We Wish You a Merry Christmas

I just kind of sat there for a second, the air between The Question and I pregnant with a thousand thoughts and responses. It bore repeating.

"But what present is she getting from Santa?” 

I was talking with my MIL, coordinating gifts (which every parent of young children must do) so that no longed for prize goes unpurchased or, worse yet, gets double bought. And in the midst of who wants what, which color, what size she had asked this critical question that, to be honest, had never once entered my consciousness until that precise moment.

“What present is she getting from Santa?”

I have a lot of Christmas memories, most of them pleasant some of them not so much. I remember the year our crotchety old neighbor Mr. Bellfield knocked on our door Christmas morning to declare that a man in a red suit had come down their chimney and left a bunch of gifts at his house which, he believed, was a critical error on the part of the stranger’s GPS. He and his wife were retired, children all grown, so it must have been meant for us.

Us.

A blended family of 11, 8 children still at home and all under the age of 15. Us, whose breadwinner had been laid off when the logging company he worked for shut down earlier that year, leaving us incomeless while he went back to school to start all over. Us, whose stockings were filled with oranges and stale candy canes from the food pantry and whose Christmas meal was purchased with food stamps. Us, a family who (in my opinion) was far to embedded in the harsh reality of the here and now to be caught up in silly fantasies like Santa Claus.

I was 9 years old.

But you see, Santa figured big in my husband’s household as a child so now that we have two kiddos of our own, I find myself trying to figure out how to put it all together. I realize that I hold my children’s core memories in my hand and that supporting a sense of magic and wonder during this holiday season is a critical opportunity that includes the SERIOUS possibility of a misstep. Yes, my child, there IS a magical man in a red suit that flies around the world delivering presents on Christmas eve, and if you wish with all you might, he’ll bring you just what you ask for!

Well, YOU anyways.

I have never left a plate of cookies out for Santa. Never listened for the pitter patter of reindeer feet, or the magical jingle of Santa’s sleigh bells.  I knew exactly where my gifts came from, the layaway counter at Kmart or from the Angel tree at the mall. I knew that as I made my Christmas wish list, it would not be signed Tiziana. It would be signed “girl 9 years old, size SM, shoe size 5, needs school supplies and likes Michael Jackson”.  

And yet, here I am, in love with Jesus AND Christmas AND decorating the tree and all of the trappings because despite it all my mother and step-father ALSO loved Jesus and loved Christmas and did their absolute best to make it special for us. It was always a lovely holiday, one way or another. But it wasn’t lovely because of imaginary magic that we couldn’t see, it was lovely because of the very ordinary everyday magic that we made.

All of this ran through my mind in the 30 seconds it took for my MIL to ask the question once, and then twice. I mumbled some solution and got off the phone. But I’ve been thinking about this a good deal because A) It’s December 21st so I have 4 days to sort this out, and B) I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with the dude myself as of late, having just recorded a podcast episode all about him (shameless plug, go listen to it when it drops

December 24th).

You see, our beloved red-suited invention has roots in an equally beloved, very real, 3rd century bishop named St. Nicholas of Myra.  I learned this whilst researching for the episode and began to piece together a personal ethic that doesn’t do the “either or” that characterizes the fundamentalist approach to the Christmas holiday. The more I learned about St Nicholas and how the legends about him eventually coalesced into The Night Before Christmas tradition, the more I saw that his work was also rooted in what a real man or woman of God can do with their very real hands to defend, protect, uplift, restore.

There is a reason he is the patron saint of children ya’ll.

In my mind, “The Spirit of Christmas” is morphing into an amalgam of the Christmas stories told in the New Testament and the stories handed down over time of this St. Nicholas, whose miracles were wrought in Jesus’ name. The heart of God to manifest peace on earth and good will toward man, enacted through the flesh of a willing vessel. It’s an ethic that’s symbolized by our families’ reusable advent calendar whose little boxes are filled the day of by an over stimulated mom of two with ADHD who can often be found scrounging around the pantry during nap time for errand skittles or a few mini chocolate chips. It is the will of God to instill the sense of magic and wonder in my little ones, who look with longing at the advent calendar on a daily basis and ask “has the Spirit of Christmas come yet mama?” and that requires my willing hands. But there is also magic…

These boxes are tiny ya’ll, so “The Spirit of Christmas” has taken to sometimes leaving a little note folded up in the box with a riddle. Something like,

“Today the boxes were too small for your treat – look under your beds for something sweet”

The girls will squeal with delight and run to their bedrooms to find a lollipop or a packaged brownie under their beds. In this vein, I picked up a 3 pack of Santa shaped chocolates at Walgreens one day thinking it’d be a good opportunity for a fun riddle. That afternoon, literally THAT DAY, my eldest tried to share one of her 4 skittles from the Advent box with me. I smiled.

“Sweetheart, The Spirit of Christmas brought those gifts for YOU.”

“I know mama,” she says, “but I really want YOU to have a treat too. You didn’t get to have advent calendars when you were little”.

In a split second, the three Santa Claus figurines flashed through my mind. It was no accident they had caught my eye, sitting there in an isle overflowing with countless confections of every shape, size, and flavor.

“Well,” I replied,"maybe you can pray and ask the Spirit of Christmas to send mama something tomorrow”.

The slip of paper on the box the next day read, “You’re right, Aurora, mama deserves something too. Look under her pillow for a treat for all of you!”

In my child’s longing to share the magic with me, she had BECOME the Spirit of Christmas. Her own wishful prayer had manifested in the prompting of the Holy Spirit that day in the Walgreens. I had no idea the third Santa in the package was for me, but God knew. I had no idea that creating this advent calendar for my kids would wind up healing my own inner child, but God knew. I had no idea that the Santa Claus I never saw as child was there all along, in the wallets of strangers and the heartfelt empathy of our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Bellfield.   

My child morphed into an old white man in a red suit, right in front of my very eyes.

I still don’t know what, exactly, she will be getting from “Santa” this year, but one fact remains:

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

And it’s YOU.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.