“Dear Mad-who, How are you? I’m fine. But the doctors say I’m not. It’s late at night on Christmas Eve, and they have hooked me up to lots of things. Dr. Ringle says that probably by tomorrow I will be going home for good to be with my family. I found your Christmas list in the garbage and taped it back together so I could give it to Santa Claus for you. Dr. Ringle say’s he’s not Santa, but I know he is because he gave me just what I wanted for Christmas. Thank you for being a friend to me, along with Mo and Aaron. I have been so happy! I want you to be happy too. Since I’m going home to my family, you should be able to go home to your family too. So I have told the doctors that you may have my liver. I won’t need it anymore. I hope it works well for you. I never had any problems with it. With love, Katrina Barlow.”
Dr. Ringle tried to speak above the bittersweet sobs in the room, especially those of Madhu’s parents. “We just got the results back from the lab, and it looks like her liver will be a good match for you. Thanks to Katrina we’ve found a viable donor for your transplant! But timing on this is very important, so I’ve already scheduled the procedure for this afternoon. I know it’s probably not what you had planned for this holiday, lad, but the upside is that you’ll be recovering at home by New Year’s day.”
Everyone was amazed at Katrina’s generosity and at Dr. Ringle’s persistent dedication to helping the children. This was a magical man if ever there was one. We all gave Madhu a big hug, and then Dr. Ringle asked for our attention one last time.
“Well, there is just one final thing I wish to discuss,” he said, focusing his gaze on Aaron and me, who were sitting in the chairs next to Madhu’s bed. “I promised two young elves that if they helped me at the hospital they would receive a gift far better than anything they had ever wanted. Does anyone remember that?”
Aaron and I both nodded hesitantly. Neither of us wanted to take away from Madhu’s excitement just then. Nor did we want a reward for visiting the children.
“Dr. Ringle,” said Aaron, speaking for both of us. “You don’t have to give us anything. We don’t need any more toys. It’s been more than we expected just being able to help out around here. Plus, we both made great friends, so what more could we want?”
“Aye,” said Dr. Ringle softly. “What more indeed. The fact is, you’ve already received everything I hoped you would. There’s nothing more left for me to give you than you have already found on your own through service and friendship. Well done, lads. Well done.”
Dr. Ringle gave us all a final hug and then extracted his Santa costume from his bag. He pulled the coat over his arms and shoulders, placed the red and white hat on top of his head, and then wheeled around to the doorway.
“I’m heading up north again for a while but will probably check in on you from time to time,” he said as he rolled through the doorway. “Ho, ho . . . oh no! Frank, how could I forget? I’ve still got one tiny little matter of business.” Dr. Ringle rolled his blinking sleigh back into the room and right up next to Frank, who was standing stiff against the near wall. “This, my good man, is for you, janitor extraordinaire, compliments of Katrina and the other persons responsible for handling the Barlow trust.” Dr. Ringle handed him a sealed envelope. “She said you deserved it for all of your hard work on your brother’s behalf and for simply smiling at her when no one else would.”
Frank took the envelope and opened it. Within a matter of seconds he had to stop reading to wipe the tears from his face.
“Yo, ho, ho, Doc Ringle! Merry friggin’ Christmas!” he shouted in disbelief. “Is this for real?”
Enclosed in the envelope was the outstanding medical bill for Frank’s younger brother. The balance due was zero. Katrina’s trust fund had paid it all in full.
“Real indeed,” replied Dr. Ringle. “Merry Christmas. And God bless you all!”
Dr. Ringle wheeled around once more and made for the hallway. As he tugged the door closed behind him, I remembered something Katrina had written in her letter to Madhu—about her believing that Dr. Ringle was Santa Claus. Timothy, down the hall, had said the same thing on several occasions.
“Dr. Ringle, wait!” I yelled as I jumped up and ran to the door. “Why do so many people say you are the real Santa?”
I yanked the door open as fast as I could, not a moment after it clicked shut, but there was no one there. The hallway was completely empty. It was impossible that he could have gotten away so fast, yet the only person in the hallway was me.
Dr. Christoffer K. Ringle was inexplicably, unfathomably, undeniably gone in the blink of an eye.
Timothy opened his door and stepped into the hallway.
“Looking for someone?” he asked with a knowing grin.
“Dr. Ringle was right here. Where’d he go? Did you hear him come by your room?”
