Santa Stories

I started Santa in 1995. My mother died March 12, 1995 and after the services, I was flying home to AZ from Florida. As I was starting to doze off on the plane, I heard my mother say, "Son, you are going to be Santa Claus."

I didn't remember until after a few days at home of not shaving, my wife asked me what I was doing - growing a beard? I told her, yes, I was going to be Santa Claus.

After she stopped laughing, she exclaimed to me, "YOU? You are the biggest Scrooge at Christmas! You get depressed, stressed, and grumpy. How are you going to be Santa?"

I told her I was going to do it and she should just watch.

She asked where I got such a crazy idea and I told her "from Mom." Incredulous, she asked, "before she died?"

"No, afterward, on the plane," I answered.

She thought I was nuts, but that Christmas I started playing Santa and my mom is closer to me every year than she ever was while she lived so far away.

I owe it to Mom.

(2008) I had a lot of fun at the Post Office, where I not only greet people, but I sing! I then stopped at the dentist's office where I sang "he sees you when you're drilling, he knows the bridge you make, he knows when you are cleaning teeth, so don't make a mistake!" Got a whole lot of laughs at that.

Then I came home and put on the "casual" Santa clothes and took Mrs. Claus on her annual "clothes for Christmas" shopping spree. After 7 hours, we were both beat and came home. I'll wrap what she picked out and tried on - by Christmas she will have forgotten. (Those are the rules!)

While she shopped, I entertained hundreds of kids of all ages, posed for scores of photos, and generally had a jolly old time.

I cannot explain the joy in doing this... it is palpable!

A year or two after I started playing Santa, our office "adopted" the Child Crisis Center as a Christmas charity. We took the list of toys desired by the children in the center and purchase them, wrapped, them, and labeled them. Knowing that I was Santa, my work place asked me to deliver them.

The day came and we filled the bed of a pick up truck with presents.

I was a little disappointed when the staff at the Crisis Center told me that they wanted to hold the gifts until Christmas rather than let the kids open them when I delivered 2 days early, on the 23rd. They explained that kids come and go and they didn't want Christmas to come and have some get gifts and some not. It makes sense.

But I sat in an over-stuffed chair and one by one the kids came up, sat on my knee, took a candy cane, and told me what they wanted for Christmas.

The Child Crisis Center is filled with kids from broken homes; kids who have been abused; kids that have been neglected. It wasn't surprising, then, that many of the requests were simple and direct. Any toy was a great gift. My heart warmed knowing that they would get nice gifts this year. And the hard, clinging hugs I got told me they really loved that Santa loved them.

About halfway through the kids, a seven year old named Brianna sat on my lap. "Are you the real Santa," she asked?

I gave my standard answer: "Do you believe that I am?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Well, what do you want for Christmas, Brianna," Santa inquired. I expected the same sort o9f answer I had been receiving all along, but the one I received left me almost speechless.

"I want to go home with you," Brianna answered seriously, looking me right in the eyes.

I had to think quick. Santa usually has to think quick to answer things like where the reindeer are, what they eat, how many elves there are, if I have ever seen the Bumble (Abominable Snowman), and so on. But this one was the biggest challenge I ever had - until then and even until now.

"Oh, I don't think you would want to come to the North Pole, Brianna," I tried. "It is very cold and snowy up there."

"That's OK," she said. "I still want to go with you."

"But Brianna," I protested with a soft Ho Ho Ho, "there are no children there - just Mrs. Claus and me and reindeer."

"I want to live with you and Mrs. Claus," she replied, undeterred.

I could only shake my head. "You have given Santa a very tough request, Brianna. I will have to think about it."

I had to move on to the next child, as my allotted time was going by quickly.

After about five or six more children sat on my lap and gave much easier requests, Brianna raised her hand and called out: "Santa? Santa?"

I acknowledged her and she asked, "Are you still thinking about it?"

"Yes, I am, Brianna." There was no escaping her tenacity.

"My room is over there," she said, pointing to a corner room where there were two beds and little else. "I will leave the light on so you can find me on Christmas Eve."

It was all I could do then - and now - to fight back the tears. I had to stay Santa, but my heart was thoroughly ripped to pieces.

After work that day - for I did have to complete my shift - I went home and told the story to my wife. Almost simultaneously - we still do this as we are truly kindred souls - we said to each other, "Are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"Yes," we answered each other in unison.

It was after 5:00, so no phone calls could be made that day. The next day was Christmas Eve; I would have to act fast. Fortunately, I had the day off from work.

