Christmas may well be the ultimate time for family. But sometimes our families are more far-flung than we realize. I found that out during the holiday season of 1999.

The season begins earlier and earlier when you have children. It was about August when my son brought me his Santa list. Robert was 6, a bright first-grader, and he was perfectly in tune with the merchandising mandates of his generation. This was the big year of the Color Gameboy.

Robert breathlessly pointed out the toy on TV commercials and clued me in that here, in this tiny specimen of imported electronic bliss, lay the essential hope of personal contentment to cherish in his bosom for the holiday season. Wasn't it logical to assume that a loving Santa would, on Christmas morning, glad-heartedly provide this most coveted of all possible prizes—along with any accompanying software and peripherals? In that eventuality Robert, filled with euphoric wonder, would ask nothing more of life. Or words to that effect. He may not have said it in exactly that way.

Like any modern parent, I immediately wondered how much therapy would be required for my son if I denied him this toy—and how much therapy would be required for me if I had to keep hearing about Color Gameboys.

The Gameboy prophecy
I remember the stories of the lengths my parents went to in order to avoid seeing my fragile little psyche left in ruins at the foot of the Christmas tree. When I was too young to talk, my older brother often served as an interpreter. I would murmur some gibberish, and Jim would say, "He says he has to go to the potty." Or whatever. On this occasion, Jim was interpreting for the department store Santa. "He says he wants the pirate ship," Jim stated. He went into great detail describing a wonderful little sea vessel filled with colorful pirates. One pirate even took a bath, Jim translated.

Mom and Dad must have gone to every toy store in Atlanta, asking, "Do you have that pirate ship? The one where the little pirate takes a bath?" After hours of fruitless searching, they asked Jim if there was anything else he could tell them about the pirate ship. "Oh, there isn't one, really," he said. "Rob just makes stuff up." There never had been any pirate ship.

But there was indeed such a thing as a Color Gameboy—and this Christmas season, every boy and girl wanted one. Thus I set out on a quest through the savage wastelands of Retail America. I visited all the major stores. The Color Gameboy was this year's Cabbage Patch doll—it simply wasn't to be had. Parents were whipped into a mad shopping frenzy.

I, too, was grimly determined to find the elusive chunk of circuitry. No son of mine would be a pariah in his first-grade class. So I trafficked in the black market and approached furtive characters with names like Fast Louie in downtown alleys.

Weeks passed and still, no Color Gameboy. In time, during those desperate months, I became part of a close-knit mob that assembled in the parking lots of various department stores and commercial boutiques just before the crack of dawn. We'd smile palely and greet each other as a fraternity of seekers, always knowing that, should a single Gameboy flash before our eyes, we would become a howling mob ready to trample each other.

The purported reason for the shortage was that a manufacturing plant in Taiwan had blown up—true story. This was December of 1999, and the World Gameboy Crisis, in close association with Y2K, promised to finish off civilization as we knew it. Some of my parking lot buddies insisted that the Color Gameboy was mentioned in the book of Revelation.

Santa's global laborers
Sensing defeat, I struggled with what to tell my trusting son. The whole situation was further intensified by the fact that, this Christmas, the Santa story was on shaky ground in our household. If you're a veteran parent, you've lived through that year. Robert and his parents had worked out a kind of "don't ask, don't tell" policy about Santa. After the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny have been debunked, the domino effect sets in. My kids were clinging by a thread to that last illusion of childhood. I told myself that next year we would come clean on the whole Santa thing; sure, that was the ticket: next year.

Finally I approached Robert while he was performing some routine maintenance checks on his Hot Wheels. "Robert," I began, "you need to be aware that things are looking bad on the Color Gameboy front."

His eyes were filled with fear and disbelief as he asked me to explain. "But I asked Santa," he said. "His elves will make a Color Gameboy for me."

"The elves just can't keep up with the demand," I stammered. "Robert, there are boys and girls all over the world who want Color Gameboys."

Robert considered that point for a moment. "Daddy, have all those boys and girls behaved better than me this year? You told me I was the best little boy in the world."

I gulped. "Um, yes, I did say that, didn't I?" I gulped again; it felt like a Color Gameboy was lodged in my throat. "Well, okay," I went on, pulling Robert into my lap. "I guess you deserve to know the truth. A factory blew up—in Taiwan, they say. I didn't want to tell you the whole thing this way, you know, um, the truth about Santa and all (gulp, cough)."

"Yes, Daddy? What do you mean?" Robert's eyes were huge and innocent. He suddenly looked very much like one of those Precious Moments figurines, perhaps one titled "His Last Innocent Illusion, Demolished."

I chose my words carefully. "Well, son, the truth is—the truth is that, well, all these toys really come from … um, elves in Taiwan. Yes. And their whole factory blew up. It was on CNN. Listen, Robert, I gotta go grout the bathroom tile. Guess I'll catch you later."

"But Daddy, you always said the elves worked at the North Pole."

"I know what I said, and it's strictly true of your traditional working elf. But your Color Gameboys, your action figures, well, these are made by elves overseas. These days Santa has to outsource certain specialized work orders, and … "

"But how did the elf factory explode, Daddy?" Robert interrupted, fighting the tears.

See what I mean? The whole thing is a theological minefield. How had I talked myself into such a corner? I had figured we could at least wait until Christmas morning before Robert's delicate psyche was scarred for life.

"Well, I don't have all the facts of the tragedy, son, but what counts is that these courageous elves gave their lives for the electronic gaming industry. You and I need to think about their little bereaved elf families whenever we're tempted to whine and snivel about, oh, some electronic gaming console, for instance."

Robert's lower lip began to tremble. Maybe I had laid it on a bit too thick. I tried to throw out a shred of hope for the little fellow. "Robert, remember that Christmas when you were 3, and Santa couldn't get you the Tickle Me Elmo? I checked today, and Santa's Web page says the Elmos are in stock now at 30 percent off retail, shipping ups Ground in 24 hours!"

This was strangely unhelpful. Robert left the room whimpering. I got in trouble with his mommy, of course. Kids and mommies, their ways are inscrutable to me.

Montana mercy
I was working at the computer a day or two later, shopping online for an I-Can-Read book on How to Deal with Grief Over the Loss of a Fantasy Character, when I received an amazing message.

I had shared via e-mail with my extended family and friends all that you've read up to this point. One of my wife's coworkers had forwarded the story to a brother in Montana who had driven to a store and bought a Color Gameboy for us. Just like that. He wanted to know what games we wanted with our console, and he'd have the whole package on its way to us Next Day Air.

My extended family, it turned out, was more extended than I had ever suspected.

On Christmas morning, Robert was not surprised in the least to see a brand-new Color Gameboy. "I knew Santa wouldn't let me down," he said with a cutting glance in my direction. "Elves in Taiwan—boy, Daddy, your jokes are pretty lousy."

There wasn't much I could say. I was just glad the whole thing worked out. I had learned my lessons:

1. Your family is bigger than you think.


2. In e-mail, the e is for elf.


3. Despite our efforts to commercialize Christmas, God's simple joy and grace manages to break through.


4. The real elves live in Montana.

Adapted from The Suggs Book of Family Tales: Real-Life Stories of Wit and Wisdom by Rob Suggs. © 2004 Rob Suggs. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press, P.O. Box 1400, Downers Grove, IL 60515, www.ivpress.com. Suggs is an Atlanta-based author and illustrator.

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