This Is Not My Mom – But She’s My Mom.

This is Karen. Karen is not my mom. But she is my mom.

My friend Karen.

My friend Karen.

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I realize that’s a non-nonsensical statement on its face, but I specialize in obscure things which hold great meaning to me but little to others.

I’ll explain my silly behavior. On Wednesday, while sitting on my Santa chair at Midtown Global Market, I spent my time engaging those that came within earshot in a bit of banter. I invited everyone to come and take a photo. Young, old, tall, small, you get the idea.

My royal throne - from one of those 24 hour wicker joints.

My royal throne – from one of those 24 hour wicker joints.

Karen came to chat for a moment and she said she didn’t have her kids with her. I figured she had a couple of young ones tucked away in the neighborhood. Close. She had two in the Army. One of them at the Defense Language Institute. Studying Arabic. I need work on my age assessment skills. (She’s quite youthful!)

There I was with my mom 29 years ago. Christmas approaching and her child far away in Monterey, California studying a language that would likely take him in harm’s way. A small, blonde woman with a heart full of love for her child.

I did the only logical thing that one could do in my circumstances. I had her grab her bosses’ phone and we recorded a video greeting to the soldier. In Arabic.

Proving once again that Santa is truly Santa for all the children in the world. I bet that video stands alone in its content.

Please remember to pray for, and go out of your way to be kind to, the parents of military members every day. Christmas brings it home, but they worry every day about their kids. I used to be one of those kids.

Thanks, Karen. Thanks, Ellen. Thanks to all who love and miss their service members this time of year.

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