The Season of Giving

It was Thanksgiving 1996. Things were very bleak. I was living with a friend in a two-bedroom condo; he had one room, and I was sharing the other with my five-year-old daughter and fifteen-month-old son. My boyfriend, the kids’ father, and I were estranged, once again. Money was tight. I was behind on rent. I was eating Cup O’Noodles soup twice a day to make sure the kids could eat.

One of the only things that got me through was my therapist, Linda. I had been seeing her for almost a year, working through issues that stemmed from being molested as a child. I was making very good progress, but the holiday season was taking its toll on me.

My last session before the Thanksgiving break, Linda announced she had something to talk to me about before we got into our regular session. Taking my regular seat across from her, I felt the familiar fluttering of the butterflies in my stomach.

“Mariposa Women’s Center has a tradition they follow every year,” Linda started. “As you know, most of the funding is private. There are several women who fund the center, very well-off women, who stay behind the scenes.”
I nodded to show I understood.

“They have a program they like to compare to a Secret Santa kind of thing,” she went on. “Each one of the therapists here gets to ‘nominate’ one of their clients and that client’s name is drawn by one of these women.” She paused again, flashing me a big smile.

“Christina, I know what a hard time you’ve been having this year, and I want to nominate you, if it’s okay with you.”

I sat and let it sink in for a minute. Tears welled in my eyes. “What exactly does this all mean?” I sniffed.

“Well, I’ve got a form to fill out--I was hoping we could do it now, and then get on with our regular session.” As she read the form aloud to me, it became apparent that some stranger was going to be buying gifts for me and my family. There was a place to fill out my kids’ names and ages, their clothes and shoe sizes, favorite color, hobbies, etc.

Reluctantly, I gave her the information she wanted. It was harder than I’d thought it would be to come up with gift ideas right on the spot. I felt very uncomfortable with telling someone what to buy for my kids and I told Linda so.

She quickly dismissed my concerns. “Christina, it’s okay for someone to do something for you.”

“Well, how much will this person actually give my kids?” I wanted to know.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. It varies from person to person, but I’d expect that each of your children would receive at least a few things. Just because I’m putting all this information down, it doesn’t mean that she will be obligated to buy it all. It’s just to help her decide what to get.”

She finished filling out the information about the kids and then told me it was my turn.

“What? I don’t want anything.”

It was hard enough accepting charity for the sake of my kids’ Christmas, but there was no way I was going to accept anything. I was too proud and too embarrassed.

Linda persisted. “We’ll just put down a few things. Maybe she’ll get you something, maybe she won’t.”

Even though it went against everything in my being, I relented and gave my clothes size, and asked for little things like hair scrunchies and a journaling book.

All the paperwork finally finished, we put it behind us and continued with my session.

After the session, I allowed myself to become a little bit excited about the new development. As much as I hated accepting help from someone, especially a stranger, I knew that I needed it. All my daughter had asked for was a bicycle, and it was going to take everything I had just to make sure “Santa” would come through. I had no idea how I’d be able to buy her anything else, let alone get her baby brother anything.

Santa was always a curse when your kids reached that age anyway. I had grown up with the tradition that Santa would bring one big gift for me and my brother, and that everything else under the tree came from my parents. We’d open our gifts from Mom and Dad on Christmas Eve, then wait for our stockings and “big” present from Santa. I had carried on this tradition with my own kids.

So, if I tried to let my daughter know that this year wasn’t going to be as big as past years, her answer was, “Well, Santa can bring me presents.”

Still stressed about the upcoming Christmas season, I tried to put my mind at ease by telling myself at least the kids would have a couple of things from their “secret” Santa.

The next month flew by in a blur. I was still struggling, but my roommate was understanding. He never asked me for money, even though I was two months behind on rent. He bought the Christmas tree and I used my ornaments I’d bought from Pic N’ Save the year before. I was able to buy my daughter’s bicycle and even bought a couple of very cheap things for her and her brother. That was going to be the best I could do.

The week before Christmas, I went to my last therapy session until after the holidays. I sat in the waiting area, impatient, knowing that all the Secret Santa packages were to be delivered that day. As I sat and waited, the receptionist’s area was very busy. Women came and went. Most of them looked like normal, middle-aged women. They looked like they could’ve just been clients like myself. What gave them away were the large, black plastic trashbags each one of them was bringing in. From the sharp edges and corners trying to push through the plastic, I could tell they were presents.