On Christmas Eve, at 9:00 AM, I called the Child Crisis Center and asked if we could take in Brianna and care for her. I was dismayed when they said that they could not discuss her, her case, or anything else about her. They could not even acknowledge that there was a girl named Brianna there. It was the law and privacy was paramount. But they gave me the phone number of Child Protective Services.

I quickly called CPS and worked my way through the channels until I found a helpful women. They were working reduced crews because of the holiday. This lady was also unable to tell me anything about Brianna or to acknowledge that she was at the Crisis Center, but she promised to look into the case and get back to me as soon as possible.

We prayed hard and hoped for the best, but Christmas Eve, then Christmas Day came and went. I knew Brianna had been devastated. I couldn't even go to the Center and see her. It was a helpless feeling.

A couple days after Christmas, the woman from CPS called back. She explained that the family had prohibited any foster care, much less adoption. I protested, "But she asked to come with me! We would love her as our own!"

It was not to be. I never heard of Brianna again.

But to this day, I say a prayer for Brianna, hoping her life has turned for the good and that she found the love she so earnestly sought from Santa Claus.

There are some gifts we cannot give.

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I volunteered as a caring clown with my wife at a local nursing home, so each year they asked me to come at Christmas as Santa. I was worried at first, that some people might figure me out since I was there frequently as Johnny Sunshine. But Johnny has a high, squeaky voice and Santa has a low baritone. Johnny wears red and yellow and white make up; Santa hides behind a beard. Only one woman ever figured it out; Maria was a German who married a US Soldier after WWII. She loved to tell us that story. Maria recognized me but said nothing.

In January, when I came in as Johnny Sunshine, though, her eyes twinkled and she said, "Ho Ho Ho!" I laughed. "How did you know, Maria?"

"Your eyes," she said, "they twinkle." It tickled me to pieces.

The nursing home had four wings: One was for confined people like those on dialysis. Two was for temporary people who the hospital had discharged, but who could not fend for themselves. This was a very transient ward. Three was for the dementia patients such as Alzheimer's who struggled to know where they were or to separate one day from another. They were also physically unable to get around on their own. Wing Four was for the physically able dementia patients - ones who could wander away if left unattended. Their dementia was usually more serious and the doors were locked in this wing.

A few days before Christmas, the staff escorted me around the nursing home, giving me presents to hand to each resident of the home. It always went too fast for me; I was more used to at least visiting a few minutes, but with over 200 people, that was just not possible. As it was, we spent about 4 hours visiting.

One year, I came to the locked dementia wing. The people there were given small, stuffed animals. They were soft and the people cuddled with them or rubbed them on their own arms.

I approached one woman in a wheelchair, slumped over with her head on her chest. She wasn't moving except to breathe slowly.

"That's Elizabeth," one of the staff said. "She hasn't spoken in two months. She is on her way out."

I knew what that meant. Elizabeth would soon be dead. The staff knew the signs.

"Do you have a gift for her," I asked?

"Well, yes, but she won't respond," came the reply.

I took her hand and called out, "Elizabeth! It's Santy Claus!"

She didn't stir.

I tried again with the same result. The staff urged me on. "It's getting late, we must go on."

"One more try," I pleaded.

I got down on my knees in front of her wheelchair and took both her hands in mine. I leaned forward and put my face so close to hers that my beard brushed against her face.

"Elizabeth!" I boomed in my deep baritone Santa voice. "It's Santy Claus and I brought you a present!"

Slowly, Elizabeth raised her head, her vacant eyes staring forward. Then, slowly, the focused on me.

"Oh, Santy Claus," she cried! "You came back!"

The entire staff burst into tears. They told me the gift to the family of Elizabeth, when they told them, would be the greatest last Christmas gift they could possibly receive.

I cried as I drove home that day, salty tears wetting my beard. It was a moment I shall never forget.

Thank you, Elizabeth, you live in me forever.

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Christmas 2007:

I received a phone call from a couple who had come to Arizona from a state far to the east. It seems they were estranged from their young adult daughter and neither side had found a way to communicate to the other. They asked if I would deliver presents to her at her place of work as Santa.

I was nervous, of course. What if she refused the gifts? How would I make the delivery? It could be an awkward situation. But I agreed.

I arrived at her place of work, but there was security there. The officers eyed me with amusement. "Are you wanting to come in," they asked as they scanned this fat man in the red suit with a big white beard.

