A few weeks ago, an unexpected package appeared on my doorstep. My neighbor called me at work to say someone had been fiddling around my front door, slipping something under the welcome mat. When I got home, I found a small parcel addressed from someone in another state — and a name I didn’t recognize.

Two weeks earlier, I had broken my favorite coffee cup — a sock monkey mug given to me in 2020 by a first grader named Aiden. His mother told me he had stopped in the middle of a department store to insist his art teacher would love it. And he was right. I don’t think I’ve ever cherished a gift from a student so much.

As Aiden moved up through elementary school, I kept him updated: “I had my morning coffee in my sock monkey mug.” He was always amused when I dramatically declared, “If it ever breaks, I’ll pay $20. No — $100. Maybe even $500 to replace it!” When his younger sister became my student as well, she joined the running joke. Soon I was boasting, “I would pay $5,000 to replace my favorite mug!”

And then one morning, it slipped. It shattered — scattering a thousand tiny pieces across my polished concrete floor.

This mug had witnessed countless early mornings writing lessons for my young artists, long afternoons advocating for a non-verbal loved one with a chronic health condition, and late nights spent trying to balance school and life. It had become a steady reminder of a child’s joy and the small, surprising ways students leave a mark on a teacher’s life.

I posted a photo online of the broken mug alongside the coloring sheet I’d drawn years ago to thank Aiden. A few weeks later, that mysterious package appeared. As I opened it, my breath caught. Inside was not just a replacement mug — but two. A matching pair.

I asked friends and family. No one admitted to sending them — yet something about the gift felt intentional, gentle, and quietly magical.

That’s when I thought: maybe this was a Mrs. Claus moment.

Perhaps because my life has been shaped and lifted by so many generous women. My grade-school teacher, who once assured me that my sensitivity — which I saw as weakness — would become my greatest strength as an adult. The principal who hired and took a chance on me as a grad student at UCF, dreaming of exchanging the corporate boardroom for a classroom. The therapist who helped me recognize a toxic work environment, find the courage to walk away, and land squarely on my entrepreneurial feet. Women who give without being asked. Women whose intuition notices needs we never voice. Women who believe in kindness and somehow still embody a bit of magic.

It seems as though childlike wonder fades with age — that we outgrow seeing awe all around us. But the older I get, the more I know that’s not true. Love, generosity, and quiet acts of kindness haven’t vanished from our skeptical world. They’re what hold our communities together.

I don’t know how Mrs. Claus tracked down a pair of identical mugs in another state or arranged for them to be tucked under my welcome mat. The logistics don’t matter as much as the intention. The care. The reminder that quiet generosity is still bountiful and powerful. She’s as real as the unseen help that arrives right when we need it, and as steady as the folks who pave our way in small, yet extraordinary ways.

Yes, Virginia — and yes, Aiden — there’s also Mrs. Claus.

And thank God for her.

After 15 years in public education, Stuart Bogue of Winter Park now pours his energy into supporting homeschool students and recently registered as a Public Guardian.

https://www.orlandosentinel.com/2025/11/27/commentary-yes-virginia-theres-also-mrs-claus/