The House Santa Missed

We lived in Kearns for many years. Kearns is a working-class community located in the south west part of Salt Lake Valley. It’s a community rich in the love and caring of its people, where the standard for helping others was set high by such giants as Myron White and many others.

Myron was the stereotypical giant of a man whose heart mirrored the size of his hands and feet. At his funeral, his son Mike confided that Myron wore size seventeen-triple-E shoes, “…and he complained that they were a little tight,” Mike said.

I know that if you tried to fit the heart of this gentle giant in both of those shoes, it would not fit. I know, because my family and I were the recipients of his love and caring. I tried and miserably failed to live up to his example of caring.

For Myron, the day was short and the work was never ending. It was not unusual for him to get up at three in the morning to start welding and hammering on some item in his garage workshop for a needy person in the area. While the family complained about his early start, his neighbors never did. They knew that he was working on some project for a widow or some friend in need.

This story is not about Myron. I just mention him to let you know that we lived in a community where the standard of neighbor helping neighbor was set high by a loving stake president and bishop who cared about people and demonstrated his love by his actions.

During the holidays, the Spirit of Christmas permeated our neighborhood. The Christmas lights on the homes lit our hearts and gave us the strength to complete the shopping before the holidays. In all the hustle, we never forgot each other.

Christmas time is a time for giving and for sharing. Since many of us were working class, we gave each other many homemade goodies. The First Ward had a pixy project, not unlike other communities, where treats were given anonymously to neighbors. I vividly remember many of them that our family enjoyed. There were the caramels made by Debbie D., and the green and red popcorn balls made by Sharon Heiner. Karla Stephens made sure the Cub Scouts had handmade gifts for their families. We still keep the Christmas calendar made my Jay in cubs, each bead that is moved along it’s ring, counts off another day closer to Christmas.

I like to fix a dish which consists of cooked sausages smothered in a mixture of brown sugar and orange juice. This concoction was then covered with festive red-delicious apples and green Granny Smith apples—appropriate Christmas colors—sprinkled with cinnamon. This dish was shared with friends and neighbors. While the dish was fun to make and share, being on limited budgets, we had to select the people who got this gift each year.

On a particular Christmas day I was headed to the Heiner’s house with a plate full of my sausage dish. They lived kitty corner from our house. I had crossed Heath Avenue and was in the middle of Mountain Men Drive when one of the strongest impressions I have ever received came to my heart and mind. Clear as a winter morning after a snowfall, I heard the Spirit, “You are going the wrong way. You need to go back to the house you just passed.”

In the middle of the street, I did an about-face and went to the house directly in front of our house. A young family lived there. They had moved in late in the summer. The family consisted of the father, the mother and four beautiful girls.

I had been there before to help install a light switch in one of the basement rooms and I enjoyed talking to the mom and dad since they too were from Mexico. It was refreshing to speak in Spanish with them.

I rang the doorbell, not knowing the reason I was prompted to come back to the house. The dad and the oldest girl came to the door. I think the girl was there in case she needed to translate. I could see the awkward feeling in her face. I know that feeling since many times, I had to translate for my mother and father when growing up. It is particularly hard when you are young and learning English yourself. What I did not see was the deeper hurt which lay hidden behind her apprehensive smile.

I told them that in my family we made this dish around Christmas and we liked to share it with some of the neighbors and friends. I asked if they would accept it. They said that they would love to have it and invited me in. The daughter yelled into the house, “Lalo” –that’s my nickname.—“brought us a dish and it smells delicious.”

The father invited me to have some Christmas tamales, a tradition from Mexico. As I walked up the steps into their living room, I asked the oldest what Santa had brought her. That’s when my Christmas adventure began.

As her eyes filled with tears, my heart filled with love and I knew why I had been asked to come back to this house. “I don’t know why,” she said through her tears, “but, Santa was not able to find our house last night.”

I tried to sooth a broken heart, “Maybe Santa couldn’t find you because of your new address,” I said, miserably failing to convince her. “The elves must have gotten busy and did not have time to update the address list,” I added.

I could see the devastation in her face. In her eyes I could read the unasked questions, “How could Santa forget her address? Weren’t the elves supposed to be magical and do all things, how could they forget to update an address?”

Trying to appease her, I said, “Maybe, you will get gifts on the 6th of January.” In many parts of Mexico, and many Latin American countries, the 6th of January is known as “El día de los magos.” The day of the Magi, when tradition maintains, was the day the kings from the orient brought their gifts to the Christ Child.

The father looked at me and I could hear the sadness that I saw in his face, “It’s been a hard year, and I don’t think we will have gifts this year.” Trying to change the subject and willing to share what little they had, he said, “Come in have some tamales and take some to Mary and your family.”

That day, I ate the tastiest tamales I have ever eaten—you see they weren’t just filled with meat; they were filled with love, and were an offering of the best they had to give. It reminded me of the widow’s mite. They willingly offered me all they had to give. I was humbled at the offer.

I bit into the first “tamal”—this is the singular, in Spanish, not “tamale” the “e” is only added when you make it plural “tamales”. In Mexico, it is not polite to turn down food, so I was offered and ate a second tamal and then a third. As I finished the tamales, my mind was racing and my mission for the day became clear.

While I was eating, my mind kept asking, “What would the Lord do if he was here? Why had He inspired me to come here?” As I ate the tamales, I concluded that He must have wanted me to help. Before I left, I asked the father’s permission to bring a few presents for his family and he graciously agreed.

With a dozen warm tamales in hand, I walked across the street; joy filled my heart and I had a mission to accomplish. The reason for going there became crystal clear in my mind. I was on a mission that would require the whole family. Unknown to me at the time, this mission would also involve many of our friends.

When I got home, tears welled up in my eyes as I related to the family what had happened. I was proud of the children, they quickly gathered gloves and scarves and toys and other things that they wanted give the family. These were some of their own gifts, which they willingly gave. The spirit of giving, the true spirit of Christmas, permeated our home.

Then, Jelena, our youngest daughter, came up with the idea, “Rob has a Santa suit, maybe he can come and take the presents to the family.” A phone call was made, Rob not only agreed, but he called his family and many more presents were immediately gathered by his parents and his brothers, sisters and their families. Their hearts were opened and a community reached out to a family in need.

By that evening, Rob not only delivered the presents, he apologized to the little girls for an “oversight” by his elves. “They forgot to update my computer when I left,” he told them in Spanish. He added, “I didn’t have your new address,” as he handed out the presents.

“You speak Spanish too,” the little girls asked Santa. “Yes,” Santa said, “Every year after Christmas, I go on vacation to Mexico. I had to learn Spanish.” Rob, who had been on a Spanish speaking mission, was able to pull it off.

Before the end of the day, joy had replaced sorrow. Many people’s hearts were turned to a spirit of giving. Page, Rob’s wife was even able to find a store that was open on Christmas Day and was able to shop for clothes for the whole family. A Christmas tree was decorated in the living room, a bike for the oldest girl was brought, toys for the younger ones, coats and work clothes for mom and dad were bought and given. A grateful family accepted the gifts and many people’s lives were touched by the true spirit of Christmas.

I am glad we lived in Kearns. I learned from such great men as Rob and Myron White, and many others, the true joy of giving. I will forever be grateful for the promptings of the Spirit that made me turn around in the middle of the street and go the back to the house that Santa missed. That has to be the best Christmas I have ever had!