He didn’t look like the others. That’s why I noticed him when he first walked into the small Italian restaurant last night. It was early on a Friday night and I had turned down an invitation to a fancy seen-and-be-seen holiday party at a ten-thousand square foot home built for two to take my four-year-old daughter to dinner for a Gracie-Momma date night. Dan and Kalvin were down at the hospital visiting my dad. Grace and I had been the night before. The season and circumstances required simplification and priorities. And so Grace and I sat side-by-side, looking out the window at the parking lot, the muted lights of a fast food restaurant in the distance. We played alligator with our hands, made the church and the steeple and inside all of the people. I sniffed her head and played with her hair, she rubbed my cheeks with her little hands and said, “I love you tiny little Momma.” We talked about her day, who she played with at school, her favorite work station that day, which gelato we’d have for dessert, which playground she went to at recess, and our afternoon sledding adventure. We snuggled, we sang Christmas songs with mixed up lyrics, we tickled, we laughed as we waited for our food to arrive. With twins, one on one time is very precious; Grace and I always fall easily into the joy of spending time together.

That’s when I noticed him. He was wearing old tennis shoes, jeans, and an old winter jacket. He was rough shaven with scraggly unkempt graying hair. He was carrying a brown bag, which I assumed held a bottle from the liquor store next door. It wasn’t the kind of restaurant that did take out, or offered a public restroom, and he walked in alone. So I noticed him, but didn’t think much more. Five minutes later he left, giving us a gentle quick smile as he opened the door. I saw him walk to his car ten feet from our table. It was an old ford parked just outside the restaurant door. He placed the bottle in the passenger seat, shut the door, lit a cigarette and then walked somewhere out of my sight, perhaps back to the liquor store, or maybe the Mexican restaurant at the other end of the parking lot.

That was all. It wasn’t noteworthy. I just notice things. I notice a lot of things. I’m detail oriented in that way. I also noticed the man who came in wearing a blue tie, there aren’t a lot of ties in Park City. I noticed the woman who came in five minutes later to join him with a wrist full of bracelets and a bright red iphone case and her hair in a swept up do meant to look messy but was probably very time consuming (unlike mine, which was indeed messy and not time consuming). I noticed the family at the back of the restaurant with two older girls and one younger boy, all with Patagonia jackets hung on the back of their chairs, teal for the oldest girl sitting next to her mom with a black coat, navy for the boy, pink for the middle girl sitting next to her Dad who had a light blue jacket. I noticed things.

So I noticed the man, nothing more, nothing less.

Until five minutes later.

“Your bill is paid for,” the owner said, standing beside our table.

“What?”

“Somebody wanted to pay for your bill, so it’s taken care of.”

“What? Who?” I looked around the restaurant. The family? No. The couple? No.

“He didn’t want me to say, he just wanted me to tell you that Santa paid for your bill.”

Tears immediately filled my eyes, I got the proverbial lump in my throat, and my chest felt too small. An anonymous act of generosity and kindness. I thought of the times a table of guys had bought my and girlfriends a drink. No, this was different. I struggled to understand and receive the gift.

“Who was it?”

“He didn’t want me to say, he just wanted to pay for your dinner. And then he left.”

And then it hit me.

“It was that guy! That guy who came in here?”

She nodded.

“Has he been in here before?”

“No, I’ve never seen him. You know, in all the time I’ve owned this restaurant, and waitressed before that, I’ve never seen that happen.”

“I can’t believe it, it’s so nice, I want to cry,” though we were both already tearing.

“I know.”

“Why?”

“I think he saw you and your daughter laughing through the window. He just said he wanted to do something nice for you and to tell you it was Santa.’”

I wondered about the man, I wondered if he had a daughter, or a wife and daughter once. I wondered why he was buying alcohol by himself on a Friday night during the holiday season. I wondered why he had noticed Grace and me through the heavily tinted windows.

“Not for anything, but it had to have been a lot?” I asked.

“I told him it was fifty-seven dollars. He thought about it for a minute,” she raised her eyebrows then shrugged her shoulders, “and he said okay, ‘they deserve a nice dinner.’”

“He paid for tip too?”

“Yes, he covered the tip as well. All of it.”

Suddenly, I was energized. I stood up. “I want to go hug him, I saw him walk somewhere, his car is still there, he’s here somewhere.”

“No!! He didn’t want you to know.”

“Then I have to hug you,” I said and we hugged.

Our food arrived, Grace had fettuccine with red sauce that she tried to twirl on a fork and eventually ended up eating with her hands, covering her pink school shirt with red splotches. I was working my way through a huge plate of pasta primavera when I saw him open the door to his car. I didn’t want to stare. He sat for a minute, then the lights turned on, the car backed out, and was gone.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Except I felt different. I felt lighter, at peace, with more space in my chest. Just that morning, I had said to a friend, “I need things to lighten up a bit.” And they did. In one single moment. I left the server a huge tip, almost the cost of the meal. I made a reservation for Dan and I for date night at the same restaurant. And I decided that as part of that date night, I wanted to go to Starbucks or another restaurant, and do for other people what the man had done for us. Because what had he done? He had given. He had given his money but he had given something much more valuable. Truth is, by appearances and straight probabilities, I could afford our dinner much more than he. Dan is very very good at what he does. But he paid for our dinner. I thought of all the ways Gram was of service in the world, Meals on Wheels, Gold Star Wives, cakes for ‘guys’ at the Veterans Hospital. I thought of how she used to ask the grocer for half a head of lettuce to save money, then turn around and give all of her grandchildren money for every hallmark holiday, give to the church and a dozen other charities. I thought of friends for whom I need to buy a wedding gift, and I wondered if it would be kosher to give them money to give away, in the way the man had just given to Grace and me. They give to charities as well, but what I really wanted to give them was the experience I had just been given, a beautiful reminder that we are all here together, sharing the experience of being human. Here is a check, but…you must give it away in this way. I thought about our surrogate Leann who has become family, but who started as a stranger, offering to give us life, two lives, a family.

The truth is, this world, the people in it, and even myself, they all surprise me daily, for better and for worse. I am constantly shocked by selfishness, hatred, cruelty, evil, self-absorbed and self-entitled people. I am constantly shocked by myself when I wake up in a shitty mood. But I am also constantly shocked by the good in the world: the 101 year old woman taking such joy at making a snowball; the anonymous donor who gave the police $100,000 to give away, at a time when those who serve for little money and much risk are taking so very much heat; the right text at the right time from a caring friend; the random guy buying alcohol deciding to also buy a random woman and her daughter a nice dinner.

The darkness and the light. The season of both physical darkness but also of light, so much light. How I love this beautiful life.

You can bet, I’ll be paying it forward, with so much gratitude for, and conscious awareness of, the extreme privilege of living and giving.

Merry Christmas. Thank you Santa, for so much more than $57 + tip. Thank you.