One Last Christmas

“Daddy.  There’s no such thing as Santa Claus, you know.”

That matter-of-fact statement stung me like an icy, winter wind.  It had no place in the warmth of the summer sun.

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked my daughter Noel.  She had just said good-bye to the last of her friends after her eighth birthday party.  It was a beautiful August day, perfect for friends and fun, games and gifts, and, of course, cake and ice cream.  Noel was now officially eight, well into the “age of reason.”

“Well, what I mean is – there’s no such person as Santa.  He’s just made up.  That’s all.  It’s no big deal Daddy.  I am eight now, you know.  I can handle it.”

“But…but…but…what brought this up?  Where did this idea come from?” I sputtered.

The look on my face must have said more than my words.  The next thing Noel said to me was, “Don’t cry, Daddy.  It really is OK.”  She went on to explain, “Kristen told me.  And Jennifer.  Even Michelle.  They told me at my party.  They said now that I’m eight, I’m old enough to know.  They said that Santa’s for babies and that parents really buy the presents.  And sometimes Grandmas and Grandpas – and everybody.”

My expression was unchanged.  My face continued to say more than any words I could speak.

Noel continued, “You must have known, didn’t you, Daddy?  Santa is for little kids.  I’m bigger now.  I really don’t need to believe in him anymore.”

I was shocked. Dumbfounded.  Crushed.  Saddened to my very core.  Mom and I knew that our baby was growing up.  We knew that she would “learn” things we did not want her to hear.  But I had always hoped that we would be able to soften some of the blows that her new knowledge might bring.  Now, it seemed, it was I who was unprepared, who needed something to soften the blow. There was some small comfort in knowing that Noel had not been told “the truth” by her older brother or sister.  But that comfort was disturbed by her last statement.  “I really don’t need to believe in him anymore.”  That was just too much.  Much too much.

Our family was a “Christmas Family.”  We loved Christmas.  We held traditions.  We knew Santa Claus very well.  He was an important part of our celebrations.  I was not ready to give him up, and I did not want my family to give him up either.  I believed in him.  I had known him all my life.  He was a part of Christmas.  My Christmas.  My family’s Christmas.  Everybody’s Christmas.  I didn’t care what the big kids said; I knew that we needed him!

Now, some well-meaning, older and wiser children were trying to take him away. Something of beauty and wonder was being lost, evaporating in the heat of a summer afternoon.  Melting like forgotten ice-cream left in the sun.

Drastic measures were called for.  We needed help.  And fast.

“I have an idea,” I said. “I’m going to write a letter to Santa.  Today.  Just to see what happens.  I don’t know about you, but I’d sure feel better if I did that.  You want to help me?”

“A letter?  To Santa? But, Daddy,” Noel replied, “It’s August.  Where would we send it?  What would we say?”

Noel’s mild protest gave me hope.  There was still a spark of belief.

“What will we say?  I’m not sure.  But we can work on it together – and I guess we just send it to the North Pole, as usual.”

So that’s just what we did.  With Noel’s help, I wrote:

August

Dear Santa,

Good afternoon.  Remember us?  You’ve been coming to our house for a long time.

It’s a beautiful summer day here.  I’ll bet it’s a pretty busy time for you, though, getting all those toys ready for Christmas in a few months.  Do you have any time off?

I am writing this letter because we have a problem and I need your advice.  My daughter Noel has just turned eight.  She’s at that ago, you know.  Well, her older and wiser friends are telling her the ‘truth’ about the world – and about you, if you know what I mean.  After she said that she didn’t believe in you anymore, she even said that she didn’t need you anymore, but I don’t believe that. I know this is part of life, but I’m not ready for that to happen yet, and I don’t think she is either She really wants to hear from you.  In a way, it’s very sad, but there is still hope.

Her mom and I are not sure what to say or do.  We still have some time before Christmas. Can you help us? 

Thank you,

Mike

Noel prepared an envelope using the same North Pole address we had used for years and years of Christmas letters.  Together we dropped it in a mailbox.  To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect, but at least I’d bought some more time to think.

