Charley
came over to Tom and me and dared us: “If I switch toys, will you?” Charley was
a star athlete and the most popular guy in school, so foolishly we accepted his
dare.
Four
large boxes, one for each of the classes, had been placed in the middle of our
large California high school campus. The boxes were for the toys each class had
been challenged to collect for our annual Christmas toy drive for needy
children. The winning class earned points toward the “Class of the Year”
competition. Anyone caught switching toys—taking a toy from one box and putting
it in another—would cause his or her entire class to be disqualified from
earning points.
Charley
led the way, taking a toy from one box and blatantly tossing it in the senior
class’s box. Tom and I tried to make our switches inconspicuously, but someone
saw us and reported us to the principal. The next morning we were summoned
before the student council and confronted by the principal. Shamefaced, we
slowly nodded when he asked if we had switched the toys.
Later
that morning, an announcement went out over the public address system to the
entire campus: “Due to the switching of toys by two members of the senior
class, seniors are no longer eligible to earn points in the toy competition.”
We had not been named, and we had hoped to remain anonymous. But news traveled
fast among the 3,500 students. The students from other grades sarcastically
complimented and thanked us, but we had definitely become unpopular with our
fellow seniors.
After
school, we dejectedly sat on Tom’s couch and discussed what we should do to try
to turn the situation around. We put on our critical thinking caps for probably
the first time in our lives. Finally we came up with a brilliant idea. Since
the principal had invited the seniors to continue to bring toys to school, that
was what we would do.
The
last day of the toy drive coincided with the last day of school before
Christmas break, which was three days away. Tom and I would go into the
neighborhoods around our school and spend the next three nights collecting toys.
Going
door to door for hours on end was very hard work. Families with children
usually had a toy to give us. Elderly people usually had nothing for us. But
two events caught us off guard.
One
elderly gentleman, who said that his only son had been killed in the Korean
War, asked us to wait a moment and left us standing at his front door. He soon
came back and handed us $100. “I’ve never seen you boys before,” he said, “and
for all I know you’ll spend this money on yourselves, but my contribution is intended
to be used as a memorial to my son.”
We
were speechless, which was unusual for us. We immediately headed for the
Whittier Downs Mall, and 15 minutes later we were talking to the manager of a
toy store, explaining what we were doing. Before we knew it, we had three very
large bags of toys he sold us at a discount. Excited, we headed right back to
the elderly man’s house to show him we had done as he wished. He cried as he
shook our hands.
The
next evening, at another home, Tom and I were greeted by a much younger man who
seemed taken aback when we explained what we were doing. He invited us in and
then excused himself to go get his wife. After what seemed like a very long
time, he came back with his wife and a large box of toys. His wife was crying.
The
man introduced his wife to us and with great difficulty he softly said, “Thanks
for being patient with us. I know you must feel ill at ease with the way we are
behaving, so let me explain. A year and a half ago our three-year-old son
passed away from leukemia. We would like to give you his toys. It’s hard, but
we feel it’s the right thing to do.”
Tom
and I were inclined to refuse their offer, but they were insistent. As we drove
away, they stood on their porch, arms wrapped around each other, watching us.
On
the third and final night, we found ourselves standing before a pile of toys
that almost filled Tom’s single-car garage. It took two trips with two cars to
get all of the toys to school the next morning. We began long before dawn, and
when we were through, the senior class toy collection box was perched atop a
pile of toys that dwarfed the other classes’ contributions. It still didn’t
qualify for points, but the senior class honor had been restored.
After
all the excitement, by the time Christmas Eve arrived, Tom and I were once
again sitting on his couch, intensely bored. I was about to go home when Tom’s
father appeared wearing the most spectacular Santa costume I had ever seen.
“How do I look, fellas?” he asked. Before we could overcome our astonishment
and reply, we heard the deep rumble of a powerful diesel engine, and a brand
new fire truck pulled up in front of the house. Covered with a net, a pile of
beautifully wrapped presents filled the truck.
Tom’s
dad jumped in, climbed up to roost high above the mammoth vehicle, and the
truck lurched forward. Suddenly, our day was no longer empty. I yelled at Tom,
“Quick, let’s follow them.”
At
first I thought they must be headed to the Whittier Downs Mall to play Santa
for the lucky, privileged kids there. But with lights blazing and siren
wailing, the fire truck turned off the main highway and into Old Pico, a
four-block square of leaky wood-slat shacks occupied by migrant farm workers
and their families. With a whoosh of air brakes the truck stopped and Tom’s dad
climbed down. A host of excited children gathered from all directions, their
parents watching from a distance as their little ones rejoiced over their
gifts.
As
the scene played out, many thoughts ran through my mind. My perception of Tom’s
father took on a new aspect. Here was a man who possessed little himself yet
was giving what he could. I saw thankful parents who must have been agonizing
over providing basic necessities, much less Christmas presents, shedding tears
of joy for their children. I considered for the first time how children must
feel when Santa forgets them.
Frankly,
until then I had been pretty full of myself. Our whole effort to gather the
toys had been focused on restoring our social standing. But those experiences
with the generosity of grieving parents, along with what I saw in Old Pico,
began to soften my heart and turn my view outward. I realize now that it all helped prepare me to seriously
consider and accept the gospel when I heard its message a few years later.
That
evening when I asked Tom’s dad where the presents came from, he was puzzled.
“You mean you don’t know?” he said. “They came from the toy drive at your
school.”
We
watched in amazement as the fire truck parked and children gathered from all
directions.
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