Here comes Santa Claus...

If you ask me today if I believe in Santa Claus, my response would probably surprise you. Though the demographic of believers mostly consists of children ages 2-10 years old, I don't mind being counted among their number. I am on the downhill side of 36 years, but the sparks of old childlike wonder still burn deep in my memory, and with all the confidence of someone who does math in pen, I declare "I BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS!"

Let me clarify: I don't necessarily believe in the time-bending, globetrotting, magical, snow-bearded elf in the red suit. I do, however, subscribe to the extraordinary spirit of Santa, an ideology rooted in the magic of my thirty-six Christmases past.

Christmases of my childhood read like a Sears Wish Book: the tree, the lights, the stockings, the sweaters, the cookies, and, of course, the Big Man himself. Remember in the movie A Christmas Story how Ralphie, hellbent on getting a Red Ryder Carbine-action 200-shot Range Model Air Rifle for Christmas, writes his letter to Santa, but in an effort to ensure his request is heard, begs his parents to take him to see Santa at Higbee's Department Store? Well, that's somewhat how my image of Santa began: My parents loading me into the car, dressed in a festive, handmade outfit that my mother had sewn, and making the drive to Towne Center Mall, where Santa had established a miniature winter wonderland for the purpose of sitting with children from the metro Atlanta area to hear about their Christmas wishes and to snap a keepsake photo for the family scrapbook. I remember the early outings of this sort happening with a large group of my parents' friends, most of whom were the families of the high school football coaching staff of which my father was a part. But after a few years, this became solely a family tradition. Nevertheless, we would stand in the circuitous line for what seemed hours on end, until at last we were ushered by a jolly, albeit rather tall, elf to the ornate throne upon which Santa sat waiting to be apprised of my Christmas list.

My belief was further cultivated by the beloved Clement C. Moore poem "A Visit from Saint Nicholas," which my mother read every Christmas Eve just before helping me to set out treats for Santa and his reindeer. Christmas morning always dawned with the magical discovery that the cookies and eggnog were gone and the carrots and peppers (the preferred snack of reindeer, according to Santa) had been munched on. And there was always a thank you note, signed "Mr. C," beside the cookie plate. On top of that, gifts that had not been accounted for the night before had suddenly appeared under the tree, and the stockings that had hung empty above the fireplace were now busting at the seams with goodies. There was no doubt in my young mind that Santa Claus was as real as my mother and father, and that image was further defined by the letters I received from the North Pole every year at the beginning of December.

They were simple letters, notes of recognition of my valiant efforts to "be good" the whole year through, reminders of his unseen observations. As I grew older, and my writing skills developed, the letters evolved into more personal correspondence: I was apprised of the goings on of the elves and the reindeer and Mrs. Claus, and Santa always seemed to know the details of my victories (and shortcomings) at school and at home. When my little sister came along, she, too, received letters from Mr. C., and the holiday season became even more exciting because I now had someone else with whom I could share this experience. Despite heated debates at school with my classmates about the legitimacy of Santa's existence, I could not be swayed from my sincere belief (much like Linus and the Great Pumpkin). I had my letters, and that was enough. Though they are now tucked carefully into my mother's hope chest, their yellowing pages still tingling with Christmas magic, the enchantment of Santa Claus transcended those letters.

When my little sister was of an age to fully appreciate the wonder of Christmas, Santa began making house calls. Usually, these visits from St. Nicholas occurred about a week or so before December 25th. After supper, my sister and I would have our baths and don our matching Christmas pjs before settling in front of the Christmas tree to listen to our mother read one of the many Christmas books we had. In the middle of the story, there would come a knock at the front door. Imagine our shock, when we opened the door, to see Santa Claus standing on our front porch! The first time he paid us a visit, I was too stunned to speak, which was a shock to my family given my gregarious proclivities as a child. He'd come inside and seat himself on our sofa, my sister and I on either side, and after an exchange of pleasantries, Santa would reach into his big red bag and pull out our letters! He even had a few early Christmas goodies stashed away for us: usually, a small toy and a sweet treat. He never stayed for a long time, and when he departed, we always tried to see if we could catch a glimpse of his sleigh, but he always disappeared without a trace! But we knew he'd be back in just a few, excruciatingly long days.

In the days leading up to Christmas Eve, we'd bake cookies and make all sorts of treats that my mother would spread out on the card table for everyone to snack on. When December 24th finally arrived, my sister and I, like many children around the world, could not contain our excitement, and we spent the day wishing for the time to speed by (much to our chagrin, it did not). Family members would arrive throughout the day, and my mother would spend the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal (usually a hearty soup and homemade bread). After an early dinner, the family would head to church for the candlelight service. This was always the most peaceful part of the holidays, and now that I am (much) older, I have a deeper appreciation for the quiet hymns and the soft glow of candlelight. But back then, we sat as still as we could, but our insides squirmed with anticipation of the night to come and the day that followed. So, as soon as the last strains of "Silent Night" echoed into the chilly night sky, we were itching to get home and ready ourselves for bed (because everyone knows that the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa will stop at your house).

Once we had donned our pajamas and brushed our teeth, we would trundle back down the stairs to the living room where my mother would read "A Visit From Saint Nicholas" and my father would read the Christmas story from the gospel of Luke. We would plate some cookies and pour some eggnog for Santa and set out a tray of carrots and peppers for the reindeer. Though we longed to stay up with the adults to watch movies, we were always driven to our beds by a single sound: the ringing of sleighbells. It never failed that the clear, tinny jingling would pass the house two or three times, signaling to my sister and me that Santa was near. We'd race to bed, hearts exhilarated with what we knew awaited us in just a few short hours. It was always a herculean task to fall asleep given the anticipation of the night, and melatonin was not en vogue back then. Sleep eventually found us, and the hours passed much more quickly as we slept.

While my childhood self was indeed wrapped up (pun intended) in the toys and gifts, I now reflect on those Christmases with deeper introspection. The magic of those days long gone was crafted from an unfathomable love that, until very recently, I had not yet known as an adult: the love of a parent for their child. This year, my 12-year old stepdaughter received a letter from Santa, like those of my childhood. I watched with a knowing joy as she read the letter, the skepticism of her generation fading with each line to be quickly replaced with the same wonder that filled my own heart. As I watched, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, not from nostalgia alone, but from the profound realization of what it means to give magic to someone else. It wasn’t just the words in the letters or the gifts under the tree—it was the quiet, unspoken nurturing of belief, the guarding of her innocence, even for just one more year, creating moments that would linger in her memory long after the wrapping paper was gone.