“Hear? Sorry Mo, I didn’t hear anything. But Christmas magic is silent. You don’t hear it—you feel it, you know it, you
believe
it. I believe it, regardless of what old Nurse Wimble said. Dr. Ringle is Santa Claus.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted as I thought about all of the Christmas miracles I’d witnessed in the last twenty-four hours.
Aaron stepped into the hallway and put his arm around my shoulder. “Maybe you were right about something too, Mo. I think Santa was a wise guy after all.”
“Mo, I got some new socks for Christmas,” said Tim. “Want to play catch in my room for a while?”
“That sounds great,” I said.
And it was.
I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.
—Charles Dickens
I
’ve never really understood who “they” are, but
they
say time flies when you’re having fun. If they are correct, then the years since 1980 must have been one long drawn-out party because in the blink of an eye, I’m all grown up with a wife and children of my own. Christmases have come and gone since then, each one a special reminder of life’s greatest gifts, but none has been more memorable than my first
real
Christmas all those years ago.
Last Thursday was Thanksgiving, which was a
wonderful time with family, but the following day was even better. I woke up early and pulled out all of the Christmas decorations, making sure not to break any of the fragile pieces of my wife’s collection of Nativity scenes (Lynn has been accumulating the beautiful crèches since she was a patient in the children’s hospital years ago). Then I loaded all of our Christmas music onto the computer and let the gentle sounds of Bing Crosby fill the house.
“Hey Dad, turn down that music!” shouted my oldest son, Todd, from the living room. “I’m watching a football game in here.” Todd is only eleven but already has a great love for television and is developing quite a knack for lounging around in his pajamas. In the kitchen my nine-year-old daughter, Gabrielle, or Gabby as we call her, was busy making a leftover turkey sandwich for breakfast when I came in. There were globs of cranberry sauce and mayonnaise splattered on the countertop, plus a trail of sourdough bread crumbs leading away from the pantry.
This looks familiar, I thought. Food, Bing, and football—the Christmas season has officially begun!
“Okay kids, put on your jackets,” I said. “I think it’s time we go to the mall. Let’s hurry up. I want to beat the holiday rush.”
“Why are we going?” asked Gabby as she licked a spot of mayonnaise from her finger.
“Well, so you can tell Santa what you want for Christmas this year.”
“But Dad,” moaned Todd. “Aren’t we too old for that?”
“You’re never too old, son. Besides, I have it on very good authority that they have a brand new Santa Claus at the mall this year—one like you’ve never seen before. He’s expecting you.”
“Why would he be expecting us?” asked Todd.
“Well,” said Lynn as she joined us in the kitchen. “Let’s just say he’s an old friend of ours.”
T
HE TRIP TO THE MALL
was more eventful than expected, but that’s another story altogether. Santa gave both children a candy cane and a slip of paper with an address on it. Their first night as elves at the children’s hospital will be tomorrow, and I can hardly wait. Dr. Madhukar Amburi is chief of staff there now and says he has big plans for this year’s Christmas pageant.
After the mall we came home and began to decorate with lights, wreaths, and every Christmasy thing we own. Lynn found a safe spot in the house for each of her Nativity scenes and then let the children take turns arranging the figurines around the various baby Jesuses. While we were decorating the Christmas tree Todd asked me to tell him again about the white, worn out, old paper bag with holes in it that we place on top of the tree each year over the figurine angel.
“Well,” I cautioned. “I can’t really tell you about the bag without telling you the whole story of my first real Christmas. You sure you’re up for that?”
“Yeah,” said Todd. “I want to hear it again. It’s tradition. Gabby! Come sit down. Dad’s going to tell us about his old bag.”
“Okay,” I began. “It was the day after Thanksgiving, 1980, that marked the beginning of my first Christmas ever. As a nine-year-old boy I had certainly celebrated the revered holiday plenty of times before, but that particular Christmas was the first one that really mattered. It was the type of experience that makes you wish Christmas was celebrated all year long, the kind that makes people forget about life’s imperfections and focus instead on its greatest treasures such as family, friendship, and serving others. For me, it was a defining moment, one that has shaped and molded the very fabric of my soul.
“As with many Christmas stories, mine began on Santa’s lap. But this was no ordinary Santa, and he had anything but an ordinary lap.”