Santa’s Gift

“I wish it was Christmas every week, all year long!”

He looked like Santa Claus. Large and round, with a fluffy white beard, wild white hair, and eyes that twinkled like stars on a cold night.

I had agreed to preach for a group of older folks, really old people who still love to go on mission trips to faraway countries where they can help hold jungle clinics or dig new community wells, or even lay bricks for new schoolrooms. I arrived early (that’s rare) and was thinking about the evening sermon as I walked from my car to the community center.

“You tonight’s preacher?”

His voice was like happiness bubbling up through the opening in the top of a soft drink can. It made me smile and feel good all over.

I glanced his way, smiled, and waved. “I sure am! You coming?”

“You bet,” he answered, his right hand flying out from his coat and reaching for mine. “Wouldn’t miss it!”

His handshake reminded me of a bricklayer friend I met one time in Haiti. So strong I imagined my bones might break, yet soft like love. It was not a quick handshake, but one that held on as if his heart was becoming one with mine as we stood together beneath the lonely night sky.

Are You Santa?

“Are you Santa?” I asked it with a smile, not wanting to intrude, but also unable to keep from asking. Except for a red suit, he was everything Santa ought to be. Especially the twinkling eyes.

“Yep,” he answered. “At least that’s what the kids call me. And they’re usually right.”

His smile danced. I’m not sure how that works, but his mustache and beard began to jiggle, and that got his tummy going, and then the twinkles in his eyes turned to “full-on bright!”

We stood a moment longer; then he released my hand and threw an arm over my shoulder, his gait leading me toward the open doors of the community hall.

“Can I tell you about Santa?” he asked, continuing on before I had a chance to respond.

“I think God grew me to look like Santa because He knew I needed a purpose in life. You see, I think being Santa is the closest I’ll ever get to being like Jesus here on earth.”

I stopped, turned, and stared into his heart.

“Tell me what it’s like to be Jesus when it’s Christmas, and you’ve got your red-and-white suit on, and you’re in the big gold chair in the store where parents pay for their kids to get a picture with Santa. What’s it like when the kids climb up in your lap and ask you for presents?”

Except for a red suit, he was everything Santa ought to be. Especially the twinkling eyes.

“Santa gets all the hard questions,” he answered.

His smile had been replaced with a look that promised I could ask anything and know he would give me the right answer.

“My daddy has died. Can you bring him back for me?”

“Am I on your naughty list? Grandma says I am.”

“Last year you gave me a stuffed teddy bear. Do I get a new one this year? That one’s all worn out.”

“I love their questions,” Santa smiled. “They’re honest, come right straight from the heart, right on the money.”

“What did you tell the child who asked you to bring Dad back?”

“I told him, ‘No, I can’t. I haven’t been given that gift yet. But I can help you remember the very best times you had with your dad. That’ll help him be alive in your heart.’ ”

Santa winked as he said it.

“You know something, Pastor, everybody’s on the naughty list at one time or another. But behold! At Christmas everyone’s on the nice list. How can that be? Well, I think it’s the Christmas love that Jesus sends out special for you at Christmas!”

Stuffed Animals

The evening was cold and soggy, yet standing next to Santa, I felt warm and safe.

“One evening a young fellow came up, sat on my lap, snuggled in, and said, ‘Santa, I’m adopted. Can you help me find my real parents?’ ”

“ ‘No, but I can tell you a story,’ I answered. ‘I’m adopted too, and I have no clue who my biological dad is. But the guy who gave me his last name is Mr. McCabe, and these colors in my scarf are the same colors he carried from his home in Scotland. So here I am, honoring the special family colors of the dad who has made my life special. These colors remind me that I belong!’

“I give every child a small stuffed bear. Yea, just a bear, but a very cuddly one. The kids love ’em. I take one out of my pack and place it in their arms with great ceremony, and then we hug and laugh together. Loudly! They squeeze those bears so tight that sometimes I fear the stuffing will pop out.”

We laughed together then. Loudly. Two old guys who had forgotten about the evening meeting and were celebrating God’s love in the parking lot.

“Where do you get the bears?” I asked foolishly.

“I have a friend who gives me all the bears I can give away! I’ll tell you a story about that. Last year the store that brings me in to be Santa switched me from a nice hotel to a dumpy place down by the river; a place where tons of homeless people were camping with their kids. I went to my friend and got a bunch of extra bears and gave ’em all away to the camping kids. I figured that’s what Jesus would do, so that’s what I did.

“Sometimes I get to be Santa to the parents, too. Last year a 10-year-old young woman came up to me and asked if I was going to give her another stuffed bear this year. Mom was standing beside us, and I heard her whispering—just loud enough so Santa could hear.

“ ‘Santa,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I should stay in the job I have right now or go back to the other side of the mountain and raise my daughter there, where we have a smaller house. Can you help us decide?’

“ ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not really my thing. But, tell you what, I’ll give you to the One I know can handle your questions. He really loves you and will help you make the right decision!’ Then I gave them each a new bear.”

Santa looked at his watch and motioned toward the door.

“I think it’s time to go in. But remember, it’s not about naughty or nice; it’s about the love of Jesus for everyone. It’s up to us to help people experience it . . . and share it!”

“Merry Christmas, Santa,” I said, shaking his powerfully soft hands.

“Merry Christmas,” he answered, his eyes twinkling like Orion on a crisp dark night.