Santa Lives

Years ago, my first volunteer job was at a telephone crisis center in Jackson, Mississippi. During Christmas, the director hosted a party for the volunteers and quietly mingled, asking each of us if we believed in Santa Claus. Later that evening, he addressed the group and reflected on his question. He explained that those who believed in Santa were the ones who still had hope. I often think back on his words.

Around the same time, I worked for the Mississippi branch of the American Medical Association (AMA). One year, a group of us decided to adopt a family from the Salvation Army Christmas Tree, and we brought gifts to a young single mother and her toddler. The next year, the office wanted to do something bigger. I volunteered to visit the family the Salvation Army matched us with. After meeting a couple of families who didn’t move us, we requested another. We never called ahead—most people didn’t have phones anyway—because we wanted to see the “real family.” What happened next changed our entire office staff.

On a dark, cold, and rainy December evening, a co-worker and I climbed into my car and drove into a shanty town where poverty was stark. Though we left at 4:30, it was already as dark as midnight. This was long before GPS—so we navigated the pothole-filled streets by the overhead car light and a map.

As we drove down one bleak street after another, we couldn’t help but notice the absence of Christmas decorations—so different from our own neighborhoods. Wooden shotgun houses lined both sides of the road, no grass or yards, just muddy patches of dirt. There were no warm lights inside or out, only broken windows patched with cardboard. Inch by inch, we searched for the house number, aware of how vulnerable we were—two young white women in the middle of the ghetto. Finally, we found the house and pulled over. It felt as if eyes watched us from every crack, the street deserted of cars and people.

As soon as we stopped, two young children appeared on the rickety porch. When they realized we’d come to see them, they slowly approached us. The little girl, about seven, wore a thin, ripped cotton dress and flip-flops. The little boy, five or six, had a thin undershirt and baggy pants tied with string—barefoot. When we explained we wanted to know what they hoped Santa would bring, the little girl replied, “Tell him to bring us some food, we ain’t got no food.” We asked if their mother was home. “Not yet,” they said. So we asked to go inside. Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw in that shack.

Inside, a mentally challenged man was babysitting while the mother worked two jobs—cleaning City Hall during the day and a church at night. The living room held just two folding chairs and a crib where a three-month-old baby slept on a piece of foam that covered only a third of the crib. The room was freezing, lit only by a harsh overhead bulb. We told the man we wanted to see how we could help for Christmas; he grunted in response, so we moved on to the next room, a cramped bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom barely attached to the house.

There was one double bed with no bedding, only clothes piled on top. The kitchen was empty—just a pack of chicken innards in the freezer and a half pan of cornbread hard as a brick. My partner and I checked every cupboard and found nothing. We struggled not to cry, but we got to work, writing down names, ages, and sizes. We traced the children’s feet on paper to buy shoes and took careful notes. We stayed less than an hour, and the mother still hadn’t come home—she was likely walking in the dark cold.

The next day at our staff meeting, we described what we had found—more than one person fought back tears. Yet everyone rallied, bringing bedding, towels, and nice clothing from home. We collected money to buy new school clothes, shoes, and toys. The baby received a proper mattress and warm clothing. Our director contacted a major grocery store, which donated $100 worth of food—an amount that would be nearly $600 today.

Different staff members took the family to buy shoes and clothes. My friend and I took the mother shopping with the grocery donation, filling three carts with food before driving her home. Soon, carloads of pots, pans, dishes, bedding, and a new mattress for the baby brought joy to those once-hopeless streets. We even brought a Christmas tree and ornaments. The family was in tears, the children’s eyes wide with amazement, unable to stop thanking us.

The mother, though resourceful, did not have access to food stamps, so we helped her apply and receive them. We also connected her with the County Home Extension Service, which helped her plan nutritious meals and stretch her food budget.

Every Christmas, this memory returns, and I remember the words of the Crisis Line director: “Those who believe in Santa still have hope.” I still believe in Santa—he lives on in our good works.