Spreading the Spirit of Christmas

My sister sent me this story, and I thought it was a perfect example of how I continue to believe in Santa Claus. (I'd love to give proper credit, but she didn't know who wrote it originally.) I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

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I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.


I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb:
"There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns.
I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true. Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now put on your coat and let's go."


"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous, cinnamon bun.


"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.
"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. ?I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that, Bobby Decker didn't have a cough. What he didn't have was a coat.

I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.


"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.


"Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobby."


The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.


That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote on it, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus"


Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy.


Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.


Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.


Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.


Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering beside my Grandma in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were:


"Ridiculous".


Santa was alive and well, and we were a team.


I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95

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Believe.

Believe.

When did you stop believing in Santa Claus?

A few nights ago, my husband and I hunkered down on the couch to watch The Polar Express. He'd had a long week of work and I was still trying to get some sympathy for being siiiiiick. The Polar Express has become one of my favorites simply because it reminds me to always believe in the magic of Christmas.

My parents did an amazing job of  fostering my belief in Santa. Sometimes Santa came while we were at Christmas Eve Mass or at Christmas Eve parties, and his visit to our house while I was with my parents clearly meant that they couldn't be Santa, so Santa must exist. Santa also brought presents very quietly, like the time he moved an entire desk into my bedroom and wrapped it with Christmas lights. I've always been a light sleeper, so the fact that I didn't wake up indicated that some sort of Santa magic had been used (I still have no idea how they did that, and they don't remember doing it either...). And Santa often left evidence of his visit behind - a piece of his beard on the fireplace, footprints on the carpet, bells from his sleigh. There was always a little something to encourage my belief in Santa Claus.

I don't remember exactly when I stopped believing in Santa. I remember doubting for a while, and I remember asking my parents if Santa was real. They told me that Santa was based on Saint Nicholas and St. Nick had been real. They never confirmed or denied whether Santa existed, but I knew from their explanation that Santa wasn't real.

Even after I stopped believing in Santa, Santa continued to visit my house because I had younger sisters who believed. I think Santa's continued presence helped me through the tween and early teen years when so many of my friends lost their inner child and became cynical and self-centered. They didn't have to suspend reality and believe in Christmas magic and so they didn't. I continued to pretend to believe, for the sake of my sisters, and it made Christmas fun and helped me hold onto the childlike belief. But because I didn't give in to the cynicism, I was able to witness all the amazing things that were happening around me.

And then I started to believe again.

Oh, I know Santa isn't real. I believe in the spirit of Santa and the spirit of Saint Nicholas. I believe that God  gave us Jesus as a sign of unconditional love, that St. Nick emulated this act through his own form of giving, and that Santa represents yet another form of this generosity in a way that is accessible and understandable and imitable. I believe in unselfishness, kindness, and charity. I believe that dreams can come true and miracles can happen. And I think that these miracles happen because ordinary people become filled with the spirit of Santa Claus, and realize that they too can be generous and kind and charitable and loving.

Of course I believe in Santa Claus.

Anyway, I turned to my husband during the movie and asked him when he stopped believing in Santa. He responded seriously, "Stopped? Why would I stop believing in Santa?"

Just another reason my husband and I are perfect for each other.