Santa’s Using Zebras Now: When Laughter and Heartbreak Shared the Same Stage

When the music teacher first asked if I’d play Santa in the second-grade musical “Santa’s Using Zebras Now,” I hesitated. I mean—zebras? What’s next, elves on strike too? But I was only in my second year as counselor at Vatter Elementary, and when you’re still the new guy trying to prove you’re a team player, you say yes to things that involve glue sticks, gymnasiums, and jingle bells.

So I smiled and said, “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

The premise was ridiculous in the best possible way. The reindeer had gone on strike—apparently fed up with the long hours and low pay—and Santa, ever the problem solver, decided to outsource Christmas to a herd of zebras. My big debut involved riding a sleigh (actually a decorated red wagon) pulled by costumed second graders while parents snapped pictures and clapped like they were at Radio City Music Hall.

It was adorable (well, sort of). It was chaos. It was everything an elementary holiday program should be.

And then—like a sleigh hitting black ice—the morning took a turn.

The Curtain Lifts Somewhere Else

Just as I stepped off stage from my grand zebra-assisted entrance, I saw my principal waiting in the wings with a face that told me something was very wrong.

“B.R., we need you in the office. Now.”

There was no explanation, just urgency. She gripped my arm, and we hustled down the hall, my Santa boots squeaking on the tile.

Inside the office sat Nurse Lynne and one of our fourth graders, Darlene. Her head was bowed. Her small frame shook. And both of her arms were wrapped in strips of what looked like a torn T-shirt, soaked dark red.

“She says she fell on the way to school,” the nurse said quietly. “A neighbor gave her the cloth.” Then her eyes flicked up to mine—an unspoken plea to look closer.

I pulled down my Santa beard. Darlene looked up and blinked through tears. “Hi, B.R.”

“Hey, kiddo,” I said softly. “I know you said you fell, but I think there might be more to your story. Right?”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded once, her face crumpling as the tears came.

The Truth Beneath the Bandages

I crouched beside her chair. “Sometimes when things happen, it’s scary to tell someone,” I said. “But you’re safe here. You can tell me.”

After a long silence, she began to speak in that small, breaking voice only a child in pain can have.

“My little brother and I sleep on the same mattress,” she said, “in a room next to my sister’s bed. Sometimes he wets the bed at night. My dad gets mad—but not at him.”

She paused, eyes fixed on the floor. “He says it’s my fault for not waking him up. This morning the bed was wet again. My dad yelled, and then… he told me to come to the kitchen.”

Darlene looked down at her bandaged arms. “He turned on the oven—the broiler part—and made me hold my arms underneath it. He said that’s what happens when I don’t ‘take care of things.’”

For a second, the room went silent except for her crying. The nurse quietly handed her tissues. I felt my throat close, the red velvet of my Santa coat suddenly heavy.

I put my hand gently on her shoulder. “Darlene, you did nothing wrong. What your dad did was not your fault. And I promise—we’re going to make sure you’re safe. You did the right thing by telling us.”

She leaned into me, wiping her eyes on my sleeve—the bright red of Santa’s suit now streaked with her tears.

The Hardest “Ho Ho Ho”

And then—because life has a dark sense of timing—someone shouted from down the hall:
“SANTA! You’re on—hurry!”

I looked at the nurse. She nodded toward the door.

So I went.

I straightened my beard, blinked hard, and stepped back on stage under the bright lights. My cue came, and with a cracking voice I shouted,
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa’s using zebras now! Merry Christmas!”

The audience laughed. The kids beamed.
And I felt like the world had split in two—joy and pain existing only a few feet apart.

I didn’t stay for the curtain call. I ran straight back to the office.

After the Applause

We called the Department of Family Services. Darlene was taken to the hospital where doctors treated the burns and made sure she was safe. Her father was arrested later that evening.

Over the next few weeks, the school, a local church, and caring neighbors surrounded that family with support. Darlene’s little brother and sister were placed in protective care. She began counseling. Mom received her own much needed support. There were hugs, home-cooked meals, and a community that stepped up the way people do when heartbreak finally has a name and a face.

Empathy on the Rocks

I’ve replayed that day in my mind for years—the gym echoing with laughter and applause, the nurse’s quiet voice, in the scent of peppermint mixed with the smell of fear. One room bursting with holiday joy; another holding a child whose innocence had been shattered.

Sometimes empathy isn’t neat or festive. It’s not the warm glow of Christmas lights—it’s the raw, unfiltered act of showing up when the world cracks open.

That day, empathy was a Santa suit and a promise whispered through tears.

When I think back on it now, I picture a stream full of stones—some smooth, some jagged. The smooth ones remind us of joy and laughter. The jagged ones remind us of what it costs to care. Over time, those rough edges wear down—not because the pain disappears, but because empathy keeps tumbling through our lives, softening what once cut deep.

That’s what Empathy on the Rocks really means to me. It’s about holding the hard moments in your hand long enough to let compassion do its work—turning something sharp into something that can still shine in the light.

One More Thing - On a Lighter Note (Sort of)

The day after the big musical, we were summoned for what I can only describe as a Texas tribunal—a meeting with several parents, the principal, the music teacher, and me. Their complaint? Brace yourself: the program was too secular.

Now, keep in mind, this was Texas in the early 80s—where Santa, Jesus, and football all held equal rank in the state constitution. My principal gave me the kind of death stare that said, “Don’t even breathe, Rhoads.” Meanwhile, the music teacher had that smug little grin, the one she earned after I’d thrown a mild (okay, medium-sized) fit about her wanting to end the show with Christmas carols.

So, I sat there in holy silence, while my internal dialogue was doing backflips. “Too secular?” I thought. “What did they want instead? Me in a bathrobe, playing a shepherd riding zebras to the manger scene because the camels were on strike?”

And honestly—what would Mary and Joseph have thought? Probably something like, ‘This is why we can’t have nice things.’

Oh, and just when I thought we’d covered every absurd angle, one parent expressed deep concern over the “pro-union sentiment” in the play. (Because nothing says “War on Christmas” like collective bargaining among reindeer.)

At the time, I thought it was a one-off case of Texas style drama. Little did I know—it was just a preview of the educational circus to come.