Thursday, 23 December 2010 03:33
When I was a kid I was painfully aware that something made me different at Christmastime. It wasn't my nerdy thick plastic rimmed glasses or my side ponytail. It wasn't my hand-me-down tapered elastic leg jogging pants. It was that I knew "THE SECRET." I knew Santa wasn't real.
My parents were big-time Dobson fans at the time - following every word the good "Doctor" said. So when Santa was called in to be accountable for stealing the "real meaning of Christmas" and then cast out of Christian households across the United States, my parents followed suit. St. Nicholas was just a "story" at our home. And we were the smart, superior privledged children who knew so.
Looking back I realize that I was actually an obnoxious, pretentious, homeschooled snob that probably fits every stereotype in the book (see above nerd glasses/tapered jogging pants.) Where I thought I was an amazingly cool, talented, smart cookie - my peers probably regarded me as a stuck up know-it-all fun-hater. And I was. I was so intent on being a mini-adult that I looked down on what "kids" did. And I looked down on Santa.
Secretly though, I always felt like I got jipped a bit at Christmastime. Some of the magic of the Holiday season is wrapped around the story of a mysterious, magical, generous man. And I wished I could believe, wanted to believe, but still knew, deep down that the story wasn't logical, wasn't reasonable and didn't make sense.
Now, in adulthood, I realize that that is exactly what makes it so perfect. And exactly what makes it true. I believe now in Santa more than I did then. I believe in the gifts we give eachother, the secrets we keep as we try to give more or create the perfect memory. I believe in the magic of one man uniting a globe - a story where children no matter how poor, how rich, how smart or how insignificant are all greeted with joy one morning per year.
And I want to work to make it true. Because the logical, reasonable side of me knows that not every child wakes up to gifts under a tree or in a stocking. Some wake up to fists against faces or icy wind on their backs. And some wake up with empty bellies and hollow eyes. And if we forget these "least" among us, we have forgotten what Christmas is all about.
If I were a stuck-up snobbish homeschooler, I might snub my nose and say "magic isn't real" and move on. But I'm just a shell of the person I once was - now humbled, honest, and trying to understand how magic can be both real for me and a myth for others. And I want to make the magic mean something more to someone more. This year I don't just want to be sanctified - I want to be Santafied. To find ways to reach out as a "saint" to those in need. And on Christmas Eve as I stand in the Cathedral for a solemn, joy-filled mass I want to remember that Christmas means Christ-more. And in that "more" Santa can be found. Can you?