"No, my bells would set off your bells," Santa answered. "But if you would go and get this young lady, I have a delivery to make."

They did, indeed, get her and when she saw Santa, he mouth dropped open. "Who? What?" She stammered.

"I have a delivery," said Santa. And after some discussion, she agreed to accept the big bag of presents. It had to get scanned by the x-ray machine, so I made her promise not to look and made the officers promise not to tell her what was in the packages. They all agreed, but the officers chuckled out loud as the packages went through the scanner.

After I called the parents to tell them of the successful delivery, they cried audibly. "I hope you have a very Merry Christmas," I said. "We will. This is the start we needed to mend the fences," they answered. As I walked to my car, I prayed for them, that it would be the healing they all needed.

My last delivery on Christmas Eve was to a family that might not have had a Christmas but for the kindness of a benefactor. The man had called me ahead of time to deliver presents to the family. I met him at a pre-arranged spot where I saw his truck filled with presents. He gave me some "inside information" including a letter to Santa from the young boy and a special gift for him. He and a friend took the presents and a tree to the front door of the family's home and quietly pile d them there. Then they retreated to a spot where they could watch.

Santa rang the doorbell and the family answered in surprise. "We just got back from church!" they exclaimed. "Ho Ho Ho - I know," replied Santa.

Together we sang a song and Santa read the "Visit from Saint Nicholas" poem. All the while, the 8 year old boy watched carefully. He questioned Santa upon arrival, he questioned Santa during the visit, and he questioned more after the poem. Eight year olds want to believe, but have grave doubts.

"Where are the reindeer?" - "At reindeer school, practicing!"

"Are you the real Santa?" - "Do you believe I am?"

At a pause in the questions, I opened my bag and pulled out a letter that had been given me by the benefactor.

"I have this letter that was sent to me," I said. "This is from you, isn't it?"

I showed him the letter and his eyes got wide. He looked at me suspiciously. Then I reached into the bag and pulled out a small box.

"Your letter said you wanted a special gift and I decided to bring it to you. Please open it."

He slowly opened the box while watching me. It was a bell, just as he had requested in his letter.

"Is this really from your sleigh?" he inquired.

"Yes," I said. Do you hear it ring?

"Yes! I am glad I am not wearing a robe with a hole in the pocket," he said, referencing the scene from the movie, "Polar Express" where the bell falls from the boy's pocket.

It told me he related to the boy in the movie - right at the edge of believing. And for another year, perhaps, Santa had gained another believer, thanks to a kind man who gave of himself for this family and who allowed me to share in the joys of the moment.

This is what Christmas is about. Believe, love, give. Be the change you wish to see in the world.

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I get requests for letters all the time. Sometimes they are from parents who are encountering the end of believing in their children and want to grasp one last time that Christmas magic. Here is a letter I wrote a couple years ago in similar circumstances. The parents gave me some needed background information, of course:

Dear Katie and Masen,

My Chief Elf, Bernard, came to me today and mentioned that Katie has had a lot of questions lately. I hope I can answer some of them!

Now, Katie, I know that some of the children in Mr. Hook's class may not believe in Santa Claus. This happens to children sometimes. It also happens to some adults. It makes me sad when people stop believing in me, but everyone has to do what makes them happy.

I can tell you so many stories of people of all ages who do believe. They are very happy. Those are the people who know the truth. The real truth is that seeing isn't believing - believing is seeing!

Have you seen the movie, "The Polar Express?" It is a good movie about believing. I hope you will watch it with Ashley and Masen. And then listen for the bell.

Santa Claus is real. I am just as real as love. I am just as real as laughter. I am just as real as joy and giggles and hugs.

Just imagine if there were no Santa Claus! How many children would be sad on Christmas Day! There would be no Christmas carols about sleigh bells and Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and presents under the tree! There would be no trees and no decorations! There would be no stockings to hang and find filled with goodies on Christmas morning!

No Santa! What a sad world that would be!

I tell you the truth, Katie. I am real. And when I visit children in their homes and old people in nursing homes and when I visit people on the street sometimes, they believe in me! And when they believe in me, they smile and laugh and their hearts are filled with joy. And that joy makes me more feel alive than anything else in the whole world, including chocolate chip cookies and cocoa!

Keep believing, Katie and perhaps you will find that Bratz Kid doll, the American Idol game, and clothes from Limited Too! And when you are a little older, I see a pink iPod in your future. But you must keep believing! Tell Masen that I know he likes Cars from the movie and Backyardigans. The elves told me! Ho Ho Ho!

