That Christmas when you were six
Was the last time you visited Santa.
We waited,
Humming stale carols to musak
In a line that seemed miles long
Until your turn finally came.
You were hoisted up into that velvet lap
So you could whisper wishes
To a bearded stranger you believed
Could make them all come true.
You asked for the world,
Or at least, the world of a child.
“All the toys.”
Not specific toys.
All of them.
I made a motherly mistake
And assumed you were greedy in your wish
And in your response on Christmas morning
When you asked with genuine surprise
“Is this all?”
You had thought it a reasonable request.
That New Year’s when you were twelve
Was the first time I began to see
The man of faith you already are.
We waited,
Singing new choruses with the band
In a service that seemed hours long.
At last our turn came.
We sat on folding chairs
While you spoke your need
To faithful friends you trusted
Would pray for your healing.
“In time for his birthday,” I qualified.
“Now,” you corrected.
To me, it would mean the world.
To you, it seemed a reasonable request.
And you were right.
Healing was yours that night.
Anyone who meets you
Soon learns what I have come to understand –
That any outrageous request
Is perfectly reasonable
When you have big faith.
