What is Christmas?

It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.—Agnes M. Pahro

A True Christmas Story

By Jay Frankston

  There’s nothing so beautiful as a child’s dream of Santa Claus. I know, because I often had that dream. But I was Jewish and we didn’t celebrate Christmas. It was everyone else’s holiday and I felt left out … like a big party I wasn’t invited to. It wasn’t the toys I missed; it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree.

  So when I got married and had kids, I decided to make up for it. I started with a seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display, and for them it was a Hanukkah bush. It warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited.

  But something was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a “Ho, ho, ho!” So I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume. Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old Santa.

  I went around looking at department store impersonations sitting on their thrones with children on their laps

and flash bulbs going off, and I wasn’t satisfied with the way they looked either. After much effort, I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me: a rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair. It was not the real thing, but it looked genuine enough to live up to a child’s dream of St. Nick.

  When I tried it on, something happened. I looked in the mirror, and there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood. There he was … and it was me. I felt like Santa, like I became Santa. My posture changed. I leaned back and pushed out my false stomach. My head tilted to the side and my voice got deeper and richer with a “MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!”

  For two years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and delight and to my total

enjoyment. And when the third year rolled around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more room than I had given him. So I sought to accommodate him by letting him do his thing for other children. I called up orphanages and children’s hospitals and offered his services for free. But, “We don’t need Santa; we have all sorts of donations from foundations and… thank you for calling.” And the Santa in me felt lonely and useless.

  Then, one late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter, and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot. She was maybe six years old. “Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?” she asked. “Well, you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it,” the mother said, and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box. My mind began to whirl. All those thousands of children who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmastime, whatever became of their letters?

  One phone call to the main post office answered my question. They told me that as of the last week of

November, an entire floor of the post office was needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from

different sections of the city.

  The Santa in me went “Ho, ho, ho!” and we headed down to the post office. And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps, addressed to Santa Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationery. I rummaged through them and laughed. Most of them were “gimme, gimme, gimme” letters, like “I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you can think of.” Many of them had the price alongside each item … with or without sales tax.

  Then there were the funny ones like: “Dear Santa, I’ve been a good boy all of last year, but if I don’t get what I want, I’ll be a bad boy all of next!”

  I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children. But the Santa in me

heard a voice from inside the mail sack, and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I

came upon one which jarred and unsettled me.

  It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said: “Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter. I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister. My father died last year and my mother is sick. I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, ’cause mommy’s cold at night.” It was signed “Suzy.” A chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, “I hear you, Suzy, I hear you.”

  I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the

depths of poverty. I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each

child a telegram: “GOT YOUR LETTER. WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.” I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children, and it wasn’t my purpose to do so. But maybe I could bring them hope and make them feel that their cries did not go unheard, and that someone out there was listening.

  So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys. I wasn’t content with the five-and-ten-cent variety. I wanted something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV.And on Christmas Day I took out my “sleigh” and let Santa do his thing. Well, it wasn’t exactly a sleigh; it was a car, and my wife drove me around, because with all those pillows and toys, I barely managed to get in the back seat!

  It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. My first call took me to the outskirts of the city. The letter had been from a Peter Barsky, and all it said was: “Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child. We’ve just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet. I’m not sad because I’m poor, but because I’m lonely. I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me. So I don’t ask you to come to my house or bring anything. But could you send me a letter so I know you exist?” My telegram read: “DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST, BUT I’LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.”

 Wespotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner. Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow.The house was wedged in between two tall buildings. The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house. I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell. A man opened the door. He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. “Boje moy!” he exclaimed in astonishment. That’s Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face. “P-p-please…” he stuttered, “p-please…de boy…de boy…at mass…church. I go get him. Please, please wait.” He threw a coat over his bare shoulders, and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow.

So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and

through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving. Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me, “Hiya, Santa!” “Hiya, Santa!”

I “ho-ho-ho’d” my way over there, and this woman asked if I would come in, and I did. There were these five young kids from one to seven years old, and I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love, which is the spirit of Christmas.

Then, since they were not on my list—but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten

their presents—I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night. Each in turn thanked me for he woolen socks, the sweater, and the warm new underwear.I looked at them and asked, “Didn’t I bring you kids any toys?” And they shook their heads sadly. “Ho! ho! ho! I slipped up,” I said. “We’ll have to fix that.” I told them to wait and I’d be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner.

When I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car. We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife

quickly filled up the bag. I trudged back to the house and gave each child a brand-new toy. There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids. I said, “Sure, why not?”

When Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five-year-old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a

button. I bent down and asked her, “What’s the matter, child?” And she sobbed, “Oh, Santa! I’m so happy.” And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask.

As I stepped out on the street, “Pan, pan, proche … please come, come!” I heard this man Barsky across the way. So Santa crossed and walked into the house. The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. “You came,” he said. “I wrote and … you came.” He turned to his parents, “I wrote … and he came.” He repeated it over and over again. “I wrote … and he came.”

When he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and I gave him a chemistry set, which

seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball. He thanked me profusely. His mother, a heavyset

Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish. My parents were Polish so I speak a little

and understand a lot. “From the North Pole,” I said in Polish. She looked at me in astonishment. “You speak

Polish?” she asked. “Of course,” I said. “Santa speaks all languages.” And I left them in joy and wonder.

I did this for 12 years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children

muffled in unopened envelopes.

In time I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on

the street and ask, “Hey, Santa, where’s your sleigh?” I’d say, “How old are you, son?” And he’d say, “13.” And I’d say, “Well, you’re a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now.” And I’d hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off.

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, “That’s a mask,” pointing a finger. And you never lie to children, so I’d say, “Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like, they’d bother me all year long and I couldn’t get my things ready for Christmas.”

Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn’t hear, “Where do you come from?” I’d turn to the child and say, “Your mom wants to know where I come from, Willy.” And he’d say, “From the North Pole, Mommy,” with absolute certainty. And she’d nudge me and whisper, “You don’t understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?” I’d turn to the boy and say, “Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you.” And he’d say, “‘Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy.” And I’d pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she’s confused and bewildered, and I’d leave her like that.

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me. I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers

would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit. So I started with 18 or 20

children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve

through Christmas Day.

On my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and

repeating to their skeptical mother, “He’ll come, Mommy, he’ll come.” As I rang the door bell, the house lit up with joy and laughter and, “He’s here! He’s here!” The door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. “Hiya, Santa! Hiya, Santa! We just knew you’d come!”

These poor kids are all beaming with happiness. I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of

rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy.All the while, there’s this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. When

I’m through with the others, I turn to her and say, “You’re not part of this family, are you?”

And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, “No.”

“Come closer, child,” I say, and she comes a little closer. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Lisa.”

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Come, sit on my lap,” and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. “Did you

get any toys for Christmas?” I ask.

“No,” she says with puckered lips. So I take out this big beautiful doll and say, “Here, do you want this doll?”

“No,” she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “I’m Jewish.”

And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, “I’m Jewish too. Do you want this doll?” She’s grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire, and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out.

It’s been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a

great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long

enough to say, “Ho! ho! ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend!”

And I say to you now, “MERRY CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS!”

The Boy Who Changed My Christmases Forever

By John London

I hurried into the local department store to grab some last-minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys and wondered if the grandkids would even play with them.

I found myself in the doll aisle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about five holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him turn to a woman he called his aunt and say, “Are you sure I don’t have enough money?” She replied a bit impatiently, “You know that you don’t have enough money for it.” The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere; that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle. The boy continued to hold the doll.

After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, “It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it.” I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said “No, Santa can’t go where my sister is … I have to give the doll to my momma to take to her.” I asked him where his sister was.

He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, “She has gone to be with Jesus. My daddy says that Momma is going to have to go be with her.” My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, “I told Daddy to tell Momma not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store.” Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he’d had taken at the front of the store. He said, “I want my momma to take this with her so she won’t ever forget me. I love my momma so very much and I wish she didn’t have to leave me, but Daddy says she will need to be with my sister.”

I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet. While he was not looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, “Shall we count that money one more time?” He grew excited and said, “Yes, I just know it has to be enough.” So I slipped my money in with his and we began to count it.

Of course, it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, “Thank You Jesus for giving me enough money.” Then the boy said, “I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Momma can take it with her to give to my sister, and He heard my prayer. I wanted to ask Him for enough to buy my momma a white rose, but I didn’t ask Him; but He’s given me enough to buy the doll and a rose for Momma! She loves white roses so very, very much.”

In a few minutes the aunt came back and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping in a totally different spirit than when I had started. I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and the mother was in serious condition. The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Surely this little boy did not belong with that story.

Two days later I read in the paper that the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I couldn’t forget the little boy and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected. Later that day, I couldn’t help myself, I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home where the young woman was. There she was, holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store.

I left there in tears, my life changed forever. The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming.

“We make a living by what we get; we make a life by what we give.”