Sheldon and The Christmas Experiment

Note: below is one of my favorite Christmas stories. I love telling it at Christmas Eve worship, but this year I decided to share it here. Maybe you can read it to your children or grandchildren? My hope is that it warms your heart this Christmas season! Merry Christmas!

Your pastor and friend, trying live out this precious Christmas lesson, Brook

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was not even a mouse…that is except for a 10-yr old kid named Brook. I couldn’t sleep.

Not because of sugar or excitement — but because there was a stranger in my bed.

I was ten years old, and in our house, strangers on Christmas Eve weren’t unusual. My parents believed Christmas was meant to be shared, so there were often extra chairs at the table and extra blankets on the floor. But this year was different.

This year, the stranger was my age.

His name was Sheldon. A Native American kid whose family had fallen apart, and who, for reasons I didn’t fully understand yet, had nowhere else to be. He was spending Christmas with us.

I wish I could tell you I welcomed him with open arms.

The truth is… I didn’t.

My mom and dad were pouring it on — extra smiles, extra attention, extra kindness. And as one of eight kids, I was already competing for attention on a good day. Sheldon felt like one more thing I’d have to share.

So I lay awake in the basement, staring out the window, wrestling with something even bigger than jealousy.

Santa Claus.

You see, I had a complicated relationship with Santa. Every year I made a list. Every year I got most of what was on it. But I never got the one thing I wanted most.

So this year, I ran an experiment.

I risked it all.

Instead of a long list, I asked for one thing — just one:

A Walt “Clyde the Glide”Frazier basketball

Frazier played for the New York Knicks, and to me, he was magic. Not tall, not flashy — just smooth. And I knew the Coast to Coast store in Wagner, South Dakota, had the most beautiful leather basketball I’d ever seen, stamped with his name.

I wanted that basketball!  No, I needed that basketball!  You see, my old basketballI was, well… pregnant. The lining was coming out of the seam. When I dribbled, it bounced sideways. Sometimes it got stuck in the net after I made the shot.

I was done with rubber balls. I wanted leather. I wanted real.

I wanted that ball.

Somewhere between worrying about Sheldon and trusting Santa, I finally fell asleep.

Suddenly I was woken by a bright light!  It was Christmas!

I flew upstairs before anyone else stirred. In our house, presents weren’t wrapped — there were too many kids for that. Just piles everywhere.

“To Hope, good girl, from Santa.”

“To Rachel, good girl, from Santa.”

I scanned the room like a detective.

Then I saw it — tucked behind the couch, my favorite hiding spot. A pile with a basketball peeking out.

It worked.

Christmas was real.

I grabbed the ball, flipped it in the air, and read the tag.

“To Sheldon — a good boy — from Santa.”

I froze.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Santa gave my basketball to Sheldon?

The Walt Frazier basketball?

I tried to reason it out. Santa was smart, right? He knew Sheldon was good at basketball. But he knew I was too. Surely there was another one somewhere.

I searched the room again.

That’s when I found my gift: an electric football set — the hottest toy of the year.

I played with it. But my heart wasn’t in it.

My parents noticed. “Brook, you okay?”

Then they said, “Hey — go get Sheldon. Santa came for him too.”

I didn’t want to.

But I did.

Sheldon was still asleep. I shook him gently. “Hey. Sheldon. It’s Christmas.”

He looked at me like Christmas was a word from another language.

“Santa came,” I said. “You’ve got presents.”

I led him upstairs.

The house went quiet. You know that moment — like in the movies — when everything slows down.

Sheldon picked up the basketball. He read the tag.

And then his eyes filled with tears.

In that instant, I realized something:

Sheldon might never have had a Christmas like this before.

While he opened the rest of his gifts, I slipped outside. I pulled on my boots, hat, and gloves. I shoveled the fresh snow off the driveway where our basketball hoop stood.

I knocked on the window.

“Sheldon! Come on out. Let’s try it.”

As he pulled on his coat, I looked up at the sky and laughed.

“Merry Christmas!”

It wasn’t the Christmas I planned.

It was better.

It was my first grown-up Christmas — the one where I learned that joy doesn’t come from what you get…

…but from what you’re willing to give.

And that morning, my ten-year-old heart grew at least two sizes bigger.