I'm Watching

Sometimes the most meaningful moments of Christmas arrive without warning.

Not during a visit with a child.

Not during a photograph.

Not while seated in the big red chair.

Sometimes they happen in the quiet spaces between all of those things.

One afternoon, I was making my way from the break room back into the mall. It was an ordinary day in the middle of a busy Christmas season. Families hurried from store to store carrying shopping bags. Christmas music drifted through the corridors. The familiar rhythm of the season was in full swing.

As I stepped into the main walkway, I noticed an elderly gentleman making his way around the mall.

As has become my custom, I raised my hand, smiled, and called out a cheerful, "Merry Christmas!"

He smiled warmly and returned the greeting.

Then he stopped.

As we met, he reached out to shake my hand. Holding my hand with his left, he placed his right hand gently over both of ours, as though he wanted to make certain I understood what he was about to say.

Looking directly into my eyes, he smiled.

"You look better than the real thing."

I laughed softly and thanked him, expecting our conversation to end there.

It didn't.

"I've been watching you," he continued.

At first, I wasn't quite sure what he meant.

"I've seen how you are with the children," he said. "Even the ones who are frightened. The ones who aren't quite sure they can trust you yet."

He paused for a moment.

"It makes me feel good knowing there are people like you who wear the suit with honor. People who keep the tradition alive and try to make the holidays a little brighter for those who may not have much hope during difficult times."

His words carried a sincerity that immediately caught my attention.

Then he shared something I never expected.

"I used to be Santa myself," he said.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

He wasn't speaking as a spectator.

He was speaking as someone who understood.

Someone who had worn the red suit.

Someone who had sat where I sat.

Someone who had looked into the eyes of children and felt the responsibility—and the privilege—that comes with those moments.

He smiled again.

"I always believed that even during my own difficult times, putting on the suit helped me look beyond my problems."

He paused, searching for the right words.

"There's something that happens when you put it on and look in the mirror. The transformation takes place right in front of your eyes. And then something changes in your heart."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

His words settled deeply within me.

Only a few days earlier, I had been reflecting on that very idea—the mysterious way the suit seems to ask more of us than simply wearing it. How it calls us to become a little more patient, a little more compassionate, a little more aware of the people around us.

Yet hearing those thoughts echoed back to me by someone I had never met felt different.

This wasn't my own reflection.

This was confirmation.

It was the perspective of someone watching from a distance.

Someone who had quietly observed.

Someone who had noticed.

As the conversation continued, I found myself feeling both humbled and grateful.

To be honest, it felt a little strange.

A little unexpected.

Perhaps even a little unsettling.

After all, most of us go about our days hoping we're doing the right things without really knowing if our efforts matter.

Yet here stood a man who had been paying attention.

Watching.

Observing not the costume, but the conduct.

Not the appearance, but the actions.

And in his own gentle way, he was reminding me that kindness is never as invisible as we sometimes believe.

Eventually, our conversation came to an end.

We exchanged our Christmas greetings once more and began walking in opposite directions.

After several steps, I glanced back.

The gentleman had stopped.

He turned toward me, pointed his finger with a smile, and called out one final sentence.

"I'm watching you!"

Then he turned and continued on his way.

I stood there for a moment smiling to myself.

Not because I felt judged.

Not because I felt inspected.

But because I felt encouraged.

His words reminded me that every act of kindness matters.

Every smile matters.

Every moment spent listening matters.

Someone is always watching.

A child.

A parent.

A stranger.

A former Santa walking through a shopping mall.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet lessons of Christmas.

The spirit we share has a way of traveling farther than we ever realize.

Long after the moment has passed.

Long after the conversation is over.

Long after we have gone our separate ways.

Someone is watching.

And sometimes, if we're fortunate, they remind us that what we're doing matters.

REFLECTION:

Looking back on that conversation today, I realize the gentleman was giving me something far greater than a compliment. He was offering a reminder that the suit is never really about us. It is about what people see in us—and what they hope still exists in the world.

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