Santa Claus is Real

“Mom, just so ya know, I know there’s no Santa. I know it’s you.”

The combination of my tone and my age must have indicated that there was no use denying it, but as the confession left her lips I began to cry.

“So Santa’s not real?”

“Honey, Santa Claus IS real. It’s just not who you thought it was.”

Santa Claus is real.

My mom’s response allowed me to continue believing in Santa all the way through college. He visited our house until the year I got married, and every year at Christmas time, I still reflect on the words that have kept Santa alive for me for so many years after I stopped seeing him as the jolly man in the red suit. 

In my adulthood, those words now help me understand Santa on a different level. Santa is often labeled as a representation of selfishness, a distraction from the true meaning of Christmas. If you ask me, the problem isn’t Santa. It’s the way commercialism has misconstrued his meaning by overlooking his giving nature and focusing only on the receiving end of his goodness.

When given the right focus, Santa can add to the meaning of Christmas. After all, Santa IS the spirit of giving; he IS the embodiment of generosity; and he continues to exist in the hearts of all who open their hearts and homes and wallets during this magical season. That’s why it doesn’t bother me that Reese is so excited about Santa while so many Christian parents work to take the focus off of him. Sure, she's excited to get presents. She's three. But she also knows that Santa gives presents because he wants to make kids happy and that we can create that same happiness by sharing our blessings with others.

How cool for a kid to discover that not only is there really a Santa, but that they, too, can become Santa with their own generosity! With every thoughtful gift we present to our family and friends, every donation to a Toys for Tots collection bin, every dollar dropped in a Salvation Army bucket, and every canned food item given to a charity drive, we become Santa Claus as we create smiles on the hearts and faces of those around us.

Someday when my kids ask me if there really is a Santa Claus, I won’t be lying when I say yes. And when they tell me that they know the truth, I can tell them who Santa really is and give them the power to keep him alive by embracing the joy of giving with an open heart.

This Christmas, don't turn away from Santa. Become him. Give joyfully, love generously, create happiness, and never stop believing that Santa Claus is real.

Lessons from a Random Stranger

Sitting alone in a booth intended for four, I drizzled heavy white cream over my coffee. The spine of my new book creaked slightly as I opened its cover for the first time. I had one hour until I had to pick Reese up. One hour of total peace and quiet. One hour with the pastime I enjoy far too infrequently these days.

An old man shuffled past my table, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. A regular customer, I assumed from the waitress’ greeting. He settled into the corner booth and ordered a hamburger. I wondered how that would pan out since his tight sunken lips suggested the absence of even a single tooth.

I quickly returned my attention to my book. Old people make me uncomfortable.

Minutes later, I looked up just as the old man was lowering himself onto the padded seat across from me. My eyes searched the room, confused.

Is he lost? Does he think I’m someone else?

The uncomfortable-around-old-people part of my brain encouraged me to bolt. Quick! Excuse yourself and leave. Or at least tell him to leave. Or at the very least pretend you don’t see him.

He either failed to notice my discomfort or completely ignored it. After a long awkward silence he finally spoke, “My name is Bob Smith. Would it be alright if I joined you?”

I felt my face flush red. People at other tables were staring, expecting a scene. Suddenly the manager peeked around the corner, “Bob, are you bothering this lady?” Then, turning to me, “Everything alright, ma’am?”

Here’s your chance. No I’m not alright. Check, please!

The thoughts fizzled before reaching my lips. I could tell from the manager’s tone that this was a common routine, an unwelcomed addition to his job description – steering Bob away from annoyed customers. Customers like me who want to read their books and drink their coffee and not be bothered by lonely old men.

“We’re fine, thank you,” I surprised myself with my own response. The manager turned toward the kitchen with a shrug. Bob continued talking as if there had been no interruption. He said he was a hundred years old. His sunken cheeks and toothless grin gave me no reason to doubt it. He said he had been living alone for the past 15 years, walking here several times a week. I wondered how long it took him to shuffle himself over from his apartment. Even if it were next door, the trip would likely take most of his day. He had the slouched posture of a weary traveler. The heaviness in his eyes hinted at the depths of his loneliness.

