Mistaken Santa

The boy stumbles through the snow on his way home from the bus stop. The last day of the third grade before Christmas break always leave a child filled with joy to return home…return home to warmth, Christmas lights, and songs about presents. The snow is thick on his boots… the boy trips and suddenly his face is blasted with the coldness of winter. He stumbles to his soaked feet, and wipes his face, which now feels as hard as stone, and bitten with frigid air. All he can think about is staring at the television, playing video games for a whole two weeks. Hes so preoccupied with the joys of a virtual world he doesn’t notice that he left a mitten behind when he fell a few steps back. He’s so preoccupied he doesn’t see the other children running home to welcoming parents and eager siblings to enjoy the spirit of Christmas.

This boy has to walk the extra few steps to home; it takes him twice as long, treading in the snow, than the other kids because he lives in a different part of town. There’s no one else on the bus to walk with him home, so he braves the cold alone. It helps when he envisions himself as a solider braving the terrors of nature, the look of a trespassing dog, or the boy down the street who owns one of the biggest water guns in his class. The walk continues, and the boy trips again, his boots are too big for him, and sometimes they get in the way. He’s not sure how he got them, whenever he gets clothes he doesn’t go shopping for them like the other kids do, he usually sees an older gentleman dropping off a bunch of clothes at his front door. The man obviously didn’t realize that the boots were one size too big. Tall houses are covered in snow, lights are wrapped around every window, every bush, every tree, in perfect arrangement. Sometimes the boy thinks of living in one of the top windows, where he could look out of his room at his kingdom below him, it would be like he ruled the world!

The boy can always tell when he’s almost home… the houses get smaller, the road gets rockier, the pavement gets overrun by grass and empty coke bottles. The best parts of the walk home is kicking these empty glass bottles, one by one, listening to them roll off the pavement. Today is different though, the sidewalk is covered in snow and the glass bottles are overtaken by snow… the boy can’t enjoy a round of coke bottle soccer. The boy walks by the broken glass of the convenience store and peers in the crack to see if the new edition of his favorite comic book has hit the stands. Today must not be his day, first no bottle soccer and still no new comic for December… what a day, he just wants to go home and play some video games. He’s on level thirty-five, one of the hardest levels to beat, or at least that’s what his friends at school say. Just one more level until he can beat the boss of the game, the boy smiles at the excitement of it all. His book bag starts to get really heavy as he rounds the corner and sees the pursuit of home. The boy beings running, his heart beating immediately out of his chest, the wind causing his red nose to run... he struggles to wipe his face with the ice that has become his hand, he realizes then he left his mitten behind… his mom is not going to be happy about this, those were his only gloves. At this point the boy doesn’t care, he runs up the broken steps that make up the threshold to his home, throws open the storm door that reminds him of his grandma’s house two doors down, and throws himself into the chipped white door to his one floor, one bedroom hideaway.

He steps into the doorway, shaking off the snow from his jacket…. the sound of thumping snow hitting the floor is all that can be heard in the boy’s house. He walks through his smoke filled house, pacing around attempting to find anyone alive. You would never know it’s Christmas time in the boy’s house without the black and white Santa Claus crossword he brought home from school sitting on the coffee table. The walls in this house are never adorned with garland, paintings, or even family photos… usually just the occasional birthday card hung up by small stripes of masking tape. The boy walks into the bedroom to find his dad sitting on the floor, staring out the window, rocking back and forth. His father’s long fingernails tap nervously as the dad turns around to see that his child is home from school… it seemed like just thirty minutes ago his child had left this morning. As the boy waits for something, he never really knows what he waits for from his father, he turns back into the living room and fixes his eyes on his PlayStation…. its time to play. Hours pass, the father still wide awake, keeping the door to the bedroom shut, as the boy wastes away in front of the television… playing video games.

The front door opens wide, as the stale air of the house gets overturn by a blast of winter air, the boy looks up to see his mother walking in, with a single brown paper bag, and that same glazed look she’s had on her face for a week. Nothing is said, the boy returns to his games, as his mother creeps around the house, finally opening the door to the bedroom. The clock ticks as screaming is heard from the bedroom, the clock ticks as something is thrown across the bedroom, the clock ticks as the boys parents talk about money, the clock ticks, and the boy plays his video games. Hunger creeps up once again in the boy’s stomach; he rolls his eyes, and continues to play his video games. Mc Donald’s sounds like a Thanksgiving feast at the moment.

When suddenly the boy remembers that his teacher gave him a piece of chocolate today for Christmas, the boy stumbles to his feet, runs to the door, tearing into his book bag, finding the chocolate nestled between torn folders and broken pencils. The smell of his book bag reminds him of school, of his friends, and French fries on cafeteria trays.  The boy takes his candy to his seat in front of the television, devouring every morsel of his dinner, before he throws the wrapper amongst cigarette buts, empty glass bottles, and the Holy Bible.

