This is a revision and reprint of a story I posted two years ago.
Merry Christmas!
“Look Daddy,
it’s Santa!” said my four-year old daughter. I looked up from serving soup in
the homeless shelter and saw an old man with a bushy white beard holding a soup
bowl.
I smiled and
poured him a large scoop of hot soup. “Did anybody ever tell that you look
exactly like - ”
“Santa Claus?”
he said as he stroked his beard. “Yes, Because I am Santa Claus.” His face was blank. No jolly laugh. No twinkling
eyes. No ho, ho, ho.
“Don’t worry,”
I said to my worried daughter. “He’s not the real Santa. The real Santa lives
at the North Pole and is a jolly old elf.”
“Ho, Ho, Ho,”
he replied without enthusiasm. He took his soup and moved on.
I continued to
serve the other homeless patrons, but couldn’t take my eyes, or mind, off of
the Santa look-alike. He sat alone in the corner like a forgotten man sipping
at his soup. As soon as I finished serving, I sought him out.
I slid into
one the cold metal chair across from him. “Feel better after the soup?” I
asked.
“Like a bowl
full of jelly,” he replied without smiling.
“You know," I started, "I’m
sorry that life has been hard on you, but you didn’t have to burst my little
girl’s bubble. She still believes in Santa Claus.”
“Well, I am Santa Claus.”
“I
know you look like Santa, but - ”
“Santa Claus
is just a fictional character to help make Christmas magical,” he mocked. “You
don’t even believe in Santa Claus, and yet you lecture me on not bursting your little girl’s bubble?”
My face
flushed with a touch of anger, and shame.
“Most people
don’t believe anything they can’t see or touch anymore,” he continued. “How can
you believe in the miraculous birth of the Son of God if you can’t even believe
in Santa Claus when he’s sitting right in front of you?”
“I guess
you’ve got a point,” I mumbled as I stood to go. “Merry Christmas.”
Over the next
few days my conversation with homeless Santa haunted me. He was right. Like
everyone else in the world, I had become cynical, even hypocritical. Everything
in my life had to be proven or verified. I didn’t believe in Santa Claus, yet I
perpetuated the story with my daughter because I wanted to believe.
When my boss
asked for volunteers to organize the office Christmas party, I got an idea. I
told everyone at my office about my encounter with homeless Santa and asked if
we could sponsor him. We could take up a collection to buy him new clothes, and
a few Christmas presents, and he could come play Santa Claus at our company
party. I spoke with the director of the homeless shelter and made all the
arrangements.
Homeless Santa
came to our office party dressed for the part – traditional red suit, black
boots, and bag full of toys. He gladdened hearts with his rosy cheeks and his
hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho!” He had a magical touch with children, and my daughter
beamed as she sat on his lap.
As the party
finished, we gave him our gifts. He cried openly at our generosity, and we
joined him, but they were tears of joy. By the end of the night, we all
believed in Santa Claus.
That Christmas
Eve, my daughter put out milk and cookies for Santa before she hurried off to
bed. The next morning the cookies were gone and the milk had been replaced with
a note –
“Inasmuch as you have done it unto the
least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.” Thank you for believing in me!
Santa Claus
(P.S. I moved back to the North Pole.)
This entry was posted
on Friday, December 23, 2011
at Friday, December 23, 2011
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