A Real Christmas Story

While they were there the time came for her to give birth. She gave birth to a son, her firstborn. She wrapped him in blankets and laid him in a manger, because there was no room in the hostel. (Luke 2:6,7)

This year, I was meant to spend Christmas in Kumily, a hill station in Kerala famous for tea and spices. Instead, the host for the week could not accommodate our group. Even as we persisted, suggesting we find our own lodging in town, he said a visit would be impossible and told us to look elsewhere. We were officially turned away at the inn.

As the highlight stop on our 8-week trip, we took a hit. We felt the loss of the destination – we had been looking forward to the visit for some time. We got rejected, like we had been pushed aside for other priorities. Lastly, we felt the challenge of having been pushed out on a special occasion, a time when we just wanted to be near family and celebrate an important day. To be sure, this was the closest I’ve ever identified with the real Christmas story in my whole life.

With a week of time now available and with only one week to plan for it, we now had a unique opportunity. Nigel and I brought it to the group, suggesting each take some time to consider it and to try and search for what might be right for our Christmas.

To my surprise two people came up with the same idea: Pondicherry. The old French colonial city looked close on the map they had seen in their respective journals and both thought it might fit. As we had no other real leads, we took it on board. Curiously, a couple of hours later we got a phone call from the couple that would be joining us over the holidays – knowing our dilemma but not knowing the aforementioned conversation, they also suggested Pondicherry. A further call that night to two senior members of our team traveling in Gujarat gave rise to the same thought. It seemed more than a coincidence. We had found our star Star of Bethlehem and set to work on finding our way there.

The road would prove difficult. We took things into our own hands, knowing that we would have to exhaust very contact to find a place in the tourist destination in a holiday season. We had lots of secondary contacts through friends in South India so we began asking them to make calls on our behalf. From bankers and school teachers, to Catholic fathers and shop owners and even a few strangers, we mentioned the idea to everyone. Loads of phone calls went out across South India.

But nothing came back and the days started counting down. Our best contacts came up with little. Housing 11 people in one place seemed impossible. Beyond that, they couldn’t their seemed no rooms available in Pondicherry at a price that would suit us. Not by a lot. Most quotes came back at two to three times the money we had to spend and those were the reasonable rooms. Was our leading off base? Was Pondicherry just some happy dream we’d had that would disappear in a moment?

We persisted. A trip to a conference in Coimbatore brought some new options, but again, nothing came through. It started to get desperate and we settled in on a plan B. We would leave Salem early for our next town. Christmas, it seemed, would be in Coimbatore.

But something happened at that conference. My friend Nigel was sitting in the meeting hall and had a clear thought. “Francis, the professor from Dharmapuri will be the one who pulls through.” It seemed a far off possibility. We had met Francis on only two brief occasions a week earlier and he had little knowledge of who we were or what we did. But, he did live in Pondicherry and he was going home for the holidays. He seemed like out best shot and we held out hope for it.

We spoke to him two days before we would need to leave and nothing had come through. But on the eve of our departure (either for Pondicherry or Coimbatore), we were back in Salem and we got a call from Francis. Through a friend of his brother, he found a place that had 11 beds for us and right on our budget. Impossible we thought. No one had even sniffed anything near to this kind of offer. We brought it back to the team, setting out a clear understanding that this “to good to be true” offer, was certainly likely to be so. I told everyone to lower their expectations, thinking something must be off, but everyone agreed and we had a goodbye dinner in Salem before packing up for the beach.

It was a risk. The bus ride would be 7 hours and we didn’t know much about what was at the destination other than a promised hotel room and our new friend and lifesaver Francis. (And actually, he couldn’t get early leave from school to receive us, so we would be picked up by an Indian-Frenchman name Gerrard at the bus stand). Two legs later we rolled past the coconut trees and through the gates of the city. Opening the door onto the dusty platform of the bus stand, we felt the hot Southern heat pour down on us in the mid afternoon. “Well, I thought, we did our part. If this is a journey on faith, then we did it. We’re here.”

I turned to my phone and dialed up Gerrard’s number. He couldn’t understand much of what I said, but true to Francis’s word, he was at the stand and we quickly found each other. Within another few minutes we had boarded our 8-weeks of luggage into three auto-rickshaws and were onto the Raj Lodge.

We arrived at the inn. We waited. We waited some more. Lots of Tamil speaking brought up a lot of doubt in our minds. It seemed one room for four was available, but our other seven beds were out. End of the road. But then, the last Christmas miracle in this story. Somehow, through a bunch of phone calls and nudges, the rooms opened up. We had three guaranteed nights for the 11 fresh-arrivals. Incredible.

One big step of faith returned with one big grip of faithfulness.

We dropped our stuff and walked to the water, passing the normal sights that have become regular. The family of buffalo grazing on the local rubbish pile. The near-death flashes with out of control rickshaw drivers. The warm smile of the juice man. The desperate face of the beggar. Signs in Tamil and English started to include French. Basic Tamil architecture started to look more French colonial. Crossing a canal we got to the old French quarter. Tree-lined avenues and a big park for sitting. Feeling near the beach, I went to the head of the pack, eager to see the sea. We turned a final corner and saw the horizon.

In a strange euphoria, I whooped and starting running the final block to the water. As I ran I could feel that this was Virginia Beach – a fading sunset at my back heading into the coming dusk. It was a familiar run for me. I reached the edge of the sea and a massive promenade that rolled far down the water edge. I watched as the storm rocks broke the waves with the spray of high tide and welcomed the salt water on my clothes and face.