One day, not too long after, a reply came.  It was addressed to me in longhand and postmarked from the North Pole.  In amazement, I opened the envelope, looked at the beautiful, flowing handwriting and read:

September

Dear Mike,

Thank you for your letter.  Of course I remember you.  You were one of those kids who never paid much attention to your “older and wiser” friends when they tried to tell you the “truth.”  I always liked that in you.  You held your own truth, the one that came from your heart.

You know, you already have the answer you want from me.  It’s still there in your heart.  Look back and listen.  One day, the moment will come when you can pass your truth on to Noel.

Until that day comes, be patient.  And listen.

Peace and joy,

Santa

The answer is already here.  Wait and listen.  Easy to say; hard to do.  Time was passing.

Golden summer cooled into tawny autumn.  Carefree vacation days gave way to school bells.  Tanned cheeks turned ruddy in nippy breezes.  September slipped into October and the talk was all of Halloween.

I listened intently – but heard nothing.  Then one day…

“Daddy, do you believe in ghosts?” Noel asked one gusty Saturday as we gathered fallen leaves into soft brown piles. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied, playing into the spirit of the season.  “I guess I’d probably say no  –  but around this time of year…I’m not so sure.  Can’t be too careful, you know.”

I thought I’d answered with just the right suggestion of mystery – but Noel’s next question caught me by surprise.

“But Daddy, how come you don’t believe in ghosts?  You believe in Santa. We can’t see ghosts and we’ve never seen Santa.  How come you do believe in one, but you don’t believe in the other?  Do you really think there’s a Santa Claus?”

Aha!  The words in the letter from Santa sprang to my mind.  Was this what I had been listening for?  Could I now pull the answer from my heart?  I had to try.

“Well, Sweetie, let me tell you this.  I don’t know any ghosts.  I’ve never seen or talked to any ghosts.  I’ve never written a letter to a ghost.  And I don’t really want to believe in ghosts.

But Santa is different.  I know him.  I have known him for years.  I’ve talked to him; I have written to him.  In my heart, I believe in him.  And in my heart, I don’t just think there’s a Santa Claus, I know it.”

“But Daddy, what about the presents and the chimney and the reindeer and all that.  Santa doesn’t go to everybody’s house.  He didn’t go to Kristen’s last year.  Kristen said they opened all their presents on Christmas Eve and there was nothing left in the morning.”

There was courage in her voice which pleaded for the right answer. There was also sadness in her voice as she continued, “And Michelle said that she knows it’s all moms and dads because she found lots of presents hidden in her attic and then her mom and dad said Santa brought them.  And Jennifer stayed up all night and nobody came.  And….”

“Hold it!” I interrupted.  “This is getting serious.  You know, if you want to find out the truth, why don’t you write your own letter to Santa and get the answers straight from him. Do you want to do that?”

“You mean now?” Noel asked.  “It’s not time yet.  I mean, what would I say? Do you think Santa would answer me the way he answered you?”

That spark of hope again.

“Noel, you just ask Santa anything you want.  We’ll mail your letter just like we mailed mine last summer.  I’m sure he’ll answer you.  I have a lot of faith in him, you know.”

It didn’t take any more encouragement for Noel to compose her letter.  I wrote down her words as fast as I could as they flowed out.

October

Dear Santa,

Hi.  My daddy said for me to write to you.  My daddy says he believes in you, but I think that’s what daddies are supposed to say because they want us kids to believe in people like you.

Is it Ok if I ask you some things?  I don’t want to sound mean or anything, but are you really real?  My friends told me that you’re not.  They said it’s really mommies and daddies who do all the Christmas stuff.  They said that moms and dads buy all the presents and hide them in the house til Christmas.  And then they put the stuff under the tree when us kids go to sleep.  Sara even sneaked out and saw her mom and dad do it.

I really want to believe in you, but the things they said sounded for true. 

And how can you get all over the world in just one night.  Do you really go to every house?  And if kids get presents anyway, why do they need to believe in you?

If you are really real, can you come to our house just one more Christmas?  And can I see you and talk to you just once – this last Christmas?  Please. I really need to know.  Will you answer me soon?

Love,
Noel

We addressed this letter as we had addressed the earlier one.  We dropped it in the same mailbox.  I don’t know which one of us was more anxious about getting yet another reply from the North Pole.

Once Halloween is over, autumn inched ever closer to winter.  Frosty mornings sparkled. Snow threatened.  The holidays approached.  Temperatures dropped; spirits rose. Everyone knew that Christmas was on the way. 

