How Kjrsten Saved Christmas
Many years, Mom and Dad organized a "sub-for-Santa" on behalf of a family they felt was in need. One memorable year, we sub-for-Santa-ed the Buchanan family. The mother taught 6th grade at Sharon Elementary school where we all attended (at least those old enough to be in elementary school--David, Trinyan, Kjrsten, Ntanya, and maybe Leif. Maybe not Leif--I can't quite remember our ages, but I think David was in 6th grade, which would put me in 5th, Kj in 4th, Ntanya in 2nd, and so Leif in preschool. Patrick would have been 18 months.).
Anyway, their family had experienced some kind of difficulty that year. My parents never really explained. I surmised it had something to do with the absence of Mr. Buchanan, leaving Mrs Buchanan with 5 or 6 children. Her eldest was David's age. I remember one of her daughters had vision problems and was constantly teased at school because she wore very thick glasses with a patch over one eye.
On Christmas Eve we loaded the car with wrapped gifts and boxes of food. We were giving them the turkey that my Dad had received from BYU--it always came in a white box with red holiday markings. Kjrsten, age 8 or 9, donned my father's Santa costume. (Let me pause to make clear that my father was and is a man of great integrity who would never have impersonated Santa Claus. But grownups can enjoy a game of make believe, and just like me and my sisters, he too must have liked playing dress-up occasionally.)
Six kids, two parents, and our Christmas offerings fit easily into our dirty green whale of a station wagon. Mom drove to the Buchanan's, cut the headlights, and pulled the car into a dark patch of road a few houses up from their white brick duplex. David, Kjrsten, and I loaded our arms with boxes and gifts and stealthily crept up to the front door. We had been sternly warned not to be seen. My mother worked with Mrs. Buchanan in the PTA and was concerned that she might be embarrassed if she discovered the source of the Christmas gifts. Two large windows on the ground level next to the front porch gave us some worry--anyone peeking out would have a clear view of us. But we managed to arrange the packages and ready ourselves without being seen. Poised on the edge of the porch, David pushed the doorbell and then we all ran for it.
I was nearly to the car when I heard the door open, followed by shouts of excitement and surprise. It felt so good and right to have played a part in creating such a wonder-filled moment for other children.
But then the shouts continued. Something was wrong. I turned to look and saw Kjrsten struggling to run far behind us. The pants of the man-sized Santa suit worn by an 8 year old girl were slowing her down. They were dangerously sagging. The legs were past her feet and the waistband was down around her thighs. Desperate to keep the pants on, she was running bow-legged with one hand holding the pants and the other on her head trying to keep the Santa hat from flying away.
To make matters much worse, the Buchanan boys had spotted Santa and, in a case of what I considered very bad manners, had left behind the gifts on the porch and begun chasing "him." My parents, watching from the car, had seen the whole thing and knew what had to be done. It's a tough lesson, but sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. As David and I jumped into the car, my mother gunned the engine and took off, leaving Kjrsten to face a nearly certain fate at the hands of the Buchanan kids.
I cannot explain it. I don't know how it happened out there on the dark streets of Orem, Utah that Christmas Eve, but, despite her enormous red flannel pants, Kjrsten evaded her pursuers and would-be tormenters, saving Christmas. Circling back later, we found her walking alongside the road a few blocks away. It was our family's own Christmas miracle.
Anyway, their family had experienced some kind of difficulty that year. My parents never really explained. I surmised it had something to do with the absence of Mr. Buchanan, leaving Mrs Buchanan with 5 or 6 children. Her eldest was David's age. I remember one of her daughters had vision problems and was constantly teased at school because she wore very thick glasses with a patch over one eye.
On Christmas Eve we loaded the car with wrapped gifts and boxes of food. We were giving them the turkey that my Dad had received from BYU--it always came in a white box with red holiday markings. Kjrsten, age 8 or 9, donned my father's Santa costume. (Let me pause to make clear that my father was and is a man of great integrity who would never have impersonated Santa Claus. But grownups can enjoy a game of make believe, and just like me and my sisters, he too must have liked playing dress-up occasionally.)
Six kids, two parents, and our Christmas offerings fit easily into our dirty green whale of a station wagon. Mom drove to the Buchanan's, cut the headlights, and pulled the car into a dark patch of road a few houses up from their white brick duplex. David, Kjrsten, and I loaded our arms with boxes and gifts and stealthily crept up to the front door. We had been sternly warned not to be seen. My mother worked with Mrs. Buchanan in the PTA and was concerned that she might be embarrassed if she discovered the source of the Christmas gifts. Two large windows on the ground level next to the front porch gave us some worry--anyone peeking out would have a clear view of us. But we managed to arrange the packages and ready ourselves without being seen. Poised on the edge of the porch, David pushed the doorbell and then we all ran for it.
I was nearly to the car when I heard the door open, followed by shouts of excitement and surprise. It felt so good and right to have played a part in creating such a wonder-filled moment for other children.
But then the shouts continued. Something was wrong. I turned to look and saw Kjrsten struggling to run far behind us. The pants of the man-sized Santa suit worn by an 8 year old girl were slowing her down. They were dangerously sagging. The legs were past her feet and the waistband was down around her thighs. Desperate to keep the pants on, she was running bow-legged with one hand holding the pants and the other on her head trying to keep the Santa hat from flying away.
To make matters much worse, the Buchanan boys had spotted Santa and, in a case of what I considered very bad manners, had left behind the gifts on the porch and begun chasing "him." My parents, watching from the car, had seen the whole thing and knew what had to be done. It's a tough lesson, but sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. As David and I jumped into the car, my mother gunned the engine and took off, leaving Kjrsten to face a nearly certain fate at the hands of the Buchanan kids.
I cannot explain it. I don't know how it happened out there on the dark streets of Orem, Utah that Christmas Eve, but, despite her enormous red flannel pants, Kjrsten evaded her pursuers and would-be tormenters, saving Christmas. Circling back later, we found her walking alongside the road a few blocks away. It was our family's own Christmas miracle.
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