She stood at the door not knowing exactly what to do. "Do you have your
appointment card?", asks the Greeter. “No,” she says, “all I want is a bicycle
for my daughter,” pointing to a little girl sitting in a shopping cart out in
the hallway.
It’s late afternoon the day before Christmas Eve and Bob Ham, decked out in his
red apron emblazoned with a sparkling Christmas tree, isn’t going to turn
anyone away. He escorts her into the store and in hushed tones, so the little
girl won't hear, points Mom in the direction of the bicycles.
From behind the check-out counter Stacie was watching the encounter and
volunteers to keep an eye on the little girl while Mom shops. Bob wheels the
cart to an open space by the exit door near Stacie and out of eye-shot of the
bicycles-- and Mom goes shopping.
She looks over the selection, put there just an hour ago because two volunteers
had been working on bikes since mid-morning. The ten-speeds and mountain
bicycles are quickly disregarded and she holds the handle bars of a blue girl's
20" bike, then moves to a grey boy's 20" bicycle that’s in a little better
condition--takes the handle bars in her hands, turning them back and forth.
She performs this ritual several times, wanting the best she can get for her
daughter, as it should be. In my red apron, Christmas tree not quite so
sparkling because Sean and I were moving boxes in the warehouse, I ask if she
needs any help. "Which one is best for a five year old girl" she asks, barely
looking up at me, holding the handlebars of the blue bicycle.
"The grey one is a little better bicycle", I answer. "Yes, I know, but both are
too big for her right now and I think it would be easier for her to ride this
one." Then she looks at me, with a look I've come to recognize as the
"What's behind the stockroom curtain" look. No, not being greedy. Just wanting
the best for her little girl--as it should be -- after all, the only thing she
wants for Christmas is a bicycle.
I know all the small bicycles we have are out on the floor. Everything in the
upstairs storage area has been gone since yesterday. Still, I resign myself, as
I’ve done many times before, to go behind the curtain move some things around
to make it sound like I was looking, and return to announce, "I'm sorry, it
looks like this is all we have." I've found this helps shoppers make up their
mind a little sooner, and it's almost always true--especially with bicycles.
Knowing I would find nothing and it was an exercise to satisfy Mom, I push the
curtain aside, walk up the four steps and over to the bicycle storage rack. My
eyes follow a row of empty hooks--but there--on the last hook hangs a new
little bicycle, shiny lavender with white training wheels. Lifting it off the
red hook, I marvel at how lucky this woman is. Standing at the top of the steps
and holding up the bicycle I announce, "Well, I guess Santa came by and dropped
this off."
Mom looks at the shiny new bicycle, covers her mouth with both hands to stifle
a scream and stumbles back against the shelves as though someone has pushed
her. Her body trembles and she nearly falls down. "It's her favorite color,"
she whispers, tears falling off her cheeks. "It's her favorite"... and her
voice is only a quiver
of faint sound. I set the bicycle down. We both stand there just looking at
it--knowing her daughter's special gift from Santa on Christmas morning will be
a shiny lavender bicycle, with white training wheels.
Realizing she can't walk out of the store with the bicycle, I wave Sean over.
He brings a large box and packs up the bicycle, sealing it tightly with tape so
there will be no "accident" on the way home. I guide Mom to the reception desk
and introduce her to Mary, who helps her fill out an application.
I step out the back door and stand in the hallway to gather myself. "Geese, how
do these things happen?" I whisper, wiping my eyes dry. I walk back into the
store in time to see Mom pushing the cart out the door with her daughter in the
seat and the box resting precariously inside with only one corner fitting in
the cart. I look over at Mary. She’s been crying. Sean is gone. Maybe he’s out
in the hallway.
Remember the "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" letter where a news
paper editor explains that Santa
really does exist? Well friends, he does. I sawthe proof today--a shiny
lavender bicycle with white training wheels.
On December 22nd, Michael Thomas walked into our distribution center at Chapel
Hills Mall. I was closing up for the night and everyone had gone home, except
Bill, our computer guru, who was in the office. It was Bill that Michael first
encountered. Bill explained that Michael wanted to get some Christmas presents
for his boys. He hadn't sent in an application but hoped we might still help
him.
Even now, as I write this two years later, it's hard to fight back the emotion.
You see, we learned that Michael was a Vietnam vet who had literally climbed
out of his hospital bed that evening and took a bus to Chapel Hills Mall to
find us. He was recovering from exploratory surgery and had no money to get
anything for his three boys; eight, eleven, and twelve years old. As he
moved toward the shelves of toys in labored shuffle, the result of wounds from
a land mine explosion
in Nam, it became all too evident that Christmas Unlimited is not about toys,
but about love.
As Michael searched the shelves looking for that one special gift for each of
his three boys, Bill and I could only stand aside hoping he would find what he
needed. It wasn't much, a truck that made engine sounds, a football, a baseball
glove and ball, several books, and a stuffed animal for each of his kids.
It wasn't much to us, but for Michael Thomas it was everything; every future
Christmas -- and the very last Christmas he would have with his sons. The
Vietnam soldier, the Purple Heart veteran, was dying of cancer.
Standing at the door, waiting for a taxi, Michael's partially opened shirt
revealed the scars of his recent surgery. And every Christmas, I'll think of
the scars his boys may have suffered if their Dad hadn't been able to give them
a truck, a football and a baseball glove. He told me he didn't know how he
would get presents for his boys, until he heard about Christmas Unlimited on
the Chuck Baker radio show only a few days earlier. He said "Thank you for
being here", and I said “sure, no problem and uh, Merry Christmas.” Michael
climbed into the taxi and headed back to the hospital. I walked into the office
and found Bill sitting
at his keyboard with tears in his eyes. My throat was so tight I couldn’t
speak.
Personified in Michael Thomas, I will always know why it's important for
Christmas Unlimited to be here: its people caring for people; its dignity; and
its love.
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