Shortly before Thanksgiving, mixed among the early catalogs, a letter arrived.  In the beautiful, now-familiar handwriting, it was addressed to Noel and postmarked, again, from the North Pole. Mom put it next to Noel’s plate on the dinner table and told the other kids not to touch it.

Later, when it was quiet, Noel and I opened this new letter and read it.

November

Dear Noel,

Thank you for your letter.  Actually, I get quite a few letters from children asking me the same things you asked.  I’m afraid that many of those children do not believe in me when they write, though.  They just want to see what will happen if they do write.

I must tell you something right away.  I really did not intend to come to your house this Christmas.  It is important for you to know that – and to know why.  Please do not think that it’s because I am angry at your questions or that I think you have not been good.  It is nothing like that. 

You see, it’s just that there are so many children – so very many little ones.  More and more every year.  There comes a time when I have to stop visiting some of my “old” friends so that I can begin to visit my new ones.  Even with all the joyful magic of Christmas, one night is still just one night!

That’s when moms and dads, brothers and sisters, grandmas and grandpas even, begin to help me out more and more in homes like yours.

But that does not mean that I’m not real – or even that I don’t know what you’ve asked for.  You see, I still do keep track of all my children, whatever their ages.  I even know what your parents want.  They were children once, too, you know.

Some of those parents remember their own childhoods and their own Christmases better than others.  They are the ones who keep me “alive” in their homes.  Others forget.  Sadly, they are the ones who hide gifts where children can find them.  They’re the ones who forget to have their children write to me.  And they are the ones who don’t have any answers when the older and wiser children begin to tell “the truth.”

There’s an old saying that goes, “There are none so blind as those who will not see.”  It’s not with eyes alone that a person sees.  It’s also with the heart.  When a parent loses sight of the Spirit of Christmas, the loss is contagious.  It spreads through a family like a bad cold.  I am afraid this is what has happened to some of your friends. 

They can’t “see” me because they won’t see me.  They begin to try to explain me away as a fairy tale, a children’s fantasy.  I become something unneeded as they grow older.  Sadly for them, the Christmas Spirit slowly fades until one day, they’re old – and the spirit is gone.  For them, Christmas becomes just a lot of extra work.  It is very sad to watch.  I am afraid that for some of your friends, this may be starting already.

But in your heart, I see that you still want to believe – to keep the eyes of your heart wide open.  You need to believe in me to keep the spirit of Christmas alive.  Even if for just a little longer.

So, Noel, to answer your request, yes, I will visit you on Christmas Eve.  One last time.  We will talk and you will know that I am real.  And one day, perhaps, when your own little ones come to you as you went to your dad, you will help them to see.  And you’ll keep the spirit and the magic alive for them, too.

Rest assured that I will come.

Joyfully,

Santa

Noel and I read the letter from Santa several times.  Mom and I read it several more times after the children were all tucked into bed.  The letter was wonderful; the promise to visit was incredible.  Noel was thrilled.  Mom and I were – well, we were remarkably calm.

Thanksgiving came.  December followed crisply behind, and the holiday season wrapped us in a flurry of activities.  There was a sense of anticipation unlike any in years past.  There was truly magic in the air.

Of the many traditions which we hold around Christmas, the setting of the manger is first. Just after Thanksgiving, we place an empty creche on the mantle. Over the next few weeks, all the nativity figures are arranged in their proper place in and around it.  All, that is, but the Baby Jesus.  Baby Jesus waits on the hearth until Christmas Eve.  Santa places Him in the manger as the first gift of Christmas.  But once the creche is put out, Christmas can start.

As always, candles filled the air with fragrance; carols filled the air with music.  Cards filled our mailbox, and catalogs filled the children’s heads with ideas! Our tree was bigger, our wreath fuller, our cupboards stocked higher than ever.   There was eggnog for everyone who came to the door.

Presents arrived in the mail from family and friends.  Stockings were hung.  Cards were written and sent.

For Noel and for me, the days passed ever more slowly as we got closer to Christmas Eve.  Anticipation had slowed the clock.  This year, it seemed like time, itself, was waiting. 

Finally, it was December 24. 