My favorite word is BELIEVE, Katie. I believe in you! I hope you believe in me, too!

Merry Christmas!

Love,
Santa Claus

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I mentioned before that I take Mrs. Claus shopping every year in "casual" Santa attire.  White tennis shoes with red socks, red pants, a red sweatshirt, the full beard and mustache, the long white hair, and a red and green ball cap that reads, "I Believe in Santa Claus."

Mrs. Claus wears petite clothes and they are often hard to find, but a local mall called Arizona Mills has several stores she loves.  It just so happens that the same mall has an IMAX Theater - you know, the ones with the enormous screens. 

On December 1, 2004, Mrs. Claus and I decided to take a break from shopping and we went to the IMAX to see the newly released Polar Express in 3-D.  We bought our tickets and went inside to stand in line.

It was the middle of the day and crowds were small.  Only about 20 people bought tickets to the huge theater for this showing, so we expected to have lots of room.

While waiting in line, a young boy came up with his grandparents who brought him to see this new movie.  His name was Jacob and he was about 4 years old.

Jacob saw me in my red, red clothes, white beard and hair, and he stared.  His eyes seemed locked on me, so I knelt down and gave a soft Ho Ho Ho.  I asked what he wanted for Christmas and talked softly until the line started to move.  I expected that to be the end of the conversation, but there was much more to come.

Mrs. Claus and I took our seats in the center of the almost empty theater.  Then, in the twinkling of an eye, Jacob and his grandparents came down the same aisle.  In all the empty vastness of the theater, they had the three seats next to ours.

Jacob crowded past his grandparents to grab the seat next to mine.  He sat down, but his eyes were on me, not the screen.

Throughout the movie, he kept looking at me, silently but with wonder.  His grandparents had to get his attention for the scenes where the 3-D glasses were needed.  He did watch the movie when I did.. at least I think he did.  But every time I stole a glance at him, he was looking at me.

The movie ends with the bell ringing and the boy believing - the very things I have always taught as Santa.  My favorite word is "believe."  And so as the climax to the movie came, I was crying, trying not to show it to Jacob.  His wonder and the movie itself moved this old softy.

The lights came on and we went out into the lobby area.  There, I handed Jacob my card and wished him a Merry Christmas.  While they were examining the card, Mrs. Claus and I slipped down a back stairway.  Later, Jacob's grandfather said it was as if we disappeared into thin air.  They wondered if they had imagined it - but they had the card as proof.

That evening, I received an email.

Santa my name is Don.  I just wanted to send you a special note of thanks for you kindness today in the IMAX theater with my grandson Jacob.  He has not stopped talking about sitting next to you since we left.  What a special thing such kindness brought to our family.

Merry Christmas Santa....."We Believe"

I replied:

Your note means so much to me; thank you!  You couldn't see me in the theater at the end of the movie; my eyes were wet with tears of joy.  Santa lives for the moments like today when he can touch a young heart, a family, a child, or an adult.  You and Jacob gave me a gift, too, by allowing me to share a little love and a little of the magic that belief brings.

 I hope these moments stay with Jacob and with you for years to come, like the ring of the bell in the movie today.

 May you always hear the bell, believe, and pass it on.

 Thank you again for taking the time to share your joy with me.  You lift my heart and renew my energy to continue my small mission of love.

Two years later, I was invited to a Christmas Party to be Santa.  It was the same family.  Of course, I was glad to go!

At the party, Jacob ran up to me and looked me over carefully.  "You're HIM!  You are the same Santa," he cried!

I was amazed he had remembered and then he showed me the card I had given him two years before.  He had kept it, along with my picture.  I had forgotten that I gave him a wallet sized photo of me in my full Santa suit.

Jacob clung to me with a fervor that showed he was afraid I might leave him.  He clung to my pants legs as I wandered about the party, greeting people.

Then Jacob came out with his book:  "The Polar Express."  He wanted me to read it to him, and so I did.  When I finished, he took a bell out of his pocket and handed it to me. 

"Ring it," he said excitedly!

I shook the bell and a sweet tinkling sound pierced the air.  Heads turned and faces lit up.  Jacob hugged me and said in a loud, confident voice, "I believe, Santa!  I believe!"

He handed me a red bag.  Inside were sleigh bells, each with a note attached that read, "Just Believe!"  I was to give them to everyone at the party.

As I circulated and handed out the bells, I would ring them and ask, "Do you hear the bell?"

Everyone did.

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