My daughter and I were talking about all sorts of things when she asked me if there is a Santa, and do I believe in him. I related the following story to her and said that it was up to her whether she wanted to believe in Santa.
The year was 1985 and in July of that year I was involved in a serious motorcycle accident and was no longer able to work. My wife worked as a motel maid, making minimum wage. She did her best to support us, but her income was barely enough to pay our bills and to put food on the table. There was absolutely no extra money at all. When December of that year came we both realized that there was no way that we were going to be able to buy any Christmas presents. That was OK for us, but our daughter was only 10. How were we going to explain to her that there wouldn’t be a Christmas that year? We were at a loss as to what to do.
Someone mentioned to us that maybe we could get help from the local Salvation Army. On the 22nd of December we called the Salvation Army and asked the man that answered if he could do anything for us. He gave us the address where he was at and told us to come down and he would do what he could for us. We arrived at the address that he had given us to find ourselves at an old warehouse in a rundown, mostly industrial part of town. An older man met us at the door. His thinning, mostly gray hair framed a round face that had pale blue, kindly eyes and a ready smile upon his lips. He ushered us into a tiny office with three metal chairs, a beat up wooden desk with a rotary phone sitting on it.
“Since your phone call, I have been trying to figure out what I could do for you,” He told us in a soft voice. “I don’t have any presents here that I can give you, but I do have some food so that at least you can have a good Christmas dinner.” My wife and I were filled with mixed emotions over this news, disappointed at no presents and grateful for the food at the same time. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a big box filled with food. There was a turkey, ham, potatoes, yams, some candy, powdered milk and assorted other things. “Thank you very much,” we both said and stood up, ready to leave.
As we were gathering up the box of food and our things, the phone on his desk rang. He answered it and as he was talking, he motioned us to sit back down. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he asked, “would you be interested in a bicycle for your child?” We answered that we would, wondering what was going on. He talked on the phone for a few more moments and then hung up. He then told us that the gentleman on the phone had called to say that he wanted to give a bicycle to someone for Christmas. “There is a condition to your accepting this gift,” he continued, “it is being given anonymously and you must never try and find out his identity.” We agreed to the conditions and were told to meet him in a local parking lot later that evening.
We arrived at the parking lot at the specified time to find a tall, gray haired gentleman there standing next to an old truck. After asking us if we were the couple from the Salvation Army, he opened the back of the truck and pulled out a brand new, already assembled girl’s bike. As I put the bike in the trunk of our car he handed my wife a white envelope that appeared to hold a card. “Please don’t open the card until you get home,” he implored us. We thanked him and then made our way home.
At home we opened the envelope and found out that it did hold a card and inside the card was a crisp $100 bill. We went to the store the next day and used the money to buy a couple more things for our daughter. With the food, the bicycle and the money, we were able to have a nice Christmas that year.
I will never forget the kindness of that anonymous gentleman that year. He changed my life in a way that he might not have envisioned when he gave us that gift. My hope is, that wherever that man is who gave us a Christmas that year knows in some small way how he touched our lives and that he experiences even a small percentage of the joy that we felt that was generated by his act of selfless giving.
“So, Misty,” I told my daughter, “I do believe in Santa, though not in the sense that he is a jolly old man living at the North Pole, but rather, for me Santa is the spirit of selfless giving.”
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