I am embarassed to admit this, but I often cry when reading email forwards. The ones about the poor shoeless boy who sells his one prized posession to buy his dying mother a Christmas present, the ones about the handicap children who are treated kindly by other children and are allowed to play baseball/be on the swim team/attend the birthday party, whatever! Those dang things always make me cry. I know they are not about real people and are just made up by someone who loves to make strangers get all weepy reading about fake people, but I cannot help it, I cry. Don’t even get my started on the Christmas shoes and all that jazz, waterworks!
I guess I cry when reading forwards for the same reason I cry at crappy commercials. I am a sap, plain and simple. Remember those diamond commercials when the married couple are in Italy or France or wherever and he says I would marry you all over again in front of all these people, cut to gorgeous 3 stone anniversary band, cut to her parents hidden in the crowd just to witness this moment, cut to me a sobbing mess on the couch. I think I need to start writing and directing these commercials. I mean afterall, I know what it takes to turn on the waterworks so I should at least be getting myself involved.
Case in point, this one had my mascara running down my face:
Always believe in MIRACLES!!
Three years ago, a little boy and his grandmother came to see Santa
at Mayfair Mall in Wisconsin. The child climbed up on his lap, holding
a picture of a little girl. “Who is this?” asked Santa, smiling.
“Your friend?” Your sister?
“Yes, Santa,” he replied. “My sister, Sarah, who is very sick,” he
said sadly.
Santa glanced over at the grandmother who was waiting nearby, and saw
her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“She wanted to come with me to see you, oh, so very much, Santa!”
the child exclaimed. “She misses you,” he added softly.
Santa tried to be cheerful and encouraged a smile to the boy’s face,
asking him what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas.
When they finished their visit, the Grandmother came over to help the
child off his lap, and started to say something to Santa, but halted.
“What is it?” Santa asked warmly.
“Well, I know it’s really too much to ask you, Santa, but …” the
old woman began, shooing her grandson over to one of Santa’s elves to
collect the little gift which Santa gave all his young visitors.
“The girl in the photograph .. my granddaughter .. well, you see ..
she has leukemia and isn’t expected to make it even through the
holidays,” she said through tear-filled eyes. “Is there any way, Santa
… any possible way that you could come see Sarah? That’s all she’s
asked for, for Christmas, is to see Santa.”
Santa blinked and swallowed hard and told the woman to leave
information with his elves as to where Sarah was, and he would see
what he could do. Santa thought of little else the rest of that
afternoon.
He knew what he had to do. “What if it were MY child lying in that
hospital bed, dying,” he thought with a sinking heart, “this is the
least I can do.”
When Santa finished visiting with all the boys and girls that evening,
he retrieved from his helper the name of the hospital where Sarah was
staying.
He asked the assistant location manager how to get to Children’s
Hospital.
“Why?” Rick asked, with a puzzled look on his face.
Santa relayed to him the conversation with Sarah’s grandmother earlier
that day.
“C’mon …. I’ll take you there,” Rick said softly.
Rick drove them to the hospital and came inside with Santa.
They found out which room Sarah was in.
A pale Rick said he would wait out in the hall.
Santa quietly peeked into the room through the half-closed door and
saw little Sarah on the bed. The room was full of what appeared to be
her family; there was the Grandmother and the girl’s brother he had
met earlier that day.
A woman whom he guessed was Sarah’s mother stood
by the bed, gently pushing Sarah’s thin hair off her forehead.
And another woman who he discovered later was Sarah’s aunt, sat in a
chair near the bed with weary, sad look on her face. They were talking
quietly, and Santa could sense the warmth and closeness of the family,
and their love and concern for Sarah. Taking a deep breath, and
forcing a smile on his face, Santa entered the room, bellowing a hearty,
“Ho, ho, ho!”
“Santa!” shrieked little Sarah weakly, as she tried to escape her bed
to run to him, IV tubes in tact.
Santa rushed to her side and gave her a warm hug. A child the tender
age of his own son — 9 years old — gazed up at him with wonder and
excitement. Her skin was pale and her short tresses bore telltale bald
patches from the effects of chemotherapy. But all he saw when he
looked at her was a pair of huge, blue eyes. His heart melted, and he
had to force himself to choke back tears. Though his eyes were riveted
upon Sarah’s face, he could hear the gasps and quiet sobbing of the
women in the room. As he and Sarah began talking, the family crept
quietly to the bedside one by one, squeezing Santa’s shoulder or his
hand gratefully, whispering “thank you” as they gazed sincerely at him
with shining eyes. Santa and Sarah talked and talked, and she told him
excitedly all the toys she wanted for Christmas, assuring him she’d
been a very good girl that year. As their time together dwindled,
Santa felt led in his spirit to pray for Sarah, and asked for
permission from the girl’s mother. She nodded in agreement and the
entire family circled around Sarah’s bed, holding hands. Santa looked
intensely at Sarah and asked her if she believed in angels
“Oh, yes, Santa … I do!” she exclaimed.
“Well, I’m going to ask that angels watch over you, “he said.
Laying one hand on the child’s head, Santa closed his eyes and prayed.
He asked that God touch little Sarah, and heal her body from this
disease.
He asked that angels minister to her, watch and keep her. And when he
finished praying, still with eyes closed, he started singing softly,
“Silent Night, Holy Night . all is calm, all is bright.”
The family joined in, still holding hands, smiling at Sarah, and
crying tears of hope, tears of joy for this moment, as Sarah beamed at
them all. When the song ended, Santa sat on the side of the bed again
and held Sarah’s frail, small hands in his own.
“Now, Sarah,” he said authoritatively, “you have a job to do, and
that is to concentrate on getting well. I want you to have fun playing
with your friends this summer, and I expect to see you at my house a
Mayfair Mall this time next year!” He knew it was risky proclaiming
that, to this little girl who had terminal cancer, but he “had” to. He
had to give her the greatest gift he could — not dolls or games or
toys — but the gift of HOPE.
“Yes, Santa!” Sarah exclaimed, her eyes bright.
He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and left the room.
Out in the hall, the minute Santa’s eyes met Rick’s, a look passed
between them and they wept unashamed. Sarah’s mother and
grandmother slipped out of the room quickly and rushed to Santa’s
side to thank him.
“My only child is the same age as Sarah,” he explained quietly.
“This is the least I could do.” They nodded with understanding
and hugged him.
One year later, Santa Mark was again back on the set in Milwaukee for
his six-week, seasonal job which he so loves to do. Several weeks went
by and then one day a child came up to sit on his lap.
“Hi, Santa! Remember me?!”
“Of course, I do,” Santa proclaimed (as he always does), smiling down at
her.
After all, the secret to being a “good” Santa is to always make each
child feel as if they are the “only” child in the world at that moment.
“You came to see me in the hospital last year!” Santa’s jaw dropped.
Tears immediately sprang in his eyes, and he grabbed this little
miracle and held her to his chest. “Sarah!” he exclaimed. He scarcely
recognized her, for her hair was long and silky and her cheeks were
rosy — much different from the little girl he had visited just a year
before. He looked over and saw Sarah’s mother and grandmother in the
sidelines smiling and waving and wiping their eyes.
That was the best Christmas ever for Santa Claus.
He had witnessed –and been blessed to be instrumental in bringing
about — this miracle of hope. This precious little child was healed.
Cancer-free. Alive and well.
He silently looked up to Heaven and humbly whispered, “Thank you,
Father. ‘ Tis a very, Merry Christmas!”
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