Back from a week away visiting family.
I've missed you!
Changes. Some are good . . .
This was a bit more than a little girl’s mind could take in.
Let me tell you about it . . .
Every Christmas season, Husby and I spend our time among families and other assorted celebrants at their festivities, dressed as Santa and his Mrs.
It is a happy, joyous occupation as we have often stated (and restated).
But it necessitates the growing of a beard.
His. Not mine.
And the keeping of said beard year round.
This year, Santa-in-the-off-season decided he would shave.
To the skin.
Yeah, I was surprised, too.
He did so. And presented a bare face many of us have not seen for years.
Oh, we knew it was in there behind the tangle of whiskers. We just hadn’t seen it.
The day after the significant wielding of the razor, we met our family for food, fun and games in the cultural hall of our chapel.
Santa-in-the-off-season, or Grampa, as he is known was running and playing British Bulldog with numerous grandchildren.
And realized that one small person was standing beside him, looking up.
He looked down.
Into some serious—and rather confused—dark brown eyes.
“What’s that matter, Leah?” he asked.
I should probably reiterate here: that beard has been on Grampa’s face for longer than that little girl has been around.
Four-year-old Leah blinked. “What happened to your face, Grampa?”
“I shaved off my beard, Leah.”
“Oh.” She turned that over in her mind. Then, “Can you put it back on?”
Change. It’s all about us.
But most times unwanted.