Here's a new, edited, and improved version of a Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. Merry Christmas!
Homeless Santa
My four-year old daughter tugged at
my sleeve and pointed. “Look Dad. It’s Santa!” she whispered.
I looked up from serving soup in
the homeless shelter and saw an old man with a bushy white beard holding a soup
bowl. Except for the tattered army jacket and his unkempt appearance, he did
look just like jolly old Saint Nicholas, minus the jolly part.
I smiled and filled his bowl with
hot soup. “Did anybody ever tell that you look exactly like – ”
“Santa Claus?” His face was blank.
No jolly laugh. No twinkling eyes. No ho, ho, ho. “Yes, because I am Santa
Claus.” He stared back at me in a way that made feel transparent.
I glanced down at my daughter and
saw her chewing at her bottom lip. “Don’t worry,” I said trying to comfort her.
“He’s not the real Santa. The real Santa lives at the North Pole and is a jolly
old elf.”
The old man stared at me with the
same deadpan look. “Ho, Ho, Ho,” he said as he took his soup and moved on. I
continued to serve soup to the others, but couldn’t take my eyes, or mind, off
of the Santa look-alike as he sat by himself and ate his soup. When I finished
serving, I sought him out.
“Feel better after the soup?” I
asked.
“Like a bowl full of jelly.” He
stared at me with that same blank expression.
I fidgeted in my seat wishing that
maybe I hadn’t initiated this conversation. “You know, I am sorry that life has
been hard to 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 chuckled. “I know you look like
Santa, but – ”
“Santa Claus is just a fictional
character to bring magic to Christmas,” he said. His voice had changed and I
could tell that he was mocking me, along with everyone else who makes that
statement. He pointed his finger at me and continued. “You see, you
don’t even believe in me, and yet you lecture me on not bursting your
little girl’s bubble?”
My face flushed and I looked away.
“Most people don’t believe anything
they can’t see or touch anymore,” he said. “How can you believe in the
miraculous birth of the Son of God when 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.” I stood and walked away with my
tail between my legs.
Over the next few days the
conversation with the homeless Santa troubled me. What should I do? How could I
help? He was right, I didn’t believe in Santa, but I did believe in helping my
neighbor. So when my boss asked for Christmas party suggestions, 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, help him find some temporary
housing, and a buy him few Christmas presents. In return he could come play
Santa at our company party. Everyone loved the idea.
I spoke with the director of the
homeless shelter and made all the arrangements. Everyone contributed generously
and the company matched our efforts. We got him new clothes, shoes and a winter
coat. We found a small private shelter and paid for three months rent. We
bought a month’s worth of food and stocked his shelves. We were all excited
about helping him as the day of the Christmas party arrived.
It was a wonderful party. Homeless
Santa had ditched the tattered army jacket and cleaned up his beard. He came
dressed for the part with the traditional red suit, black boots, and bag full
of toys. He was the life of the party as 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. By the end of the night, we all believed
in Santa Claus.
As the party finished and we gave
him our gifts, he cried openly at our generosity. We joined him, but they were
tears of joy. Everyone called it the best Christmas party ever.
That Christmas Eve, my daughter and
I put out milk and cookies for Santa and waited together by the fire in my big
leather chair. Of course, we both fell asleep long before the clock struck
midnight, and missed our chance to see the jolly old elf. But the next morning
the cookies and 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.)
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