Pretend you don’t see him. The guilt threatened to swallow me whole as I wondered how often he gets that reaction, how often people brush him off as if he has aged out of the rights to dignity and respect. What makes my agenda so important that I can’t take an hour to validate the existence of another human being?

Closing my book, I cradled my coffee mug with both hands and forced myself to make eye contact with the stranger at my table. Bob continued to talk. I started to listen - not the way I often “listen” when Reese shows me the same toy for the tenth time, or the way I “listen” when Matt interrupts a writing session to get my opinion on a landscaping idea – but really listen with the kind of intent that whispers its message through the silence, “your story matters.”

He talked about the many decades of changes to the local landscape and how “none of this was here 50 years ago.” He bragged about his swing dancing skills and offered to take me for a spin around the diner. I said I wasn’t sure I’d be a very good partner, standing to reveal my baby bump. We shared a laugh as he asked what my husband would think about his pregnant wife’s impromptu date with this strange old man. I promised to keep it between us. We laughed again.

Suddenly I realized I was no longer nervous; no longer annoyed; no longer counting down the minutes. Eventually, I did have to excuse myself. I told Bob it was nice talking to him, and I meant it.

Twenty minutes later, with Reese now buckled in behind me, I listened to her talk about everything she did at Nana’s house. My fascination was genuine, my responses were more enthusiastic. Your story matters.

At home, I greeted Matt. He immediately started telling me about his crazy afternoon with an out-of-control student. My interest was sincere, my reaction was more concerned. Your story matters.

The significance of my random encounter suddenly started to make more sense. I hadn’t simply done a favor for a stranger. We were two souls brought together in a perfectly orchestrated universe, each possessing exactly what the other needed for the moment. I had been searching for peace and quiet with a closed mind and an open book. Instead, I found it through a closed mouth and opened ears. For one hour, my thoughts were quiet, my soul was at peace, and I remembered what it’s like to truly listen and let people know that their stories matter.

Thanks, Bob, for letting me listen.

This is a Bigger Picture moment. 

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A Lesson in Giving

I approached the doors of Walmart, trying to look invisible as I passed the table outside. A woman’s voice said, “We’re collecting school supplies today.” I assumed she was talking to me, but I avoided eye contact. I muttered a noncommittal response and continued inside, trying to ignore the guilt mounting inside me. I tried to consoled myself, leaning on the excuse that as a one-income family, we are limited in the amount we can give.

Moments later, I stood in the bedding aisle holding a bed skirt - a completely nonfunctional item serving only to add to the aesthetics of my daughter’s bedroom. I pulled my shopping list from my purse. Few things were actual necessities. Instantly, my mind suddenly left the store, floating away and resting on a memory I had long since forgotten…

I was in my college dorm room, flipping through the TV channels when I came to an episode of MTV Cribs. The celebrity, whose name isn’t important (and I don’t remember anyway), paraded the cameras through his custom-built garage. At the end of a long line of motorcycles of varying models and colors sat a motorcycle molded out of solid gold. I thought of all the people who could be helped with the money that was now sitting idly in the form of a solid gold motorcycle. How sad that people are so greedy, I thought as I changed the channel.

The memory evaporated as quickly it came, leaving behind the sticky residue of the bubble of denial that had burst in my face. I was suddenly aware of my own abundance: the 55 inch TV mounted to my living room wall, the Android in my pocket, the appliances, decorations, clothes – everything in my life that is so far beyond the realm of true necessity – my own golden motorcycle.

I started to wonder what might happen if I stopped placing the responsibility on those with obvious, excessive wealth and started focusing on sharing my own abundance as much as possible.

I reached up and put the bed skirt back on the shelf and headed for the school supplies.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment. Share with us at Alita's Place today.