I know, I know, break out the violins, and call the calligrapher to do invites for the one-woman pity party. Actually, don't. The great thing about being a mom of six kids, a wife, and a work-from-home writer is that I don't have much time to revel in my own sob stories for long. And, even if I did, that's not how I was raised.
So, not to Julie Andrews it, but when the dog bites, when the bee stings, I do in fact rely upon remembrances of my favorite things. (Spoiler alert! Many of those things involve kindness.) Inevitably, one of them also involves my husband, Carl. Well, many of them really, but the making of the memory I'm about to describe took place back in 1999.
That December, I had only been dating my future better half about two months. To be honest (yet again), I really wasn't too sure how serious either of us was about the other, and we were both mutually okay with that. I was only a sophomore, and he had just finished applying to law school. We met at a frat party and had gone on a few dates, and it was fun. Obviously, I thought he was a decent enough guy, but I can pinpoint the moment I went from having that perspective to falling in love with him.
During my sophomore year, I was philanthropy chair of an academic fraternity/sorority at Northwestern. We had done a Halloween bash for local kids on campus, and, as the holidays approached, we turned our attention to our next gala. We had plans in the works to host a Christmas party at a nearby shelter for women and children. I put together craft projects and cheap little stocking stuffers, and we brainstormed a few games to do with the kids. It was all looking pretty good, but I realized I was missing one key element--Santa Claus.
Crap. I was a journalism major, I told myself, not some kind of thespian. Plus, I had no intention of disillusioning Suzy and Tommy with my high-pitched Santa impersonation. I asked around our group, but I didn't have any takers for the part. At last, I breathed in and decided to grab the bull by the horns (aka, really learn what kind of guy I was drinking margaritas with on the weekends).
Looking back, I shouldn't have been surprised that Carl agreed to help. Initially (and though I'm rather ashamed at my egotistical pessimism now), I kind of smirked to myself and thought, "Well, obviously, I'm just that incredible that he'd do anything for me." I do believe he knew tackling Kris Kringle wouldn't exactly hurt his chances of putting a smile on my face, but--knowing my husband as I now do--it was so much more than that.
The day of the party, Carl got in the red suit, beard, wig, and stocking hat we had waiting for him. As we wrapped up Christmas carols and amateur ornament-crafting, he made his big entrance. Never have I seen so many little faces light up at once--faces that, when you stared at them long enough, revealed some mightily sad stories. The children we were singing "Frosty the Snowman" alongside came from abusive situations. This Christmas, they weren't at home, waiting for Santa to slide down the chimney. They were here, at the shelter, where the gift of a safe, peaceful yuletide season was potentially as good as it was going to get.
The partygoers took turns sitting on Santa's lap, whispering their wishes to him, and revealing how they had been good all year long. It was a tableau I will never forget in a million Christmases, especially when it came to one little boy, who was probably no more than seven. At first, he just stared up at Carl, aka St. Nick. He was in awe, but whenever Carl boomed out a "Ho, ho, ho!" in an overly dramatic voice, the child flinched and appeared to instinctively recoil. As I watched him, I realized--and one of the shelter coordinators later confirmed--that he wasn't particularly accustomed to the idea that men can be kind.
But the thing is, my husband was and remains today one of the kindest people I know. He can be gruff and doesn't always say a lot. Yet, beneath the overly practical engineer and sometimes sarcastic attorney, there lies a tenderness and sense of empathy that isn't easily rivaled. I saw it that day back in 1999, and it's what's led me to decide then and there that Carl wasn't just someone I had fun with on the weekends.
Speaking quietly and exuding patience with every gesture, he won over the little guy who had clearly witnessed more than any little guy ever should. By the time we had left, this child had shared his Christmas list with Santa, and he had a smile on his face. Later, Carl revealed to me that he felt badly, not just because the kid was obviously traumatized, but because it wasn't insane to assume that he wouldn't get everything he had asked for. We both knew that maybe he wouldn't find a bike waiting for him under the tree Christmas morning, and that was gut-wrenching. Nevertheless, the man I would marry in less than three years had given him something else that I sincerely hope served him well over the years.
On days that I classify as "rough," I remember that. I recall how there are people whose suffering far exceeds anything I've ever had occasion to potentially whine about. And I realize there are also people who can be game-changers . . . Santas who offer hope and kindness in a world where miracles are often rare, but where hope and kindness are frequently miracles in and of themselves. I should know. I'm married to one of them.
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