An orphans Christmas Story...keeping a promise alive.

This is a story shared by Rex Head the director of the orphanages I worked at in Ecuador, of an experience he had with a little orphan girl. It's worth the read. Merry Christmas to all of you!

Three Marías and a Christmas Promise
by Rex Head


I am writing this story to keep a promise, a Christmas promise to a little brown-eyed girl in an orphanage who no longer believes in Papa Noel. But she believes in her dad and she believes in me, and I would give anything in the world not to let her down.
There is something magical about Christmas, even in an orphanage, or maybe especially in an orphanage. At Christmas we dare hope for more than reason tells us we should, that somehow if we believe enough and are good enough a miracle will happen. That on that day it doesn’t matter if you were born in a palace or a stable or found in a trash can, we are all equal in God’s eyes.
A few years ago I was asked to put on a Papa Noel (Santa) suit and pass out candy and a scarf to each girl in a girl’s orphanage. The orphanage building is a shell of tile, concrete and glass. The barracks-like rooms, filled with rows of sagging metal beds, are dimly lit by naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Two nuns care for the girls with love and firmness. The love that starts out in their hearts is robust, warm and sincere, but by the time it stretches over all 50 girls it is often tired and thin.
I am well known in the orphanage, and despite my Papa Noel disguise, I had little hope of fooling anyone. There were little girls everywhere laughing, singing, playing and waiting to sit on my knee and get their presents. Six-year-old María José* had only been in the orphanage a few weeks and did not know me. When it was her turn she would not sit on my lap and didn’t even open her present. She just stood nearby looking at me.
Her face, like the faces of many new arrivals, was a rigid mask painted with shades of fear, loss, sadness and shame, with hints of hope trying to shine through her deep eyes. I got the sense she was waiting for me to do something. Maybe she thought I really was Papa Noel and was watching to see if I would do some sort of magic.
As the party continued she finally got the courage to come and talk to me. Everyone else was busy making Christmas stockings with paper and yarn.

“Do you know me?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, you’re María José. You are six years old and have been here two weeks. Sister Blanca told me all about you."
“So you don’t know me from before?” She tilted her face up and waited for me to recognize her.
“No, Papa Noel can’t always remember everyone.” I felt a little panic now, wondering if I had met her in another orphanage or somewhere else.

“I know you aren’t Papa Noel. You are Doctor Rex. The other girls told me you come here all the time.”
Just then, someone announced that it was getting late. Papa Noel and his friends had to leave. We became part of a slow bouncing, pushing, laughing parade as everyone accompanied us to the front gate. María José did not say anything more. I could tell she was not finished talking, but her mask, that had started to slip, was back in place. She had a hold of my hand and did not let go until she was the last to say goodbye.
Before I left, I made arrangements with the head nun to come back the next day on Christmas Eve. A family had given me money to buy something for the girls, and I was coming back with other volunteers to take each girl to go buy a new pair of shoes. What we didn’t get done before Christmas, we would have to do after.

When I got to the orphanage the next morning, I was greeted through the gate by 20 or 30 excited little girls, all shouting:

“Doctor Rex, take me first!”

“I want white shoes!”

“Carry me on your shoulders!”

“Where is Papa Noel?”

“Me first! Me first!”

As the gate opened, they flooded out and around me. I love coming to the girls orphanage because each time I do I am reminded that these adorable girls don’t just need to receive love, they need to give it, and I am one of the lucky few they share it with. So each time I come, the love and affection they’ve been storing up breaks loose and I am overwhelmed. I must see and be impressed with loose teeth, new shirts, skinned knees and haircuts. I must give each one a hug and a kiss on the cheek. If I dare risk forgetting someone, they are thrilled to hear me say their names. There is no place else on earth where I feel more accepted and loved. If I could bottle the feeling I get at these times, I could sell it for a million dollars a drop.
As the excitement wore down a little, it was decided that I would take the three little Marías, María Lorena, María Catarina and María José, for the first round of shoe buying. About a third of the girls in the orphanage have María as a first or middle name. I guess if you have a little baby and you are not sure you will be able to provide for her yourself, you choose a name like María, in hopes that her namesake will keep an eye on her.
The three little Marías were all too little to walk six blocks on a busy street without holding someone’s hand, so I put María José on my shoulders and held hands with the other two.
Progress was slow and there was a light rain, but I was in no hurry. I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun. Catarina put both her hands in my right hand and had me swing her over every puddle, while Lorena made sure she swung just right so that she splashed down in the middle of each puddle with both feet. When not swinging, Catarina tried to snuggle right up next to my leg and under my arm so she didn’t get rained on, while Lorena stretched out at arm’s length face up so she didn’t miss one raindrop.
After about a block, María José tugged on both my ears and picked up the conversation just where we left off the night before. “I know you’re not Papa Noel.”
Lorena, face up to the rain and hands out, not looking at all where she was going, called out, “Maybe he is Papa Noel. He fills up the suit without a pillow.”
María José continued seriously, “But you are from the United States, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m from the United States.”

