Ed Butchart - The Red Suit Diaries: A Real-Life Santa on Hopes, Dreams, and Childlike Faith

The R ed Suit Diaries

The R ed Suit Diaries

A Real-Life Santa
on Hopes, Dreams, and Childlike Faith

Ed Butchart

2003 by Ed Butchart

Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Book House Company
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Butchart, Ed.
The red suit diaries : a real-life Santa on hopes, dreams, and childlike faith / Ed Butchart.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-8007-1814-3
1. Santa Claus. 2. Department stores Santas. I. Title.

GT4985.B87 2003
394.2663dc21 2003010530

For Annie
and the God who loves us

The Diaries

Secrets I Must Tell

It was the night before the night before Christmas, the last day of a long Santa season that had begun in October. The clock on the wall showed just a few minutes before 9:00 P.M., and I was struggling to be the Jolly Old Saint Nick every child deserves to meet.

I had something heavy on my heart that night. Mrs. Claus, my beloved wife, Annie, had been in the hospital for three days, and I hadnt been there to sit near her bedside or sleep nights in the cot next to her bed so she wouldnt be alone. I was anxious for this shift to end so I could dash home, change clothes, and head for the hospital. There was a chance Annie would be discharged the next morning, Christmas Eve, and I wanted to be there to take her home. We both couldve used a long winters rest.

The patter around Santas throne had been routine. Kids were lined up, waiting to tell me their wishes, and adults were impatient to have me help make their little ones dreams come trueat least for the moment. Jolly or not, I was required to be there, so I was working hard not to let the Santa experience seem my obligation or someone elses bore. I even had an elf sitting on a stool beside me for good cheer. Trent was a little person, three feet, nine inches tall, seventeen years old, and delightful company. So Trent and I chatted between the interviews with the children, and our exchanges energized me and kept me going, one child after the next.

Then came this one little boy.

He couldnt have been more than five, and he had been watching me intently, hands folded across his chest, for about ten minutes as he moved along with the flow, Mom at his side. Finally it was his turn for the Santa interview. He ambled up the steps and climbed onto my lap, seating himself on my left knee. He stared expectantly into my eyes. This was serious business.

Well, hello, I said, chuckling. The interview had begun.

Hello, the little guy responded.

How are you doing? I asked.

Fine.

Well,and here came the inevitable question have you been a good boy?

Umm... The boy paused and looked up at the ceiling. He tapped his chin with his forefinger. Umm... he repeated, scouring the ceiling.

Whats he doing? Trent whispered in my right ear.

We followed the boys eyes to the ceiling to see what was so interesting up there. Nothing. Yet still the little guy was tapping his chin and searching for...

Ah, I thought, hes looking for an answer. Heres a little man giving great thought to a most important question.

Hes thinking, I whispered to Trent.

About what? Trent was incredulous.

I dont know, I chuckled, but this ought to be good!

Suddenly the boy stopped tapping his chin. Well, he said as his eyes looked intently into mine. Well, he started over in an effort to get his answer just right, I had a pretty good August...

Trent fell off his stool, and I burst into laughter as the kid, clearly puzzled, wondered what was so hilarious. Well, it was probably the first honest answer this Santa had ever heard!

Mustering control, I asked, So what do you want for Christmas?

The boy grinned big as Christmas and started his list, but I dont remember his reply. My ability to concentrate had left in the face of his startling honesty. He took such an important question seriously and wanted Santa, in whom he had great trust, to get only the truth. Such faith in me! Such hope, despite his eleven bad months!

Regaining composure, I listened intently and admonished, Well, remember to always be a good boyand not just in August. Then I sent the little guy on his way back to Dad.

Mom was waiting nearby and couldnt stand it. She just had to find out what her boy had said to cause so much levity. I recounted the exchange in a whisper in her ear.

He really said that? she mused, awed by her babys candor. She laughed, and Trent and I joined her, the two of us erupting again as Mom bade us farewell.

Just then I realized I had witnessed a miracle of Christmas that my job gives me the privilege to seean expression of childlike faith and hope, all tied up with a bow, offered in a single whisper or a letter from the heart to a place way up north.

Suddenly gone were my feelings of anxiety and my desire to finish this last night of Santa duties. With heightened expectation I looked to the next child, and the next, for that one magical moment of sheer joy, hope, and belief in all thats goodin promises too good to be true.

These are the moments that convinced me some secrets, like some promises, are too precious to keep to myself. They must be shared. And so begins my open diary to you...

In the Beginning...

Every Santa remembers his or her very first time in the suit.

I was a senior in high school, working a holiday retail job at Belks Department Store in my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina. I had the opportunity to borrow the Belks Santa costume, and my brother had just the job for me. Come to the house dressed as Jolly Old Saint Nick, he prompted, and help wean Susanhis toddler, my nieceof her beloved blanky. Susan had promised to give up her baby blanket, but only to Santa for one of his elves, and only if Santa himself came to her house to claim the prize.

How could playing Santa and helping my brother hurt anything?

I agreed, imagining my brother and sister-in-laws relief to get rid of that worn-out blanketand little Susans delight at getting Santa to herself for a moment. She was sure to be mesmerized. And what fun it would be to play Jolly Old Saint Nick without her ever knowing it was Uncle Ed.

I rehearsed hundreds of greetings throughout what seemed to be a slow day at work. By evening, I was in the spirit of the surprise. I grabbed the suit, really feeling the part, and drove to my brothers neighborhood. I parked in a lot down the street and wiggled into the red slacks and jacket, then adjusted the beard, belt, and hat as I strode up the driveway. My heart was all aflutter as I took a deep breath and rang the bell.

I could hear Susan fumbling with the knob, then I watched her eyes widen as she opened the door. But before I could make my well-rehearsed greeting, she shrieked and raced across the living room, down the hall, and into her room. In a flash she was under the bed.