The Second Chance

By Christopher Criss

How a childhood mistake shaped my life as a collector, creator, and storyteller.

One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor as a little kid while my mom handed me two action figures: Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader. I was probably six years old. To most people they were just toys, but to me they were something more. They were stories I could hold in my hands.

Looking back, those two figures started a lifelong love affair with collecting.

As I got older, I became fascinated with comics, action figures, trading cards, and just about anything connected to the worlds I loved. Star Wars. G.I. Joe. Masters of the Universe. Superheroes. Monsters. If it came with a story, I wanted it.
The problem was that I grew up poor.

There were a lot of things I wanted but couldn't afford. Worse, at an early age, I was taught by members of my family how to steal. It wasn't presented as something shocking or extraordinary. It was simply one of the ways people got things they couldn't buy.

So I stole.

I stole comics.

I stole toys.

I stole action figures.

And for a long time, I got away with it.

I was good at it.

I even had rules.

The most important rule was simple:

Never stop to look at what you took.

Get out.

Go home.

Then open it.

That rule worked for years.

Until one day I broke it.

I was around thirteen years old and had just taken several G.I. Joe figures and some Lego from Walmart. Everything had gone according to plan. I made it outside the store.

Then, for reasons I still don't fully understand, I sat down on a bench right outside the entrance.

The bench faced the doors.

People inside the store could see me.

I could see them.

And right there, in plain sight, I started opening the packages.

To this day, I don't know why.

Part of me wonders if I was tired of carrying the secret. Part of me wonders if, deep down, some part of me wanted to get caught.
Whatever the reason, I sat there opening toys when I noticed a woman walking straight toward me.

I knew immediately who she was.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't yelling.

She simply walked directly toward me.

I didn't get up.

I didn't run.

I just sat there and waited.

When she reached me, she asked a question I already knew the answer to.

"Did you pay for those?"

"No."

She asked me to come with her, and I did.

She took me back into the store and into an office.

What happened next surprised me.

She wasn't cruel.

She wasn't angry.

She didn't humiliate me.

Instead, she talked to me.

She explained what I'd done.

She told me I was banned from Walmart.

Then she released me into the custody of my mom's boyfriend, Roy.

Roy was one of the good people in my life.

He could have yelled.

He could have threatened me.

He could have made the situation much worse.

Instead, he talked to me.

He listened.

He gave me advice.

He made me think about what I had done and why it mattered.

Most importantly, he talked to my mom.

In the end, I was never punished.

That doesn't mean I got away with it.

I didn't.

I knew exactly how serious what I had done was. I knew I deserved consequences, and I would have accepted them.

A few months later, I went back into Walmart.

I was nervous.

Technically, I wasn't supposed to be there.

As I walked through the store, I ran into the same woman who had caught me.

My stomach tightened.

I expected her to tell me to leave.

I expected another lecture.

Instead, she smiled and asked how I was doing.

Then she told me something I have never forgotten.

She said she didn't mind me being in the store as long as I wasn't stealing anything.

That was it.

No anger.

No judgment.

No reminder of what I had done.

Just the simple expectation that I could be better than my mistake.

Looking back now, I realize that the most important thing wasn't getting caught.

It was what happened afterward.

The woman at Walmart held me accountable for my actions.

Roy helped me understand them.

Neither one excused what I had done.

Neither one pretended it wasn't serious.

But neither one chose to define me by it either.

And that's what stayed with me.

I often think that if the situation had played out differently, I might have learned a very different lesson.

Punishment might have taught me fear.

Humiliation might have taught me resentment.

Instead, I learned accountability.

And I learned grace.

The lesson wasn't that actions don't have consequences.

The lesson was that a mistake doesn't have to become your identity.

I never stole toys again.

Instead, if I wanted something, I found a way to earn it.

If I couldn't afford it, I waited.

If I still couldn't afford it, I simply didn't buy it.

Over the years, I built a collection the right way.

Comic books.

Action figures.

Autographs.

Movie memorabilia.

Collectibles of every kind.

What started with Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader eventually became a collection built over a lifetime.

But what matters most isn't the collection itself.

What matters is the journey.

The poor kid who stole toys because he couldn't afford them became a collector.

A storyteller.

A filmmaker.

A creator.

Today, I sometimes buy toys in bulk just so I can give them away.

When I see a child light up over an action figure, I remember exactly how it felt when my mom brought home those first Star Wars figures.

The circle comes back around.

One of my dreams is to create a charity in my mother's honor. Right now I call it Connie's Fund, though that may not be the final name.

My mother spent part of her life involved in the Foster Grandparents Program, helping children and families. I think she would appreciate the idea.

The little boy who stole toys because he wanted them so badly grew into a man who wants to give them away.

Funny how life works.

Today, when I look at my collection, I don't just see toys.

I see stories.

I see memories.

I see lessons.

And I see proof that a single act of kindness, offered at exactly the right moment, can change a life.

The difference between the boy sitting on that bench outside Walmart and the man writing these words isn't the toys he collected.

It's the grace he was shown after making a mistake.

And I've spent the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it.

- Christopher Criss