Spreading the gift of guilt: my experience as a Salvation Army bellringer [Connor]

Joy filled my heart as I decided to sign up to ring a bell for the Salvation Army at Christmastime. What a wonderful way to display my love for my fellow man.

You can imagine the joy that filled my heart when I learned that you can get PAID to ring the bell.

What's more, I learned, it was decent pay; nothing you could support a family with, but it certainly tops the minimum wage I work for in the summer. Needless to say, I was on board. The next day, my friend Sam and I showed up at the Employment Solutions office in charge of hiring bellringers.

At this point I should clarify the job to which I refer: I'm talking about the people dressed as Santa* standing outside of Walmart, shouting "Merry Christmas" to random passersby and, of course, ringing a bell, all in the hopes that the random passersby drop money in a little pot next to the Santa. As far as I'm aware, no Santa has ever stolen the pot of money.

So there we were, me and Sam, men on a mission, applying for the position of bellringer. There are two kinds of bellringers: the volunteers and the paid workers. Signing up to be a paid worker takes slightly more paperwork, the helpful registration lady informed us. You'd think, of course, that we'd sign our names somewhere, maybe show them our driver's licenses and, if they were really thorough, be given a five-minute orientation ("Bell goes this way. . . Bell goes that way. . . You're doing good so far!")

No.

The registration packet was approximately as long as the Old Testament and contained sections for previous job experience, detailed character references, and waivers out the wazoo. In addition, we had to provide three forms of ID, including our social security cards. Finally, we had to watch a 30-minute orientation video. (Really.)

Midway through the paperwork, Sam and I looked at each other, nodded, and threw our papers in the trash.

"We'd like to volunteer instead," we told the helpful registration lady.

"Ok, sign your names on this paper. What shift do you want?" was her response.

Two days later, we stood outside Walmart wearing Santa hats.** It's quite a fun job, actually. The object is to get people to make eye contact with you, leaving them with no other choice but to dredge up a few coins out of their pockets to drop in the pot. People would go to amazing lengths to look anywhere but at the guy in the Santa hat waving and calling cheerily to them. They'd do a kind of hurried shuffle past me, staring transfixed at a stained ceiling tile. "Merry Christmas!" I'd shout to them with true Christmas spirit, joyfully spreading the gift of guilt. One of those people later drove past me in a shiny new Mercedes. I hope somebody scratches it with their keys.

In society's defense, not everybody tried to dodge us Santa had-clad volunteers. In particular, my thanks goes out to the guy who donated the $100 bill. In case he should ever happen to read this blog, I'd like to thank him on behalf of myself and Santa hat-wearing people in general: Thank you for your generosity. We tip our Santa hats to you.

And to the rest of you: [A late] Merry Christmas.

Ha! You made eye contact.

*In the sense of wearing a Santa hat and being human. All similarities tend to end there. You don't want your kids to get their impression of Santa from the bellringer Santas outside Walmart; they could grow up in the belief that Santa is a large black woman.

**In addition to other clothes. Don't want to give kids the wrong impression of Santa.

An Albuquerque Christmas

My mom asked me, in lieu of a traditional Christmas card in which the family members’ achievements over the course of the year are detailed and quickly forgotten by the reader, to write up a summary of our recent Christmas trip.

With that boring introduction out of the way, let me back up — a little over a year ago, I got home from serving an LDS mission to New Mexico. Our family elected to head back there to see the sights and visit some of the people I’d met during my time there.

Now, just to clarify, our family includes Dad, enjoying the reprieve after his recent release as bishop; Mom, always at work keeping the house from disintegrating into utter mayhem; me, Ryan, a genius writer majoring in communication at BYU-Idaho; Reilly, currently in France Connor, a sophomore in high school, beginning the long road to understanding girls; Dillon, future NFL coach currently enduring junior high; Abby, a feisty little girly-girl who bleeds pink; and Quinn, everyone’s favorite youngest brother.

Before the trip could begin in earnest, however, we had to endure the ride down there. From Rigby, Idaho, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, is about fourteen hours in a car, theoretically. There’s a little-known theory of relativity devised by Albert Einstein’s half-brother Alberto that states the number of hours in a car grows exponentially when influenced by the amount of passengers in a vehicle, the amount of random stuff accumulated underfoot, and the ratio of juices boxes and jerky to actual food. All in all, the drive to Albuquerque took about fourteen years, but we made it.

Our first site of interest was Mesa Verde, a spot in southern Colorado where ancient Pueblo Indian ancestors built homes into the sides of the cliffs. Next, we went to church in a small town on the Navajo reservation called Crownpoint, where I served for four months about two years ago. I was pleased to see all the same people I had known there, and I was especially happy to learn that several of the people whose baptisms I had a hand in were still active and holding callings. There are few things more rewarding for a returned missionary (one of which is finding a wife, but that’s a ramble for another year’s Christmas letter).

Then we embarked. In the Albuquerque area, two things stood out. First, I’d forgotten how many drunks, homeless people and generally scary people there are in the otherwise enchanting city of Albuquerque. Of course, even the hairiest, most insane denizen of the ghetto deserves a decent Christmas, so we collected gift bags for the homeless people and went around giving them out. Next, we visited Sky City on Christmas, an Acoma village built directly on top of a mesa and observed a sacred dance in which villagers dressed as elk danced in an old Spanish mission before gun-bearing honor guards.

In the end, we returned to Idaho a little tired, a little carsick, and a little weary of fighting one another for a bed. But our hearts, like our stomachs and our bladders, were full by the time we finished the long car ride.

It was an amazing experience, to be sure; it was a welcome departure from the Christmas traditions, which, unless we’re careful, can become as rote as a second-rate nativity play.

I know it sounds corny, but it’s true. If you ever have the chance to serve a mission, do it. If you have the chance to go back, do it. And if you have the chance to eat Navajo tacos, do not put barbecue sauce in them. It messes you up.

Happy New Year.