Each woman brought in a similar type bag. If I had to guess, it looked like each trashbag probably contained half a dozen different packages. I could see white pieces of paper taped to the outside of each bag, with a different family’s last name written on it. Very curious and excited, I wondered which one might be the one for my family. Even if my kids just got a couple of presents each, I’d be so grateful!

Finally, Linda came out to get me and apologized for making me wait. As we walked down the hall to her office, I could feel her excitement. Wringing her hands together, she stopped outside her door and turned to me. “Christina, this is so exciting,” she told me as she led me into the room beyond. “You’ve just got to see this.”

Trembling slightly, I followed her inside, only to stop inside the doorway, my mouth agape. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My Secret Santa had already dropped off our presents. I had been expecting maybe five or six presents for my kids, but what I saw here, tears instantly sprang to my eyes.

The office was probably about twenty feet by twelve feet. One whole half of the room was filled with presents! I just stood there, crying silently, until Linda urged me to take a look at them.

“Wow,” I breathed. Presents of all shapes and sizes were laid out in front of me. What surprised me even further was that each and every one of them had been expertly wrapped, adorned with ribbon or bows, and had already been labled to each family member from Santa! There had to be about thirty presents and I was shocked to see not only plenty of gifts for my daughter and son, but there was an equal amount of gifts for myself!

I began crying harder and turned to Linda, who was crying, too. “What is all this?” I managed to choke out.

Linda smiled through her own tears, “I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a turn-out like this.” I nodded, telling her how I’d seen the other bags for the other families and that this surpassed my wildest expectations. We oohed and aahed and cried some more, Linda hugged me, and we tried to get ourselves together. Sniffing and red-eyed, I managed to have a good session, the whole time my gaze being drawn back to the spread of gifts before us.

When the session was over, we had to begin moving all the gifts to my car. The two of us had to take three trips each, carrying as many packages as we could manage. They barely fit in the trunk, backseat, and passenger seat of my Toyota Camry. Beaming, we proudly carried all the boxes past the receptionists, the other therapists, the other clients. Everyone watched us with big eyes and smiles. I was walking on clouds that day!

I took the presents to my mom’s house while my kids were still at daycare. We filled nearly half of one of her extra bedrooms with the packages and she was under strict instruction to make sure the kids didn’t enter that room when we came to visit.

On Christmas Eve, my parents came over late, after the kids were in bed. Silently, we carried the gifts from their car into the condo and placed them under the tree. Afterwards, I stood back and admired the Christmas scene in front of me. We’d flipped off the living room lights and only the twinkling from the Christmas tree illuminated the room. We’d pushed as many presents as would fit under the tree, the rest spilling out and around the tree. Lights of red, green, blue, yellow, and white reflected off gold and silver foil paper, turning the room into a sparkling, magical place.

I went to bed that night happy.

The next morning was truly magical for me. In the past, I’d always feign surprise and delight at each of the presents the kids got from “Santa.” But this year, each and every present was a surprise. Our Secret Santa had come through in a huge way.

Both of my kids received a new pair of shoes, along with several items of clothing. The baby got all kinds of toys, including a giant fire truck. My daughter got a Barbie, a baby doll, several books, and arts and crafts type things, along with her bicycle that I’d gotten her. But what surprised me most was what our Secret Santa had gotten me. Based on the information I’d provided, she’d gotten me a bra and some panties, hair clips and scrunchies, a sweater, several books and a journal, picture frames, and more things I can’t recall all these years later.

It was a bittersweet Christmas in a way, because the kids’ father and I had fought the day before, and he’d decided not to come see them on Christmas. In fact, he didn’t even bother to call them until about eight o’clock on Christmas night. But regardless of that, the kids were busy and happy with their new things, we went to my parents’ for dinner and just had a wonderful Christmas.

I have passed this story on to some close people a few times since, and every time it reminds me that there is still goodness out there; selfless people who want to reach out and touch those who may be less fortunate than they. This year is going to be tough as well. I’ve got four kids now, ages thirteen, nine, five, and fifteen months. I had one more child with my ex boyfriend before our relationship fell apart for good, and then I met and married my husband. We had our baby boy last year. My husband and I are now having our second son together. He could be here with us as soon as a couple of weeks from now. Money is tight, and once again, I’m wondering if “Santa” will be able to pull through.

But no matter what, I’ll always remember the year a stranger saved Christmas.