The boy squints his eyes, as he wakes up to the sound of his father rushing out the door, and the sight of sunlight gleaming through the window, past the mismatched window shades. He must have fallen asleep playing video games, the television shows of a paused pursuit on a fantastical mission. The boy stumbles to his feet, to the sound of his mother crying. He walks into the kitchen and finds some crackers, those ones that come six in a pack, as the doorbell rings… the boy didn’t even realize they had a doorbell until now. He waits for his mother to answer it, as the bell rings again. The boy looks around the corner of the living room to see who it would be, Saturday morning and someone wants into this house? The mother stumbles out of the bedroom to the door, ignoring her son on the way. The door opens to tall gentlemen, giving the widest grin the boy had ever seen on a person. The man is well dressed, holding gifts wrapped in Christmas wonderland paper. The boy’s eyes widened, he had never heard of Santa coming to the front door before, and he didn’t remember it being Christmas day… in fact the boy knows it isn’t Christmas. The smiling reindeer and snowmen on the wrapping paper fill the boy with the most joy he had experienced since beating that one video game last year. The man hands the gifts to the boy’s mother, they exchange some words... the boy would listen if presents weren’t in the picture. His mother closes the front door as the gentlemen walks away. The presents are set on the damp carpet of the living room, and the mother tells the boy he can open them as she returns to the bedroom and closes the door. Elated, the boy rushes to his knees to open his gifts, his gifts brought by Santa, his gifts brought by a stranger. This is the best Christmas the boy had ever had.

Running Home

New Balance shoes make thumps on concrete as elementary school children race off the steps- the flood gates open and the pursuit for home from the school bus begins. The last child to exit the bus is smaller than the rest, a kindergartener, still unsure of his place on the bus… so he waits patiently for the bigger kids to take their place. The child stumpers through the snow, attempting to maintain his book bag from falling off us his body, stuffed in a warm winter coat. The mittens are falling off and his socks are rolling to the tips of his toes, his feet beginning to swell up in the frigid air. He watches as the other children filter into their tall brick homes, one by one they run, greeted by dogs, welcoming parents, and white fences. The fifth graders get to come home to an empty house, a chance to steal the television and have victory over CNN and the Home and Garden network. It’s not hard for the kindergartener to make it home, passing brick castle after brick castle it can be hard for some little children to make it to the right home. When you can barley see over the kitchen table, sometimes suburbia looks more like a bustling city than a quiet neighborhood. The wind blows as the child attempts to smack his hair from his face, as he approaches his house. Everyone knows where this child lives; it’s not hard to recognize his house from miles away because he lives in the glass house on the end of the street.

The people in the glass house are known well in their suburban neighborhood, after all, it’s not everyday a family chooses to live in a house where you can watch every waking child, every mother’s footprint, and the father returning from work. Day after day their routine of daily life is seen by all as a circus act, something to be marveled at. Their life is some drama to look onto as others lives just don’t add up. People watch as they treat each other with respect, as the father loves the child for doing the right thing, and as the company of the mother is just as good as any Saturday morning cartoon. The brick house with the white garage door to the left of the glass house have their problems, dad recently moved out with his mistress, the teenage girl ran away with her twenty something year old boyfriend. Screaming is heard from the brick houses on the streets as children are woken for schooldays, lunches are thrown out the window as single mothers maintain a house filled with peanut butter and jelly and business proposals. Secrets are kept, annual gossip sessions are held in the form of card games at the neighborhood clubhouse, and fathers are moving out left and right. Families are being stripped away with anger, malice, and deception, but not at the glass house. At the glass house, respect is given, love is expected, and joy comes in response. Traditions are kept and the children feel loved, and cycles of happy homes are passed down from generation to generation.

Of course there are people on the street who hate the people in the glass house, they feel that they built their house for the attention, for their every act to be watched and recorded by the mothers on the street. Some families are simply jealous of the openness of the home, the love and affection that is so absent in their own homes. While channels are blocked and computers are off limits at some homes, the people in the glass house are able to enjoy trust they have instilled in the kids of the glass house. No one can see the huge big screen television or the new luxurious couch in the brick houses, but in the glass house, their possessions are seen by anyone who cares to give a glance. When a new television arrives at the glass skeptical, none of the children seem to care, but in the brick house, the children beg for it until their eyes are black and blue. At the glass house, material possessions are not expected; they’re earned and received with humility and gratefulness. The father that lives in the glass house always comes home on time for work, and calls everyday when he has to go out of town for business. The mother at the glass house is not overburden with work, and does not own an apron; the father takes care of most of it. Everyone in the glass house shares the burden of the world, and no one is taken for granted, or loved more than another.

My father recently shared with me that transparency in your life results in awareness and in obedience in Christ. More often than not the Christian walk is spent in hiding, hiding behind walls of sin like the people in the brick houses. Sometimes the shame of a loved one keeps us from enjoying their company, and sadly, sin is not smothered with love, but with guilt and, in return, more sin. The more we hide the more sin bundles up inside of us like weeds overtaking a garden. The people in the brick house were certainly jealous of those in the glass house; sure their life is on display, but for the good of others. The family in the glass house doesn’t cower in sin; they embrace their downfalls, are drawn to redemption, and lean on others in fellowship. We can make the Christian walk so much harder than it was ever meant to be. Our families can hide in sin very easily, the teenage boy can be afraid to tell his parents that he’s bullied in school. The eight-year-old daughter can come home from ballet; too terrified of her parents to tell her she did not make the cut to go to regionals. Yes, sometimes we can use sin to burden our faith, and keep ourselves hidden under a blanket. We live with the weight of what we’ve done. Life would be so much easier if we were transparent.

If we lived in a glass house we’d have nothing to hide, we could conquer sin, and people could help us with what we’re going through. Its not a horrible thing to be predictable, to have integrity, and to be the man or woman you claim to be. Its time to own up to who we are in Christ, and stop letting sin keep us covered up and guilt us into a becoming a different person. If we lived for Christ, became transparent, now that would make our lives so much simpler.