The story of the Soul of Santa begins in a small town in the Northeast. In a modest home, a family of eleven lived—nine children, four boys and five girls. Among them was Tommy, a nine-year-old boy who, though just one of many siblings, stood out in his own quiet way. Tommy’s father was a truck driver, gone for days at a time, working long hours for what amounted to minimum wage. His mother, a stay-at-home mom, had never held a formal job but was incredibly intelligent. She had been the salutatorian of her high school class in a neighboring town, yet was denied the title of valedictorian—simply because she was both a woman and Black. Nearly twenty years had passed, but the world hadn’t changed much since that moment. Tommy, the fourth child, was especially close to his mother. He stayed near her, believing she always needed his help. The family was tightly knit, as was common in those days, but they were undeniably poor. Their father had managed to buy a house in a white neighborhood—a rarity for Black families at the time. This came with its own set of challenges. The family endured racial slurs, discrimination, and outright hostility. Their dogs were poisoned. White neighbors forbade their children from playing with them. If Tommy or his siblings wandered too far, they might be chased home by snarling dogs meant to remind them that they didn’t belong. But not everyone saw color. Some children remained his friends despite the social divide. At school, Tommy had many friends, some of whom he stayed in touch with for years. But his days were often weighed down by embarrassment. Poverty meant wearing shoes with holes in the soles or, worse, flapping shoes that announced his every step. To avoid ridicule, he would cut off the loose soles and place pieces of cardboard inside his shoes to shield his feet from the rough pavement and biting cold. Perhaps the hardest part was being one of the only Black children in school. Every time the word “Negro” appeared in a textbook, eyes would turn to Tommy—some with sympathy, others with scorn. The school board even mandated that his siblings be split up across different schools to prevent them from attending together. With no busing available, they had no choice but to walk, no matter how far. Tommy was determined to prove himself. Many teachers and classmates expected him to fail, assuming he was the “dumb colored boy.” But his mother, a believer in discipline and education, instilled in him the importance of reading and setting goals. With her guidance, he consistently ranked in the top third of his class. Over time, he gained the respect of most of his peers—except for some poor white boys who viewed him as competition rather than a friend. Next to the school stood a foster home filled with children awaiting placement. Foster care wasn’t popular in those days, and many of those kids remained there until adulthood. They, too, faced ridicule, but being Black still meant being at the very bottom of the social ladder. Sundays were spent playing and studying. Occasionally, Tommy attended the local AME church, but his real lessons about right and wrong came from his mother. Though she spoke of God, Tommy wouldn’t fully understand Jesus until much later in life. Even so, something inside him recognized the difference between good and evil, and he carried those lessons in his heart. Fridays were special. That was the day his father came home from the road. Tommy longed for his presence—not just because Dad’s arrival meant there would be food on the table for Sunday dinner, but because he desperately wanted a father figure. Saturdays meant there would be milk for his cornflakes, a simple luxury he cherished. But feeding a house full of children wasn’t easy. At times, an uncle and his family lived with them, making an already crowded home even tighter. Meals were often just beans and rice with homemade biscuits, and meat was a rare treat. Clothes were another struggle. Most of Tommy’s wardrobe came from second-hand stores or hand-me-downs from white families who no longer needed them. His grandmother, known as Nana, worked as a domestic worker, and eventually, his mother did too—often filling in when Nana was sick. The neighborhood grocer, Mr. Fritz, was a kindhearted Jewish man who let Tommy’s mother buy on credit when money was tight. His generosity kept the family afloat many times. But one day, hunger and desperation led Tommy to steal a candy bar. He knew it was wrong. When Mrs. Fritz caught him, she didn’t scold him loudly or tell his mother—she simply let him know how disappointed she was. That silent shame stayed with him for days, a lesson he would never forget. Christmas was bittersweet. The family couldn’t afford a tree until Christmas Eve, when prices were slashed or trees were given away. Decorations were sparse, gifts even sparser. Tommy believed the little ones deserved the toys more than he did. Most presents came from Goodwill or the Salvation Army, second-hand and well-worn, but still cherished. Then, everything changed. Tommy’s father fell ill with kidney failure. In those days, there was no dialysis. After months of suffering, he passed away. His mother had no choice but to find work, and Tommy knew he had to fend for himself. By the next Christmas, Tommy was full of questions. Why was his family so poor? Why did his father have to die? Why did Santa never bring them the kind of gifts other children got? And why was everything about Christmas so white? That year, they couldn’t even afford a tree. What was the point of celebrating poverty? That night, as Tommy drifted into sleep, he heard a voice calling out to him. It repeated a single word: “Soul… Soul… Soul…” until he finally heard four distinct words: The Soul of Santa. When he opened his eyes, he saw him. Santa—but not the Santa he had grown up seeing in storybooks and department stores. This Santa had dark skin. He wore a derby hat and a suit that wasn’t quite red. His eyes burned like embers, as if lit from within. Tommy felt his heart pound in his chest. There was an instant connection—a sense of magic and familiarity. “Who are you?” Tommy whispered. The figure smiled. “I am The Soul of Santa, and I have come to show you the true meaning of Christmas.” Fear flickered in Tommy’s heart, but only for a moment. There was something comforting about this Santa. Something that reminded him of his father. The fear melted away, replaced by warmth and security. Tommy’s mind raced with questions. “Why don’t you look like Santa Claus?” The Soul of Santa chuckled. “Because Santa and I are one.” Tommy frowned. “But… Santa is white. And you’re Black.” The Soul of Santa knelt beside him. “Santa and I share the same father.” “Who?” Tommy asked, growing more confused. “Why, God,” The Soul of Santa said. “The same Father you have, Tommy.” Tears welled in Tommy’s eyes. “My father is gone. Are you him? Did you come back for me?” The Soul of Santa placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “I am who you need me to be, my son. Everyone has a soul. Everyone has a choice in how they use it. God, our Father, is waiting for all of us to decide. Will we use our lives for good? Will we serve others? Will we spread love, even in hardship?” Tommy sat in silence, his heart full. That Christmas, he received no presents, no tree, no feast. But for the first time, he understood the true meaning of Christmas: love, hope, and the soul within us all.