I won’t forget the crisp sound of the slap as their hands met in the air. It was the sound of understanding. A surprising moment of connection, not just of flesh but of hearts; an unspoken agreement between two strangers who, for a moment at least, identified completely with one another.



They could have been a lot alike. In some ways, I guess they were. They were both boys, born and living in Atlanta. They were about the same age and smaller than they’d like to be. They had little sisters, loved hot dogs, and played basketball. And for this one afternoon, they sat side-by-side at a table while people in Santa hats mingled around them, sharing hugs and good cheer for the holiday fast approaching. They could have been a lot alike . . . but they weren’t.



One hand much lighter. Our son. Born into all the good fortune a life can hold. Two parents living together, both educated, one a provider of income and insurance. Two sets of healthy grandparents. A warm and safe home. Plenty of love. Plenty to eat. Plenty to wear. Plenty to play with. Plenty of everything. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



One hand shades darker. Her son. Born into another set of circumstances. A single mother, uneducated, working nights to support her three children. A grandmother addicted to drugs. Ten aunts and uncles; some placed out of reach in undisclosed foster homes. Plenty of love, but not enough of the other things, the things we had brought to give, the things we think of as basic necessities – food, clothes, blankets, toys. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



Funny how easily kids can get along despite their differences. They talked about sports and skateboards. They laughed about sitting on Santa’s lap. They smiled at each other when their mothers told them they could eat their dessert. They both knew why we were there. They might have known they wouldn’t have met otherwise. It didn’t matter. Because for the two hours they were together, they searched for the things they had in common, and when they found something, their hands reached up high, coming together in a celebratory slap of mutual appreciation.



I won’t forget the sound of that slap because I easily could have missed it. You see, when a friend asked if our family would like to participate in an adopt-a-family for Christmas program, I hesitated. I thought about the idea and I actually considered turning it down. With a husband working in commercial real estate, this is the first Christmas in several years that hasn’t caused a significant amount of financial strain, and I wanted to relish in our abundance. I wanted to buy bigger, better gifts for everyone on my list. I wanted to say yes to all the ornament exchanges and spoil family members I never get to spoil and have two Christmas trees instead of one. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’re having our basement renovated. As I write this, there are all kinds of crazy noises coming from below and I can see dust floating in from under the basement door and settling on my kitchen floor. I wanted hardwood floors in the basement. I wanted marble countertops and a glass tile backsplash and travertine floors. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’ve never adopted a family before. My parents used to participate in a similar program when I was a kid, but I wasn’t really involved. My mom and dad would leave my brother and me with a babysitter and deliver “Christmas” to the family they had been matched with in downtown Atlanta. The program my friend invited us to join this year wasn’t a drop-off kind of program. It was a deliver “Christmas” in person kind of program. It was a sit down for lunch in a church fellowship hall with the family you adopted kind of program. That scared me. I was concerned about my own comfort. And so . . . I hesitated.



I don’t know what made me finally agree to participate in the program my friend invited us to be a part of, but we ended up in that church fellowship hall having lunch with our adopted family this past weekend. I left with questions. Why are there such differences between my son and hers?Why is my son so lucky? Why does he get it easy, with an abundance of opportunities surrounding him from every side? Why should someone else’s son have fewer chances? Why should someone else’s son have to fight so hard? Yet, despite my questions, the lasting impression of the day had nothing to do with the inequalities of life I often forget about because they so rarely impact me in a negative way. The image that will remain with me is the picture of my son and hers, their hands clasped together.



I don’t have the answers to my questions, and I never will, but I know God does. I think he was looking down on us in that church fellowship hall, rejoicing in the glorious sound as two of his children, so different and yet so much the same, found a reason to share, smile, and give one another a high five.

And next year . . . I won’t hesitate.