By Liz O’Brien
I spotted my first Santa of the season last week.
He was slumped on his throne in the center of the mall, dwarfed
by a two-story metallic Christmas tree surrounded by glittery, oversized, fake-wrapped
presents. He was all alone, ignored even by his two elves, who were fiddling
with their computer on the far side of the "Visit with Santa" stage.
The mall had just opened for business and there was nary a
child in sight — only a handful of elderly mall-walkers on their rounds and a
few hurried shoppers like me, running errands before work.
I don’t think he even noticed me passing by.
He sat motionless, staring down the empty, cavernous mall. Maybe
he was just woolgathering, or conserving his strength for the upcoming weeks of
personifying the "Spirit of Holiday Cheer" for the crowds at the stores.
But to me, his pathetic performance was profoundly
disappointing.
In what was for me a dark time in the darkening days of a
particularly dark year, I really needed a little Christmas. Now it seemed I
couldn’t even rely on Santa Claus for a bit of merriment. He seemed as sad as
I was. Bah-humbug! The man had failed
me.
Maybe it was silly to look to a shopping-mall Santa for
emotional support, but recent events had brought home to me how much we really
do depend on others to help keep us going — and sometimes keep us from despair.
Two weeks before — for the second time in six months — my
husband and I found ourselves at the hospital bedside, bidding goodbye to one
of our own who was dying of cancer.
And what got us through these painful and confusing days was
the support of the people who worked there — the concern of the physicians,
the kindness and attentiveness of the nurses, the compassion of the hospice
staff, and prayers and solace of the hospital priests and chaplains.
And yet I’m sure that many mornings these angels of mercy
felt no more up to their role than my sad-sack Santa did that day — tempted by their
own personal problems, stresses at work, and worries to withdraw into their own
world, far from those who depended on them.
And yet, they didn’t. They were there for their patients — and for us — when we needed them.
It’s called professionalism, I think — part technique and part
will. No matter how you feel, you do what you have to do, with as much of the
right attitude as you can muster, and you rise to the occasion.
It’s the worthy work of making the world go round — doing
your job, and helping your neighbor along the way.
And when those of us who are hurting and troubled receive a
lifeline, perhaps unknowingly cast by people who are "just doing their job,"
our gratitude is boundless.
And it can happen anywhere, not only in hospitals but
even in shopping malls. Witness the case of the solitary guy in the Santa Claus
suit in the empty mall, six weeks out from Christmas.
Maybe the caffeine from his morning coffee kicked in. But when
I passed him a half hour later, jolly old St. Nick had sprung to life.
He had propped himself up on his throne — "a right, jolly
old elf" — and was waving gamely to the adult shoppers, who played along and
waved back. What else can you do when Santa waves to you?
People were grinning. He was doing his job.
He was doing what he could with what he had, knowing that in
time the line of kids waiting to tell him what they wanted for Christmas would
stretch far past the velvet ropes that demarcated his little kingdom, back down
into the mall as far as the eye could see.
There’d be some long days of jocose ho-ho-ho-ing ahead. But
he seemed up to the challenge — a professional after all.
And he had thrown me the lifeline I had been looking for: a
little promise that all would be well — the "glad tidings," as the words of the
old carol go, "of comfort and joy."