Our final Christmas Eve traditions were just about complete. Toward evening, Noel, her brother and sister prepared Santa’s tray – slices of Mom’s homemade fruitcake and a cup of eggnog so he wouldn’t be hungry, a nip of brandy so he wouldn’t be cold.  Carrots and celery for the reindeer. With a wink toward me, they placed it on the hearth along with the figure of Baby Jesus. And this year, a note:

Dear Santa, I’ll be waiting, Love, Noel.

Before bed, each of the children was allowed to open one of the presents which had been sent from family far away.

Finally, Noel bathed, brushed her teeth and combed her hair.  She straightened her blankets and fluffed her pillows.  Her brother and sister did the same, and soon everyone was climbing into bed.  Mom and I tucked them in and kissed them all good-night.

Mom and I then finished our own preparations and got into bed. The house became quiet.  Everyone gentled into a sugarplum sleep.

As always on Christmas Eve, one candle still flickered in the living room window.  “It lights the way for Mary and Joseph,” Grandma always said.

Somewhere in the night, through the soft silence of dreams, Noel first heard the voice gently calling her name.

“Noel! Noel…” the voice whispered warmly, “I’m here.  I’ve come to wish you all the joy of Christmas.”

Noel stirred in her sleep.  She heard the voice again and smiled.

“Noel,” the voice continued,  “I’ve come to see you just like I said I would.  I’ve come to pass the spirit of Christmas on to you.”

A toss.  A gentle turn. A half-open eye. And there in the snow-silver moonlight, Noel saw him. She saw him not only with her eyes alone, but with her very heart.  Kris Kringle!  Saint Nicholas!  Father Christmas!  Santa Claus!

“Santa?” she whispered in her half-sleep, afraid to speak too loudly lest she break the magic.  “Is it really you?  Is it really?  I knew you’d come.  I knew it!”

“Yes, Noel, it’s me.  I’ve come just as I said I would.  And now, my gift to you: from this moment on, you are one of the special few chosen to carry the true spirit of Christmas.  It’s a big responsibility, you know.  But I have faith in you.  I believe in you.  You are a gift to me!  May you always share the joy of Christmas.  Oh, by the way, I have a little job for you in the morning. It’s your first gift.”

“Thank you, Santa.  Thank you so much for coming.”

“It is really I who should thank you, Noel, for keeping the spirit alive. And thank you, too, for the treats.  They were delicious!  I must be going now.  Merry Christmas, Noel.”

“Merry Christmas, Santa.  I love you.” Santa bent over, gently touched Noel’s hand as he kissed her cheek and was gone.

In the morning, Mom and I were surprised not to be awakened before the crack of dawn.  The older children had learned to sleep in and wait for their little sister to come wake them on Christmas morning.

“It’s awfully quiet,” said Mom.

“It sure is,” I agreed.  “We’d better go check on the kids.”

After finding the other children still asleep, we went to Noel’s room and to our surprise, found her still snug in her bed, a dreamy smile on her face.

“Wake up, Sweetie,” I nudged.  “It’s Christmas!  “Let’s go see if Santa was here.”

As we began to hear the two older kids stir in their rooms, Noel opened her eyes, yawned and gave each of us a big hug, the warmth of her blankets lingering on her arms.

“Come on, Sweetie.  Let’s go see if Santa was here, “I urged again.

She smiled and said in a voice much wiser than the one she had gone to sleep with, “It’s OK, Daddy.  There’s no rush.  Santa was here.”

Mom and I looked at one another, sharing a silent message of relief.  We said nothing.  We had heard nothing during the night.  But Noel was so calm, so convinced. “He really was.  He was here!  And now it’s Christmas.”

Innocence maintained.

“I guess her sugarplum dreams did their magic,” I whispered to Mom.

Mom went on to check on the other kids while I waited for Noel.

After another yawn and a big stretch, Noel got up and looked for her robe, ready to go open her gifts.

She was about to take my hand when she stopped for a moment.  She looked down at her bed.  She giggled to herself and said something I could not hear. 

She reached down and brushed bits of fruitcake from her blanket and pillow with one hand.  As she did, I noticed our tiny porcelain Baby Jesus in the other.  The first gift of Christmas. 

“OK, Daddy, let’s go!” she said.  “And Daddy…

Merry Christmas!”