The story I wrote for Christmas with Hot Apple Cider is about my Christmas trip during the year I taught in Bangladesh.
A young woman all alone in an unfamiliar country…or is she?
That Bangladesh year is an experience I’d never want to give up. Living in an impoverished, developing country, in a rich culture so different from my own, I learned so much and grew so much. I loved learning some Bangla language and speaking it on the street. I delighted in looking at the faces of my international students, and marveling at the myriad ways God had made them beautiful. And I realized how incredibly and undeservedly privileged I was, simply because I carried a Canadian passport and I spoke English.
But that year in Bangladesh is also one I wouldn’t want to repeat. It was the year I learned, to my sorrow, that I can’t expect everyone to be honest, including people of my own culture and faith background. I also discovered character traits in myself that I wasn’t pleased to see—and I didn’t know what to do about them.
And then, when I came home from that life-transforming year, I was sad to discover that many of my loved ones didn’t want to hear about it.
No, I wouldn’t want to repeat it, except perhaps to do it differently, with more maturity, patience, wisdom.
That Christmas trip, in the midst of a difficult year, began as one of the painful times, with multiple obstacles in my path. But after a turning point—which you’ll read about in “One Red Christmas Apple”—that trip became one of the sweetest times of my year. It was like an oasis in a desert.
Yet over the years, when I’ve looked back, I’ve most remembered the obstacles, the disappointments, and the betrayals. And when I began to write “One Red Christmas Apple,” I was surprised to realize I’d never told that story to anyone, not even to my closest friends.
So as soon as I finished writing the first rough draft, I sent it to a friend. Somehow, I felt comfort because I wasn’t alone in the experience anymore.
Then, as I continued working on the story, I realized that the act of putting the story into words—just typing it into my computer—was bringing me healing. It brought light to the pain I’d hidden all those years. It gave me courage to face my own mistakes, and strength to let go of the hurts caused by others. And it gave me freedom to remember, and be grateful for, the sweeter time of that Bangladesh year.
The turning point event of “One Red Christmas Apple”—you’ll know what I mean when you read it—was a moment when God reached into my murky little life to show me that He still saw me, remembered me, and actively cared for me. Twenty-one years later, when I finally wrote the story about that moment, I had another moment when God reminded me of His care. Even in my immaturity and foolishness, He loved me. I wasn’t worthy of it. I couldn’t have earned it. But He loved me anyway.
I’m much wiser now—more mature, I hope—but I’m still in need of God’s love and care. And He still reaches out to give it, every single day.
Laureen F. Guenther is a freelance writer and elementary school teacher who lives near Calgary, Alberta. She has written Sunday school curriculum, ministry training guides, and hundreds of newspaper stories. Her story “Not the Love I Was Looking For” was published in Hot Apple Cider with Cinnamon. When Laureen looks back on the year she wrote about in Christmas with Hot Apple Cider, she celebrates the reminder that the God who watched over her then is still watching over her today.
A gift given, with no thought of reward in return is heart-warming. When it is given by a complete stranger, it can fill one with awe. Surely, God is at work in that place. Great story. Mine is similar but not so exotic.
Although I ran through the warrens of Toronto Airport, after one of my trips to a Teachers’ Federation meeting, I did not make it to my plane and no later one was available. Complete strangers, a couple, saw my upset and offered to take me into their home. They would be ready to go as soon as the person they were seeing off at departed.
I was very nervous about accepting the offer. Perhaps it was a trick of some sort. Did they hang around the airport waiting for victims? But, I’d prayed about it and Gayle and her husband took me to their home. It turned out that one of them was a Christian and the other, a seeker. We had a good conversation.
I played with their daughter and after supper I then slept in the playroom after she’d gone off to her bedroom. I used their phone to tell my husband not to meet me as planned. More experienced with travel surprises than I, they helped me to arrange for a replacement ticket and, after food and shower, I was taken to the airport for another try at travelling on one of the small planes that flew directly to Petawawa . Having landed safe and sound at the airport (that is the equivalent of a few blocks from our house on Airport Road), thanks to the strangers’ kindness I was soon back in my own home, with an adventure to relate as part of my next sermon concerning God’s care.