Black Santa

I see you, old man. How your eyes twinkle and shimmer. I see how you wept and gave…

He sat across from my husband’s desk, the old, black preacher. Being in non-profit work, visitors always mean that there’s good to be done. He’d visited for that purpose. And for the love of his town…

His eyes shimmered, a tear fell. “That your boy? Your family?” He nodded to the photo proudly propped on the desk.

“Yes…” My husband pointed to each child. “These are my children. My daughters and son…”

His graying head bent as he swiped away another tear. For the love of all he’d endured through time, this man sat with a heart-full of words he couldn’t utter. More tears fell instead. My husband grew teary-eyed too.

It’s a wonder to behold, for some, that a white man would love a black son as his own flesh.

It happened again, a few years later. Another aging man, surprised by the chocolate brown arms that would wrap around my husband’s waist. For protection and comfort…

It happened again. Just one more time. The man openly wept, again, exclaiming, “That’s your boy?”

“That’s my boy. Yes, my son.”

I see you, old men. The history behind you, a better truth before you. I see your dignity as racism threatened to eat at your faith. I see your endurance. Your strong hands praying and working for the future. The heritage you hand down. The fatherhood you wanted, the fatherhood you lived…

I see you, Black Santa.