The more successful Larry became, the more money he gave away. By the time he’d earned considerable wealth in cable and phone services in Kansas City, Missouri, he was anonymously giving away substantial amounts as a “Secret Santa.” He consulted with local social workers, firefighters, and police officers to find needy and deserving recipients. He also found some of them on his own, at laundromats, social service agencies, government housing facilities, and businesses that paid minimum wage. At thrift stores, he often found people who were raising their grandchildren. When he would give them anywhere from $100 to $300, it would change the whole complexion of their Christmas as well as their outlook. For many of them, this money made it possible to buy presents and cover necessities like utility bills.
Larry didn’t want people to have to beg, get in line or apply for money. “I was giving in a way that allowed them to keep their dignity,” he said in an interview with a local news station years later. Just like the cook at the Dixie Diner had done for him.
All told, Larry gave away more than $1.4 million over the years. There are many stories from people whose homes he saved. People who told their families there wasn’t going to be a Christmas but wound up being able to buy gifts because of the money Secret Santa gave them. People who were able to pay their bills and get their gas turned back on, thanks to Larry.
In 2006, after serving as an anonymous Santa for more than twenty years, Larry was diagnosed with terminal cancer. At that point, he decided to go public because a tabloid newspaper was about to reveal his identity. Larry thought he should be the one to tell his story, hoping it would recruit more Santas to take his place. He’d seen that every time a Secret Santa was written about in the media, the coverage was followed by a wave of new Secret Santa appearances. He hoped making his identity public would continue to add to the ranks.
Larry got his wish. Thousands of people visited his website and signed up to become Secret Santas. And based on the number of people who emailed the site about their experiences that Christmas season, the new Secret Santas did more than sign up; they also turned out in force.
When Larry died in 2007, his handpicked successor—an anonymous Kansas City businessman—took over for him and continues to lead the Society of Secret Santas today. Its members follow in Larry’s footsteps around the world. The postings on the society’s website tell of giving money to victims of fires, people who had been evicted from their homes, and veterans and military families in need. They tell of former NFL player Dick Butkus handing out hundred-dollar bills in San Diego and former Major League Baseball player Luis Gonzalez doing the same in Phoenix.
A foundation was also formed in Larry’s honor to accept donations to be used by the Santas. The first donation was from former Kansas City parking attendant Sam Williams, who wanted to make a small gift in memory of the man who’d given him a hundred-dollar bill a few years before. “He gave me the biggest gift I ever got in my life,” Williams told KMBC News.
Larry gave Secret Santas everywhere a gift, too. As the society’s website says, “The compassion shared from one spontaneous random act of kindness is elevating, priceless and not easily explained. It is an instant connection between souls that can change a life forever. Being a Secret Santa has blessings beyond words.”
What’s more, it’s a gift anybody can give. “It’s not about the man, it’s not about the money—it’s about the message,” says a Secret Santa. “Anyone can be a Secret Santa with a kind word, a gesture, a helping hand.”
And what impact that gesture may have is anybody’s guess. “You never know what one little act of kindness will do for somebody,” as Larry told Ted Horn, chef-owner of the Dixie Diner, when he tracked him down twenty-eight years after their first meeting. “It can change their whole life. . . . It changed mine.”1
SHERPA, MD
Larry said it—you never know. You never know which “drop in the bucket” will spark a movement, and you don’t want to cheat the world out of that. But it’s important to act regardless of the scope of the outcome. Even if an act of kindness helps just a single person for a single day, that’s a gift. A gift I was fortunate enough to receive the day Mia was admitted to the hospital.
She started the day with surgery to insert a PICC line, a tube that ran from her arm near her biceps to a vein next to her heart to provide “express delivery” of chemotherapy medication and other drugs during her treatment. She was in pain afterward, and as I wheeled her to the room where she would live for a month, I saw how sick the other blood cancer patients were—the patients who’d already lost their hair and enormous amounts of weight and who had trouble walking because of their lack of strength and the IV poles that their PICC lines were tethered to. Although I kept it to myself, I was terrified.
Once Mia was in her room, I raced home to pack everything she’d need for the month, not wanting to leave her alone any longer than necessary. When I got back to the hospital, the parking spot I found was nowhere near the blood cancer department, so to save time I loaded myself up like a pack animal with the suitcase, the shoulder bags, the pillows and the trash bag filled with clothes so I could keep it to one long hike instead of two. Along the way, I was constantly dropping one bag or another because I couldn’t get the right grip, and no matter how I adjusted the load, I couldn’t find the right system. There was no right system—I was carrying too much. But I’d come too far to turn back—I’d already lost thirty minutes—so I didn’t.
I was hard not to notice, but somehow an astonishing number of people passed right by. And I know they saw me because they commented to each other about how much that poor guy was carrying.
I’m generally calm, but this was a moment of hell within a day of hell, and I started clenching my teeth so hard it hurt.
This is what I get for trying to be a good person? For helping people whenever I can? Not a single person can help me with my fucking bags???
Finally, just as I reached the point where I really didn’t know what I’d do next, I heard the beautiful words: “You look like you need a hand. Can I help?”
I almost cried.
He was a young guy—a med student doing his residency, he told me—and he helped carry the load all the way to Mia’s room. The detour might have cut his lunch break short or made him fifteen minutes late for a meeting—I don’t know. I didn’t even ask his name. All I know is that, years later, Mia’s treatment is a blur in my mind but I vividly recall the stranger who took the time to help. Thanks to him, I made it through one of the most stressful days of my life, and I was that much more prepared for the next day’s battle.
Life is a series of single days. If we make up our minds to help each other through those days, before we know it we’ll be getting by. Of the many forms that love takes, maybe the most obvious one is a simple decision: a decision to put in the effort to make someone’s life easier or more rewarding, even if just for a day. A commitment to doing more than hoping for the best for each other. It’s bringing a homeless person a meal. It’s being a positive influence for someone who needs one. It’s helping in the wake of a disaster. It’s taking some of the load off a guy whose legs are starting to buckle under the weight.
It’s picking up the slack.
WHAT WE CAN DO
All of us can use a hand—we can’t pick up all the slack ourselves. Whether we need help getting through a day, a year, or life itself, we all know what it’s like to be in a position of need. Luckily, living is a team sport, and we all have it in us to provide an assist when someone’s going through rough times, even if it’s just to let them know we’re thinking of them. Knowing that someone cares is often all we need to find the strength to keep going. That was the case when the parent of one of Jack’s classmates sent us this note during Mia’s treatment:
Hi Mia,