Scraps: Encyclopedia of Me: B, C, and D

B, Believe; C, Christmas; D, Daughter, (also her first name)
I was having a really hard time with a B word, so I started randomly listing all the words I could think of beginning with B. When I hit "believe", it came to me, and then the C and D fell into place.

When DD was born, J-man and I disagreed as to whether we would raise her to believe in Santa Claus or not. He did, and was cruelly disillusioned by an abusive relative. I was raised not to believe, and felt cheated by that when all my friends did.

The first Christmas, she was only 5 months old, so it didn't really matter. Her second Christmas was right after his catastrophic illness, and she was still too young to understand. However, by her third Christmas, what with TV, well-meaning strangers, and the other children at her baby-sitter's house, she was 2 1/2, and caught up in the whole Santa thing.

Now, let me say, we taught her all about Jesus, too, and the reason for Christmas, as much as she could understand. But face it, there are a lot more commercials and ads and displays for Santa than Jesus. So I took her to the local mall to see Santa.

There was no line, which should have clued me in. DD got up on his lap, told him what she wanted, we got a picture made, and that was that. When she got down, she informed me "Santa grumpy." That would have been the perfect opportunity to tell her the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but I was a wimp. So I told her that Santa couldn't be at all the malls everywhere to find out what children wanted, so he sent out some people dressed in Santa suits to help him, and that the real Santa was out there somewhere. That seemed to satisfy her.

The next year, I checked out the local mall first, and there he was again. So I took her to a mall across town to see Santa. By this time, she was 3 1/2, and more savvy.

We stood in line for what seemed like hours. I was getting a little nervous, because I worked the evening shift, and I still had to get home, change, get DD to the baby-sitter's and get to work. I craned my neck to see how much longer, and saw Santa get up out of his chair and make his way up some steps.

Great. He was going on a break. But no, he stopped at the top of the steps and crouched down beside a little girl in a wheelchair. (Before Americans with Disabilities Act, folks.) He very solemnly listened to her requests and gave her a hug before returning to the Santa throne.

The line inched forward. Then I saw a boy of about 14, with Down's Syndrome. He perched on Santa's lap, whispered to him, and had his picture made, then went back to his mom, all smiles. The kiddo was almost as tall as Santa, but the jolly guy didn't seem to mind. I was impressed.

Finally it was our turn. DD climbed up on his lap, and they whispered together. I was close enough to get a pretty good look at the guy--and saw no laugh lines, no wrinkles. I asked the "elf" taking photos just how old this Santa was, anyway. She asked why I wanted to know, and I told her he was the best Santa I'd ever run across. She then told me--he was 20 years old.

I got a lump in my throat. This young man was so unbelievably full of compassion and patience--more so than the old gentleman posing as Santa at the mall close to home. Not what I was accustomed to seeing in one so young.

We got the picture made, and DD was all smiles as she ran to me. "Mommy!" she exclaimed. "That was the REAL Santa, wasn't it?"

My voice caught as I said, "Yes, honey, it was." And I believe that.

That young man would be about 46 years old now. I hope he's had a happy life. I hope somehow he knows how much joy and wonder he brought to at least one little girl and her mother, and hope that God has blessed him.