Christmas Eve I woke up early for our big family dinner.
Dozens of relatives were due to arrive in a matter of hours, and of course there was lots to do. I went to the kitchen to put in the turkey. But first I took a deep breath.
I had a special Christmas request I didn’t want to forget. A prayer not so much for me and our guests, but for my teenage son, Darryl. Please, God, I asked, let us spend Christmas at home, and not in the hospital.
Darryl was born with spina bifida, a disease that affects the spinal column and nervous system, and hydrocephalus, which causes water to accumulate on the brain. As an infant, he had a shunt implanted in his head to make it easier to drain the fluid that accumulated, and throughout his young life he visited the children’s hospital regularly. The doctors and nurses saw us almost as much as they saw their own families. Any day or night might include a surprise trip to the ER. Holidays were no exception. Not even Christmas Eve.
I don’t want today ruined, I thought, wrapping a few last-minute presents at the kitchen table. Darryl deserves a real Christmas more than any boy I know. Watching the Green Bay Packers play on television. Talking with Grandpa about the latest NASCAR race. Teasing his younger sister, Marianne. Just enjoying being a teenager on Christmas. My prayer went on and on through several bastings of the turkey. After laying it all out for God, I was more convinced than ever that Darryl deserved this day at home with his family.
Our doorbell rang, and rang again. The house filled with family and friends, sitting around, chatting and laughing, sipping on cider as holiday tunes hummed in the background. Darryl joked with Marianne. They helped me set the table. Everything was going perfectly. At dinner my father said grace. “Thank you, Lord, for filling this house with the Christmas spirit!” he said.
I looked over at Darryl. He was in trouble. The shunt is malfunctioning! I jumped out of my chair to help, but Darryl passed out, his face falling forward on the table.
My father got him into the car and we raced to the hospital. We all knew the routine. Not a minute was wasted. We’d been through this a hundred times before. But still, this time was different. Today was Christmas Eve. The roads were empty. People were at home celebrating. Why, Lord? Why today? Why can’t Darryl have a real Christmas?
In no time my son was prepped and in the operating theater, where doctors would repair the shunt. I sat in the waiting room. My parents and Marianne waited with me. We waited all night and into the morning. Some Christmas, I thought, flipping through a magazine. I tossed it onto the coffee table. A small tree sat in the corner of the room. A nice gesture on the part of the hospital staff, but it only reminded me of the Christmas Darryl was missing at home. Lord, I wanted him to have a special holiday.
Finally one of the nurses brought us good news. “Darryl’s out of surgery, and he’s just fine,” she said. “He’s resting comfortably in his room.”
Dad squeezed my hand. “You go home and freshen up. We’ll stay here with Darryl till you get back.”
It was already daylight I realized when I got out to the parking lot. I drove home to the empty house. No family and friends, no fresh-baked desserts, no carols playing in the background. Sorry I couldn’t give you Christmas, Darryl, I thought as I grabbed some clean clothes from his room. Maybe next year.
I showered, changed and drove back to the hospital. It was still eerily quiet. People were at home where they were supposed to be. I didn’t run into a single doctor or nurse on my way to Darryl’s room. But when I got there a man was coming out. Not just any man—but Santa Claus himself. Aren’t you a little late? I thought. Christmas was practically over. It had come and gone, and we missed it. Darryl missed it. Despite my prayers. We didn’t need some late Santa to rub it in.
Darryl and Marianne laughed inside the room. I heard the distinct crinkle of wrapping paper.
“Merry Christmas,” Santa bellowed in my face, and surprised me with a hug. I could feel his coat, made of a rich, red velvet. I’d never felt a Santa Claus outfit so plush—the cuffs seemed to be pure cashmere. He released me from his comforting arms and winked at me, his eyes sparkling with joy. His cheeks were rosy, his face vibrant, just like the Santas I remembered from childhood. But his snow-white beard had to be real. Who was this Santa?
He sauntered off down the hall, the picture of Christmas itself. What was going on here? Why did I feel like it was Christmas Eve all over again? In the hospital room I found Darryl and his sister sitting on the bed, surrounded by piles of shiny wrapping paper. Talk about Christmas spirit!
“Look what I got!” Marianne yelled, holding up a jewelry box. It was the exact same jewelry box she had asked for, but I wasn’t able to find it anywhere at the mall. How on earth did Santa get his hands on it?
Darryl showed off a model of Dale Earnhardt’s race car—Earnhardt happened to be Darryl’s NASCAR hero. And a Greenbay Packers sweatshirt. That was Darryl’s favorite team. But how could Santa have known? No one at the hospital could explain our strange but wonderful visit. It was as if Santa had come just for us.
It wasn’t the Christmas I’d prayed for. It wasn’t what I wanted for Darryl. It was even better. It was the Christmas we would always remember. The Christmas that proved that wherever we are during the holiday season—in our homes surrounded by friends and family, or sitting in the hospital with a sick child—no matter where we are, Christmas will always find us.
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