The best Christmas story I know is about a friend who is Jewish.
Decades ago, I asked him why he celebrated Christmas.
If you have kids, you more or less have to, he said. He helped me understand what going to school after the annual toy-giving frenzy must be like for a child who is not Christian.
And so my friend celebrated Christmas, not as a religious holiday, but as a holiday.
One year, after his own kids were grown and gone, my friend was in Wal-Mart, buying batteries, I think. It was just before Christmas. He noticed parents — mostly just mothers, shopping alone — going through the aisles of toys.
Some were in worn clothes. My friend noticed holes in shoes, gloves and coats. He noticed they went through the toys slowly.
The next day, my friend went to the bank and got some $100 bills. He went back to Wal-Mart the next evening. He studied the shoppers. He just knew when it was the right time to approach a stranger, say “Merry Christmas,” hand him or her a bill with Ben Franklin’s smile on it, and disappear.
He’s been doing that for years.
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