Christmas 2006

A fake Santa Claus and a homeless man, sitting on the wet sidewalk on Christmas Eve… singing, no less. Not a typical Christmas image. But indeed… sacred.

When my daughter was two years old, I thought it would be fun for her to see Santa Claus sneaking around in her own backyard, on Christmas Eve. That notion grew into an annual tradition that keeps me scurrying about friends’ backyards across the GTA, ending in my own. A Santa suit rental became a Santa suit creation, and December visits to hospitals and group homes are now all part of the big picture.

But this Christmas Eve had something extra special in store. The last backyard Santa stop before home was along the Lakeshore. But my family would not be home from church for some time. So, creature of habit that I am, I drove into the downtown core – just to see the city when it stops. The only night it does. Or at least it seems to, at first glance. December 24th.

I drove slowly through the quiet cold, with my windows wide open, to take it in. It was just to be a bit of unscheduled time alone with Christmas carols on the radio… but an old soul drew me in like a sponge. Something I didn’t see coming.

He was sitting on Bloor Street, head tilted to the sky and all alone. I slowed and double-parked on Bloor – the only time of the year anyone ever  could. I took a few of the goodies I had with me (the ones this Santa leaves at back doors with notes telling the kids who spotted him – to go to bed), and hobbled over to himn, and sat on his left. He was spectacular. Weathered. Peaceful. Like an old tree.

“Hi Santa Claus”, he said, without even glancing at me. And without question – almost as though he’d been expecting me. Hmm.. expecting St. Nick, I mean.

“Hi. What are you doing?” Santa replied, questioning his role at the time.

He slid back, stretched out his long old body and said, as though rehearsed all day, “the stars in the bright sky look down where I lay.” Incredible.

He was so perfect in his profound gestures and mannerisms. He was shocking. Like a mysterious homeless angel.

“Chocolate?” I offered.

“Sure”, he replied with a sigh. Then he looked at me for the first time. And in his eyes was this grand look of disappointment, as though he’d hoped I was the real Santa. But he was close enough to spot a fake beard, not enough wrinkles, and a sad smile not worthy of the real deal. A Santa wanna-be. I even disappointed me.

He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t high. His mind was in its own place, but not “ill”. He was just living out Christmas in his world… the way we all do. And in his world, Christmas meant sitting alone, taking it in, and not even letting Santa Claus phase him. Most of us really could only wish for such a character.

We sat for a long while. Not saying much. Then he took in a long breath and began singing “I’ll be home for Christmas… you can plan on me…” His old warm voice was like a blanket. The words wrapped around me. At the same time, his sorrow was staggering. I tried to sing along, but could not stay composed… so just tearfully accepted the gift of being there.

He ended softly… “If only in my dreams.” Then he stood, collected his belongings, and began to walk away. He took 4 or 5 steps and stopped. He shuffled back to me, leaned low, handed me a small piece of cardboard and said, “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.” He propped himself back up, and wandered away. I watched him, almost waiting for the clouds to part and snatch him up to heaven. But that didn’t happen. He just trudged along.

I looked down at the piece of cardboard. It read “God Bless You.” His panhandling sign… the most precious gift I had ever received. By far.

I have no theological basis for my thinking, but I have always thought that when someone who is homeless says “God bless you” that it is a blessing of profound significance. That they would give those words to me – or to you – has some kind of heavenly resonance. Even after all these years, it almost startles me. So to hold this sign in my hands… it was magnificent. And to own it!

But there I was, sitting all alone in a Santa suit on Bloor Street, on Christmas Eve, with a panhandlers blessing in my hands. My beautiful, bizarre miracle.

How tragic it is – the times over and over that God blesses us, and we don’t even notice. How often we rush through life, frantically looking for blessings of encouragement and inspiration, all the while buzzing past and trampling over the tenderness of God’s own children.

No greater blessing will this world know than a homeless baby, born in the slowness of a silent night, a holy night. May the prayerful offering of God’s blessing on you never be missed, overlooked or ignored. Especially from the voices and hands of His beloved, rising towards you from the sidewalks and streets of your own community. May we all be nothing less than humbled and made new by the offerings of unlikely street angels: “God Bless You.” No Santa could ever bring a gift greater than this.

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