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So many people, including me, seem to be in a bah-humbug sort of mood at the moment. Work is sliding down the happy scale toward a big red sign that says, "Intolerable." I went downstairs to the kitchen to rummage up something sweet to make me feel slightly better about being here when I saw the front page of the newspaper. I read the story, cried, and was thankful all my co-workers weren't there to see me weeping in the damn kitchen. If you want a little something to cheer you up and make you feel the warm fuzzies, even for Christmas, then read the article I pasted below.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008Wish Come TrueBy Tamara N. Shope Crumpled in my pocket is a thin and jagged tan strip of leather. In the middle, a knot tied around a jingle bell. And in the middle of that small bell, the spirit of a man who spends his entire year thinking of ways to make Christmas bright for children everywhere. That man, you may have guessed, is Santa Claus. He sits, even as I type this, in an oversized green velour chair in Coronado Shopping Center, his soft eyes glistening — yes, twinkling — as he listens to wishes and dreams leave the lips of boys and girls far too young to be too cynical or shy to share them. Santa Claus made me cry this year. Right inside the busy mall. I am not ashamed to admit this. It wasn't the kind of wail that kids half my height sometimes emit at the sight of the large, jolly, bearded man. No, it was the kind of cry that made me grateful for the pounding in my chest, the chill on my neck and the warmth in my soul. His story, as he told me, starts with an 8-year-old boy named Tyler: "Tell Santa what you want for Christmas, Tyler," his grandmother prodded. Tyler looked at Santa, a gentle man whose kindness is evident even before he speaks. "My dad," Tyler says with a hard swallow, "is dead. He got killed in a motorcycle wreck." Santa pulls Tyler in closer and lets the phrase linger a moment. "You know Santa can't bring your dad back," he says softly. "That's something not even Santa can do." The boy takes it in. Santa may have been his last hope. "Before he died," Tyler whispers, "my dad gave me a stuffed white dog. I lost it." Santa thinks for a moment. "Can you and Tyler visit me again tomorrow, Grandma?" She nods as Santa hugs Tyler and sends him away. After work, Santa leaves the mall and begins his hourslong quest for something special. When the mall doors open the next morning, Tyler and his grandma are there. She beats Tyler to Santa's chair. "I told him that Santa might not be able to do anything for him. I told him it would be OK," she says. We're good, he assures her. Bring Tyler near. "Look what Bernard, my best elf, brought for you," Santa says, setting a white plush puppy into the boy's hands. "I asked him to rush it here." Tyler begins to cry happy, relieved tears. "And look what else!" Santa says, reaching into his bag and taking out a sliver of leather with a shiny bell attached. "It fell off Prancer's reins this morning. Bernard found it in his stable and was going to sew it back on, but Prancer said, 'No. I want you to give it to Tyler. He's a special boy. Tell him the reindeer love him and Santa is thinking of him.' "Now, whenever you are sad, Tyler, you just ring this little bell and know that all these people love you." Tyler nods, his small hands gently gripping Prancer's gift. "Can you tie it around my dog's neck?" the boy asks. Santa smiles. He did his job. He brought joy and comfort to a boy's heart, the kind that no Transformer, no Wii, no toy car could bring. As Santa finished his story, he told me he'll never forget Tyler. Not ever. And neither will I. Santa, a saint with tears sliding toward his beard as retells his story, gave me another piece of a reindeer's rein to make sure of it. That tender jingle will forever remind me of the hope of a child and a red-suited man who is so very real. |
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