Being Santa

"Where's the real Santa?"

"You're not the real Santa."

"Erm, no. Santa couldn't be here so he asked me to take his place."

"Where's the real Santa? I want to talk to the real Santa!"

Mother, mouths 'I'm sorry'. "Come on, Leslie. Come now, let the other children have their turn with Santa."

Leslie won't have it. "No! I want to talk to Santa, not him! Let me talk to the real Santa." Her insolence at the world turns into tears.

"Oh darling, there's no need for tears? Tell me what you want this Christmas and I'll tell Santa myself when I see him."

Still crying, she putts between sobs. "I want my Daddy back. Make Santa bring my Daddy back to life."

Banksy - Girl with Balloon

The strained cheerful mask has dropped from her mother's face. She too looks off in my direction with the same plaintive sorrow as her valiant daughter.

The young widow knows I can do nothing to help, but round her tears forms a tragic hope that maybe God, maybe some miracle from her Lord would come at that very instant and take away her loss.

I kneel on one knee and look into the young child's eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss, sweet pea, I wish I could tell Santa and give you what you want, but Santa doesn't have the power to bring people back to life."

"Ms. Mariotta at Sunday school says Jesus died for our sins, and God brought him back to life."

"I'm sorry, dear, but we can't ask God to bring our loved ones back to life. God has a plan for each of us. We can't always understand why God lets our loved ones go, even though we love them and miss them very much."

"But my Daddy was a good man."

"He was a good man. Sad to say, unfortunate events happen to all of us, whether we are good or bad."

"What's the point of being good if my Daddy's dead and God won't bring him back?"

"Aww, honey... we do good things in life but not to be rewarded. It's not to protect ourselves from harm that we ought to be good.

Your Daddy was good to you and Mommy because he loved you very much. He wanted to make your lives happier. That's why he wanted to be a good man.

So you'll always remember him and feel his love, no matter where he is, and his love will always watch over you, even when he is gone."

The mother wipes away a tear and reaches out her arm.

'Thank you.' She hugs me while she holds her daughter's hand.

Maybe I set an example for this young woman, gave her some strength to console her daughter while struggling through her own grief.

Leslie puts her hand on my leg and says, "I'm sorry, Santa, I yelled at you."
The young girl need not say more.

She called me Santa.