She went on very seriously, “My Daddy went to the United States. He had to sneak. While he was sneaking, he got lost. I don’t remember my daddy.”
I wondered if her father was even alive. Every year thousands of Ecuadorians pay up to $15,000 dollars to be smuggled into the United States to work. It is a dangerous trip and many don’t make it.
Catarina snuggled closer to my leg and said “I never had a mommy or a daddy; they found me in the trash.”
Lorena put her hands and head down and walked closer. “My daddy doesn’t want me ‘cuz I was born too late.”

“How could you be born too late?” asked Catarina.
“My daddy worked in the United States for five years in a restaurant, and when he came home I was just one. He said that is just too late, so Mom and I had to leave his house. Last year Mommy went back to daddy’s house and I came to live with the nuns” explained Lorena.
The rest of the walk to the shoe store was a little quieter. We had to change positions twice so each got a chance to be on my shoulders. Lorena sang Christmas songs and kicked her heels against my chest to keep time. María José put my hand on her far shoulder and then put her cheek on my hand.
As we passed an overflowing garbage can, Catarina said, “I guess I must have had a mom and a dad before they put me in the garbage, but I like to pretend I didn’t.”
When we got to General Torres Street we turned left. It seemed every store on the street was a shoe store. Each time we passed one, we would slow down, and the Marías would get more excited. At the first one they laughed at the super high heels and pointed toes; the next one had a pair of “Cinderella shoes,” and the next had sport shoes, and Lorena showed how high she would jump with them on. At last we got to the store I had made arrangements with. The sales lady showed them the children’s shoe display. The Marías were so excited. Since Catarina and María José didn’t have stockings on, the sales lady had them put clear little plastic bags on their feet to try on the shoes. They immediately named them Cinderella stockings, and Lorena insisted on taking off her wet stockings so she could have Cinderella stockings.
María José quickly found her shoes and came over and sat on my lap. After making sure the other girls weren’t listening, she looked into my eyes and whispered “Are you my daddy?”
I had to look away and swallow hard. When I thought I could trust my voice again, I said, “No sweetheart, I’m not your dad.”
“Are you sure?”
“That would be nice,” I said.
She went on hurriedly, “What if you were my daddy but forgot what I looked like because you were lost for so long. It could happen. And you came back to find me but we forgot what each other looked like so we didn’t know. That’s why you keep coming to the orphanage to try and figure out which one I am.”
I pulled her very close to me for a minute and then said, “Princess, I’m not your daddy. But I love you.”
She sat quietly for a while. I watched a tear roll down her cheek and felt one roll down mine. Finally she said, “Can I pretend you’re my daddy just like the other girls pretended you were Papa Noel, and you pretend it too? And I will pretend that you love me best.”
“Yes, that would be okay.”
“Thank you daddy,” and then she kissed my cheek.
Lorena got shoes that had little lights in them that flashed when you walked. She went all around the store stomping in front of mirrors and watching her shoes flash. Catarina had a little more trouble. It seemed every pair of shoes she picked out were twice the amount I had budgeted.
A few minutes later we were back on the street walking back to the orphanage. The rain had stopped. Catarina wore her old shoes and carried her new shoes in a box hugged to her chest. She didn’t want to ride on my shoulders because she couldn’t hold onto the box as well. Lorena didn’t want to ride because she liked watching her shoes flash, so María José rode on my shoulders the whole way back. She put her cheek on the top of my bald spot and clasped her hands under my chin.
As we passed the overflowing garbage can, Catarina said, “Maybe they didn’t do it on purpose."
A little further on, a ragged little girl came up and asked for a coin to buy bread. She must not have been more than four years old. I gave her some coins. Lorena said, “Thank you for giving her money. You always ask foreigners or men with children or girlfriends. If you beg by the ice cream store, sometimes they will buy you ice cream. I like bubblegum ice cream.”
As we approached the orphanage, I took María José off my shoulders. The other two ran ahead to show off their shoes. María José held my hand but had stopped walking. As I turned and looked at her I could see that again she had tears on her cheeks as she said, “You are from the United States, right?”

“Yes,” I said going down on one knee and pulling her close.
“Then maybe you’re my daddy’s neighbor. When you go back, will you find my daddy and tell him that mommy died, and that he won’t find me at grandma’s ‘cuz she’s sick, and grandpa hurt me so bad I have to live with the nuns.” Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and sobbed.
Again I had to swallow hard and wait for the lump to go away. Then I said, “I don’t think I can find your daddy, sweetheart. But I promise I will tell people your story. And maybe together we can figure out what to do.”
I stood up still holding her. For a few minutes her tears, sobs and pain washed over and through me. I tried to speak, but her pain came out of my throat and chest in convulsive sobs.
After a few minutes we both stopped crying and looked at each other. She wiped her runny nose on my shirt sleeve. I wiped my runny nose on my other shirt sleeve, and then we both laughed.
Overhead the sun had burned a hole in the dark clouds. It would rain again, but for now the rain and tears had done their magic, and the sun sparkled warmly from freshly washed cobblestones and hearts. She held my hand again as we walked into the orphanage, and in my heart I thanked God for helping me find my neighbor’s daughter.


*I have changed the names and some minor details to protect the privacy of the children.