Crisis and Compassion
Your small act of kindness could be somebody’s miracle
It should have been idyllic. A postcard come to life. That’s what I envisioned when I booked the train tickets and the hotel room for myself and my two children.
Christmas in the Austrian Alps. What could be better?
We arrived in the little town nestled in the mountains near Salzburg two days before Christmas. With only one adult to wrangle two young children, two suitcases, and one dog, just making it on and off the train was a battle.
The town was small and quaint. The hotel was pleasant. It should have been wonderful.
After lunch at one of the hotel restaurants, a concierge pulled me aside and let me know our beagle had been howling in our room. A guest had complained. I apologized and promised to try to make sure it didn’t happen again, though I had no idea how.
The concierge ended up moving the guest to another room, and I figured out how to make our beagle howl less, but I couldn’t walk past the front desk without cringing for the remainder of the trip.
We explored the town on foot, wandered toward the foot of the ski slopes. One child wanted to go sledding. The other just wanted to have a snow ball fight.
I looked to the ski lifts and realized there was no way we could go to the top. The chair lifts were made for two, and neither of my children could ride alone.
There would be no trips up the mountain for us, and there wasn’t enough snow at the bottom for even a snow angel. I thanked the stars the hotel had a large, indoor heated pool.
Christmas Eve arrived.
I reserved a table at the hotel’s main restaurant. It was a formal meal with several courses.
I thought a festive feast would distract us from my husband’s absence and our great distance from the rest of our family.
The dining room was full of elderly Austrians and Germans dressed in their holiday best. Despite their numbers, the room was quiet and calm.
Our waitress was not the smiling kind.
As she seated us, I saw her wariness. When my children complained about the drinks and the menu, I heard her aggravated sigh.
I shrugged and smiled an apology before she walked away.
The decorations were lovely. The food was delicious. The room was quiet and calm, until my four-year-old son became tearful.
Then, he began sobbing.
Finally, he started screaming.
The soup was too hot. Or, too cold. Or, maybe he wanted chocolate milk and the restaurant only had plain. Whatever it was, he couldn’t bear it, and he wanted everyone to know.
I saw them out of the corner of my eye, the turning of buttoned-up necks, the scrutiny of tight-lipped faces. I heard the mutterings, felt the censure boring into the back of my head.
Lifting my son into my arms, I told my daughter to stay at the table. I’d be right back. I didn’t want the waitress to think we had left.
An eternity passed in the women’s bathroom as I pleaded with, cajoled, and ordered my son to calm down. His screaming ceased, but he remained weepy as we returned to the table.
My daughter’s face was red and wet with tears.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she wailed.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Then, the dam broke.
Christmas Eve. A room full of strangers.
My husband thousands of miles away. My multitude of failures as a mother in the months since he’d left. The many months remaining until he’d return.
My children’s tears on my favorite night of the year, the night that was always magical when I was a child.
It was all too much.
What a sight we must have made.
The waitress came back to the table. When I opened my mouth to explain, to beg her pardon, sobs spilled out instead. She walked away.
A moment later, she returned. She placed one hand on my shoulder and put a glass of wine I hadn’t ordered on the table with the other.
“I have five children,” she said. “It’s okay.”
As she left the table, I lifted my head.
Through watery eyes, I saw encouraging smiles, understanding nods, sympathetic eyes. Grandparents who remembered being parents.
Human beings who recognized fellow creatures in distress.
We wiped our faces. We finished our meal. Back in our room later, we called my husband. We called my parents.
We read The Night Before Christmas and the Bible verses telling of Jesus’ birth. My daughter insisted we read on about Easter as well, because surely the birth wasn’t the end of the story.
I tucked my children in their beds, told them Santa would come soon. I shed a few more tears, but lay my head on my pillow in peace.
We were going to be alright.
Originally published at https://thestorypub.com.
