A criminal Christmas

 I spent one of the most memorable Christmases of my life under house arrest.

Hal and I were first term missionaries in Bolivia and ready to head off on a well-earned vacation on the Peruvian coast. We had our two toddlers with us and were looking forward to giving them their first time at the ocean, making sand castles, running in the surf, collecting shells—the whole bit. It was December, summer in South America. We were going to spend one night with our friends in the coastal city of Tacna, on route to the beach house we had rented.

Before crossing the border between Bolivia and Peru, Hal parked the car and began the legal red tape for entering the country. We noticed that the immigration agent who would process our documents was drunk, but he seemed to know what he was doing. After a few hours of going from one office to another, our travel permission was stamped and we were off.

The trip over the mountain pass and down to the coastal plains took the rest of the afternoon and we were tired when we reached Everett and Alda’s home. Everett suggested we exchange our money for Peruvian pesos that afternoon, so he and Hal headed off to the local bank. The bank clerk took our $250 traveler’s check, looked over our documents, then told Hal he would have to check in at the police station first.

Hal and Everett walked over to the police building. The police had been notified and were waiting. They immediately told Hal he was under arrest and made ready to lead him to a cell. Our crime—neglecting to declare our money at the border!—thanks to the drunk agent who apparently forget to inform us. Everett began reasoning with the officials and at one point actually got down on his knees and pleaded for them to place Hal under house arrest, promising to be a faithful jailor. It worked.

Back at our friends’ home, we noticed the security guard out in the street, keeping watch lest we should try to escape. We expected that we could resolve this snafu within a few days and head on to the beach. That was not to be. We remained under house arrest for six weeks. That included Christmas.

By God’s grace, we all found ways to cope with the situation and enjoyed our time together in the small house. We spent times in agonizing prayer, other times playing board games, with lots of good food and conversation. Even the kids seemed happy (not knowing what they were missing).

After about three weeks, city officials apparently decided we were not hardened criminals about to flee. The security guards in the street disappeared. We were given permission to visit one particular beach just outside the city limits. That meant we were able to celebrate Christmas day with a beach picnic in the summer sun of a Peruvian December. I wrote this poem:

Christmas, 1974
Tacna, Peru

Not snow, but foam
blankets these gentle slopes.
Shells and sand crabs
adorn the ground
and announce the season.
God’s glory spews skyward
in a sun-spangled spray
and gulls cry out
our carols today.
Squatting here before a
baloney-and-bread banquet,
it seems not incongruous
to celebrate the Babe
in this place,
to sit in the sand,
join hands
and sing out,
“Joy to the world,
the Lord is come!”

To make the rest of the story short, we were eventually pardoned and able to head back home. We never did make it to the beach cabin. But now, these many years later, the memory is a happy one. It reminds me that Christmas is more then snow and presents and being in familiar settings. We were with friends, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, we banqueted on baloney. It was truly one of my most memorable Christmases.