I Still Believe in Christmas

Faith.

One year on Christmas Eve I left some cookies and milk out for Santa Claus. A cliche, I know, but in many ways I was a typical little American kid in the early Sixties. The next morning the glass was empty and half the cookies gone. A note had been left thanking me. The handwriting was the same as my father’s. My immediate conclusion was not that my father had written the thank you note and that thus Santa had not visited and was not real, but that I should be proud that my father and Santa had smiliar handwriting.

I held out in my belief in Santa far longer than your average child. It was too delicious and fantastic an idea to let go of. Was my wild and vivid imagination at the root of my firm belief that Santa existed? Did I need the magic of Santa to offset the unspoken horror of my mother’s mental tribulations? I’ve spent much of my life denying reality — invariably to my own detriment, but clinging to Santa seems in retrospect to have been a wise move. 

One year in elementary school (I don’t remember what grade I was in) our teacher asked how many of us believed in Santa Claus (those were not the secular school days of today, indeed we had a Christmas tree in our classroom — as did everyone else). It was a terribly impertinent question suggesting as it did that Santa Claus’s existence was not an established fact but a matter of conjecture. I, of course, raised my hand expecting that it would be one of a sea of hands. Alas, mine was the only male hand raised. It was joined by three or four girls. (It should be noted that I was a year younger than most everyone in my grade.)  I was shocked and disappointed but remained unshaken. Yes, a part of me realized that the jig was up and Santa was no more real than the tooth fairy or Easter Bunny (who I hadn’t given much credence to since I was about five) but I determined to maintain my belief. I was not going to allow reality to interfere with a good story. It was probably another year before I admitted to myself that there was no person headquartered in the North Pole who delivered toys all over the world every December 24th.

When I had children of my own I made great efforts to cultivate a love of Christmas and a belief in Santa Claus in them (admittedly an easy chore with tykes). As it has become widely known that Santa resides not in the North Pole but in Northern Finland (I am of Finnish parentage) it was also easy for them to accept that my father was an old friend of Santa’s (Joulupukki in Finnish) and that I thus had a direct line to the great man.

I have not yet been blessed with grandchildren but have seven great nieces and nephews who I am close to. All but the oldest are still believers and I take great joy in experiencing Christmas — and particularly Joulupukki’s visit on Christmas Eve — through their eyes and hearts. What excitement that this magical being visits and bestows gifts!

Christmas is colorful. It’s the one time of year that we have a tree and decorations in our home and listen to music — much of it jaunty and cheerful — unique to that time of year. It’s therefore a special time of year when families gather, eat heartily and exchange gifts. What a wonderful break from the rest of the year. I try to keep it in my heart (as the reformed Scrooge did) all year round -- no mean feat.

I believe in it.