to serve single people who are getting settled in a new town as they house hunt and begin a new job – and that’s probably partly true. But now I have a different understanding of those places. They help people who have fled their homes – and in some cases, homelands – with nothing but what they were wearing and could carry. Among them are elderly people and little kids.

After I waited in the lobby for a few minutes, a man and a little boy emerged around the corner. I handed them the bags and wished them well. Both of them thanked me.

“Merry Christmas,” the grandfather said.

I don’t know what happened to this family, and it’s none of my business to know. Driving home, I thought about that mother who asked for help in such a vulnerable and public way. I thought about those of us who are fortunate enough to have safety nets of family and friends who would offer us their guest rooms and meals if we ever found ourselves lost and adrift.

Tonight not far from us, displaced families are trying to get by in a couple of rooms in a hotel. Geez, that would be hard at any time. But it’s Christmas.