It was Christmas 2007, I think.  I had been at my Psychiatric Rehabilitation job for a little over a year.

(Psych rehab offers community-based case work, support and assistance to persons with chronic and persistent mental illness. I’ve been working for my company since October 2006, doing this kind of work.)

The company was, at that point, small but growing, and we decided to host a small holiday meet & greet at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Baltimore City.  We just wanted to offer some cheer, and provide an opportunity for our folks who tend to isolate at home, to get out of the house.

The venue was small, and our group filled most of it up.  The shoppe wasn’t closed to other patrons, so a few people from the community came in and out, spoke with our clients, moved on.

At one point, one of our clients, a 20-something mother to two children, was talking with a stranger who was kindly inquiring about her holiday.  This young mother became tearful, heartbroken that she could not provide her children with Christmas;  she didn’t have the money, or the family support.

She couldn’t work — no one would hire her and her mental illness symptoms were high, making it difficult; we were trying to get her linked with employment. Her income was about $185 per month (that’s what public assistance paid in Maryland).  She was trying to be well, advance, be more.  

She was trying to hold the hell on.

She was not sobbing.  She was not making a scene.  She was not entitled.  She was a lovely woman in a coffee shop conversing with a stranger, overcome by her emotions.  

She was any one of us.

I was observing from a short distance, making sure she was okay, ready to jump in if she needed a little help.  She remained graceful.  The stranger bid his farewell, and my client composed herself and remained with our group.  

I turned around to talk someone else.  When I turned back, it was because this woman was sobbing.  My first thought was that her emotions got away from her, and she was overwhelmed.  This is what I learned:

Next to where she was sitting, she found a bag full of Christmas toys.  There was no note.  The bag was close enough to her that it could not be mistaken for another’s parcel.  She asked all the other patrons if they had missed one of their packages.  We helped her try and figure it out.  

They were meant for her. Her children would have a Christmas.  She was nothing but grateful.

Now, maybe it was that kind and conversational stranger.  However, he did NOT have any parcels with him during their conversation, and NO ONE saw him come back in.  Someone more cynical than I may conclude that the stranger felt sorry, or manipulated, or was simply doing a kindness.  Maybe so. Empirical evidence points otherwise.

I never saw a man in a red suit.  He was there, though.  

There is nothing more real.