Brown Santa

If you live in Indianapolis, you know that one of the must-do highlights of the Christmas season is a trip to the Children's Museum. A winter wonderland on crack, it is, with blaring carols, cocoa and cookies, the magnetic ice fishing pond, the fabulous yule-slide that I used to race my best friend Jenni down annually as an over eager adult, and of course, the big guy. He awaits in a hidden, corner room at the back of his workshop. You can't really see him until its time to "see" him.

The line, lengthy and meandering is the price you pay for a picture to pacify the grandparents. Jenni is one of those no nonsense moms you wish you could be, whose kids actually listen to her and she had chosen not to peddle the Santa story. Ever the dutiful friend though, she waited in the hour plus line with me and my kindergarten twins. We were deep in conversation when we made that last fateful bend in the road.

"Hey! We're in the wrong line! That isn't Santa. He's brown. Santa isn't brown." I tried to look around for the confused child in the room who had said this, instead of the one vehemently tugging at my sleeve. "Mom, look! That Santa is brown." If you have visited the Children's Museum this time of year, you know the place is packed and excruciatingly loud. Almost instantly however, it was devoid of sound except for the nauseating Christmas music piping through the speakers. All eyes were on me, including the mischievous ones of my BFF, who unsuccessfully contained a giggle as she threw another yule log on the proverbial fire. "Yeah momma, Santa isn't brown, right?" I bent down to Sean's level, not so much for his benefit but to get out of the line of fire. The folly and oversight of my ways was now flying through my head like a slideshow. Every movie, commercial, storybook, had indeed depicted a Kris Kringle of Anglo descent.

Move over Santa. I'm gonna need some space on that throne of lies and I'm not a smallish woman. "Honey, remember how we talked about how Santa has helpers at different places because he is so very busy this time of year?"

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "But is the real Santa brown or peach?" Think fast, Dawn. Jenni is bent over in laughter as a good, supportive friend should be."Well, I've never actually seen him personally, so I don't know." The first time I had uttered truth all day. Crisis averted. Brown Santa was fantastic with my slightly autistic, painfully honest child. He listened, acknowledged, and delivered a happy Sean back to me. It's worth mentioning, my son doesn't have a discriminating bone in his body and some of his best friends and favorite influences have been African-American.

We have been discussing in our small group how God shows up in unexpected ways. When we ask for help, we get an idea fixed in our head of just exactly what the SWAT team will look like, what direction it will come from and what time we would like for it to arrive. Funny, that's never worked out all that well for me. It's just not SOP from GOD. Here's a picture for you - an unwed girl probably 13 or 14, riding into town on a donkey. She will deliver Him in a barn among the animals, and the Prince of Peace shall be wrapped in cloths and laid in a manger. "Hey! We followed the wrong star! That isn't the Messiah. He's in a manger. The  Messiah doesn't lie in a manger."

I certainly never expected to call South Alabama home. When we uprooted our kids, moving them from all they knew and loved, into an apartment in a small town where we didn't know a soul, it was a sickening feeling. I knew I was breaking their hearts to say nothing of my own. But seven months later, a funny thing has happened. They are smiling again. Of course they still miss and keep in touch with their Indiana peeps, but they laugh, tell stories about new friends, teachers and "you won't believe what happened at school." There is band, Friday night football, Cub Scouts, ROTC, youth group (with pretty girls), babysitting for small group, trips to the beach, fried banana pudding excursions, happiness restored and an intimacy I'm not quite sure we had as a family before. Oh, and I'm writing again. Thanks, brown Santa. And thank you, Jesus.