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An Unlikely SantaMarc Howard Wilson
From The State (Columbia, South Carolina)
The winter after 9/11 was a hard one for me. I had just left the rabbinate in Greenville, South Carolina, and embarked on what proved to be long-term unemployment and, at midlife, many endless depressed days. I felt a void inside. My one happiness was having my grandchildren, Sophie and Simeon, with me for Hanukkah, but when they returned home, I was left with a dark state of mind and that inner emptiness again.
It was then that my wife, Linda, deputy director of the Upstate Homeless Coalition, suggested that I play Santa for 30 children in a holiday program at a local hall. As she pointed out, I looked the part. I have the gift of girth and a full, almost white beard.
The question of stumbling across customs and religious boundaries did not concern me; I'd always believed in encouraging people to be less rigid about maintaining those rigid lines. Yet, for reasons having nothing to do with religion, I must confess that year, my heart just wasn't in it. Linda insisted "the show must go on." So I practiced my sonorous "Ho, ho, hos."
I was not prepared for the 30 sets of eyes that fastened upon me when I walked in. "Santa! Santa! Look at my new shoes! Santa! I've been a good girl. Santa! Can we sing 'Jingle Bells'?"
They swarmed over me, hugged and kissed me. Each child sat in my lap and posed for a picture and I gave them all a present -- a teddy bear, a doll, a paint-by-the-numbers kit.
Their uninhibited delight and excited voices brought tears to my eyes. I felt a wave of compassion. These children were God's most fragile gifts to a cold world -- gifts of innocence. That insight confirmed for me the deep truths of God's word. These homeless children lifted me from self-doubt and disillusionment. At that sweet moment I lost my mind and regained my sanity.
Strength in Numbers
Hal Karp
On the day after Christmas last year, traffic was zipping along on Cedar Avenue -- a four-lane main artery of Fresno, California. Suddenly a white van ran up onto the median and launched into the air. The vehicle, its side painted with "Aladdin's Carpet Care," rocketed over the divider in a midair somersault. A split-second later, a thundering crash filled the quiet, post-holiday streets as the van bounced hard on its nose, the front end collapsing like aluminum foil.
Bob and Grace Hatmaker, driving south on Cedar, had just passed that very spot. The couple looked back to see the vehicle still moving -- spinning sideways across the road, spewing shards of glass and metal. Finally colliding with the opposing curb and devouring a light post, the van came to a stop. Grace, a trauma nurse of three decades, popped open her door.
Driving directly behind the van when it flipped were Hung and Nhung Nguyen. The husband and wife made the first U-turn possible and pulled up close to the scene. Resting on its driver's side, the van -- loaded with carpet cleaning equipment and water tanks -- hissed into the cool, humid air.
Some 25 yards away, across a fence and a backyard, Jordan Thomson, 18, his sister, Heather, 16, and their cousin, 13-year-old Scott Beatty, were sharing a delayed Christmas dinner with their grandparents. Suddenly, the table shook and the sound of the crash roared through the house. Jordan ran into the yard and heard a man scream, "Help! Get me out!"
"Call 911," the teenager yelled to his grandparents before he hopped the fence. Heather and Scott followed.
Running toward the accident, they spotted the source of the scream: Jim Tracy, his face covered in blood, was pulling himself out of the wreckage through the shattered windshield.
Yvette Crozier-Matula and Michael Matula, who had also witnessed the crash, tried to help him after he collapsed on the curb. Relief blew through the crowd at the thought: This must be the driver -- and he's alive.
But Grace Hatmaker, standing near the front of the van, looked down and discovered the awful truth. Covered by a blanket of glass lay the actual driver, pinned by the vehicle from the chest down. Tilted at an angle -- half on the curb, half off -- its weight now came to bear on the man's body.
"There's someone under here!" Grace shouted.
Her husband, Bob, moved the glass aside. Zoe Anne Pope, who'd recently arrived on the scene, helped. In seconds, they could see the man beneath. Jonathan Stewart, 35, was ashen and still. Although his eyes were open, no signs of life emanated from his body.
Grace dropped to her knees and placed her hand on Jonathan's neck. "He doesn't have a pulse," she said. "He's not breathing either." This van is crushing him, she realized. Turning to the crowd, she said, "We've got to relieve some of this pressure!"
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