Santa, revealed

A wide-eyed girl, asking pointed questions in the backseat. Trusting, completely, that my answer is truth~ that my answer is solid, good and right. Earnest and intent upon my words, she sits waiting. No doubt enters her mind at all that I will lead her astray~ for what I say is how it is-plain and simple.

Children retrieve in their minds what you first put there. Being a parent is a powerful thing. We are, in essence, brainwashers. Children never doubt you-only trust and believe. We can learn much from them, and for these reasons are called to be like them.

The power I hold in my hands; the dark eyes peering at me with absolute trust makes me waver.

Santa Claus.

As a child, I LOVED to believe in Santa Claus. Nothing thickened the air with anticipation as that jolly elf did, nothing could compare to the lying awake in hopes of hearing a tinkling upon the roof. I adored Santa Claus~and even when I realized that he wasn't real, I was thankful for the magic and wonderment that was added to the season because of his story. I *still* like to think of it.

So naturally, I enjoyed the play along with my own children. I never had to lie because the story was fed through books, sights, and all other manner of media and the children were too small to contemplate the truth of it. After all, isn't the story of Santa Claus the very same thing as reading a story about a talking pig? or a gnome and sprite filled forest?

But now. NOW. I have a five year old, asking me when Santa sleeps. How he knows when she is good? and all other manner of trivia. Before, those questions were answered with "How do YOU think he does it?" or "The story goes..." But now, girlchild who is growing up too fast, is not satisfied with those answers. Girlchild says "I know what the STORY says, but I want to know the TRUTH." And the word lingers in the air. She doesn't want to know the truth. I know her heart like my own, and know that she will be devastated when she hears it. But she deserves to hear it, true? Her insistence on "the truth" bites me. Truth is not a relative term. It simply is...or isn't.

Those same wide eyes ask me about Jesus. God. Heaven and hell. That same trusting heart yearns for answers and seeks them from me, wholly believing and trusting that I will guide and direct her in truth. And I have, and I do.

But I don't WANT to tell her the truth. I don't WANT to take away that childlike anticipation and excitement. I don't want her to be sad. Not to mention, to admit there is no Santa Claus will have me mourning my own magical, awe-filled childhood and her lack of it.

But how can one expect a child to believe you, unquestioningly, when they realize that you have lied about other things? If there is no Santa, who is to say you've been lying all along about Jesus too? Oh-it would break my heart-SHATTER IT-if doubt were to arise in the hearts of my children because of a silly seasonal tradition!

I go to bed, wondering, pondering my next move. I don't WANT to take Santa away from her sweet childlike imagination. But is the risk too great?

~~~~~~~

The next day, headlines are read at the dinner table. Newsprint comes to life as I read the words stamped coldly on inner pages of paper. A post-Black Friday horror story..sandwiched between Football players and glib editorials. A Walmart employee trampled-TO DEATH-by 2,000 Black Friday shoppers. 2,000 people acting more like elephants than humans, idolizing material goods more than people. A VCR, on sale cheap more valuable than human life. This is true for a stampede of two THOUSAND people. Not a single Samaritan in the bunch.

My heart drops to the floor as I read the words, and try to absorb them. My throat constricts in madness and deep grief. Oh GOD, how wicked a people we are! I am livid and filled with despair at the same time. What is WRONG with this nation? I know what is wrong-Sin. Yet-the perverseness of it still surprises me at times. The ugliness. The evil of it all. I want to shield my eyes and see only my sweet suckling babe, or my twinkly eyed loves.

What's worse? This news; horrible, tragic news isn't as important as a football player shooting his own foot by mistake, and takes a backseat to the commemorative Barack Obama paraphanalia now available. It isn't frontpage...it isn't "TAKE A LOOK AT YOURSELVES, people!" It isn't as newsworthy as the rest. It doesn't seem at all shocking.

We are on the brink of economic collapse and still, people are ravishing for 'stuff'. Meaningless STUFF. We don't think twice about killing our babies-yet stand picketing the rights of animals. Our children have Christmas wishlists that are longer than grocery receipts and we laugh, while we encourage their greed. Teenagers spend Thanksgiving curled in a chair listening to Ipods while great grandmothers sit alone, mouths silent of stories past. Togetherness means nothing because Miss Spoiled doesn't get a kitty. We worry more about flat-screened TV's or cellphones than we do the investment of time in the family.

Suddenly, I am sick. Sick with my own dizzying thoughts.

Where is He in all of this?

He is far FAR from this story. Forgotten. Abandoned.


And suddenly, it seems far easier for me to separate myself from this Santa Claus story, this tradition of the world.

I want to reject EVERYTHING that the herd of Walmart shoppers valued.

I REJECT the lists of WANTS. Shouldn't we be thinking of what we have already received, that victorious day so long ago and each day of our lives?

I REJECT trying to buy the love of others, or share my own love on the wings of coin and paper. The investment of time is the only one I choose to depend upon. Present economic state notwithstanding.

I REJECT the hustle and bustle in a time that ought to be quiet. A time that ought to be rejoicing in remembrance. Thankful in contemplation. Joyous in its stillness.

I REJECT the ignorance I give to my children when I tell them that "something" comes from "nothing". I want my children to understand that what they are given has VALUE. Value from the hardworking hands of Papa and Mama. That their gifts came with consequences. That Papa worked hard for the money to buy them. That my fingers worked hard to create them. That our thoughts and love for them came before the gift. They need to know these things, before any appreciation for the gift can even happen.

I REJECT that society tries telling my children (and me) what we need, or should want. My children will know that we value them wholly, and show it by very personal gifts. Not the latest from the toy catalog, but something that is wholly and wildly adored by THEM. I don't want society dictating ANYTHING to me, or my children. I want to be set apart.

~~~~~~~~

"Corynn, come here please. I'd like to talk to you about something. Something that will probably make you sad, but MAY make you happy." I say, and she walks into my arms. Waiting. Listening. Intent.

I tell her the TRUTH, about Santa~ and the tears flow. While warm tears race down her cheeks, I speak quietly, telling her WHY the truth needed to be said. I tell her that I want her to trust me always and know that I will never lie to her. That I worried, if I played along, she might one day think I was only "playing along" about Jesus too.

"But I LIKED believing in Santa, Mama!" she cries.

"But you CAN Corynn. You can pretend he is real just like you enjoy talking to and with your dolly-or that you find fairies in the woods. You can still pretend just like always before, and I can pretend with you if you like...but I wanted you to know the TRUTH. That it is just pretending. Some stories are make believe, and they are FUN to think about and pretend with. Some stories are true. And it's important we know which is which."

As my voice quietly soothes with explanation, I notice the sniffles dwindling . I tell her that it is Papa and I that fill her stocking each year. And that we do so because we love her. That the gifts tucked within we got especially for her because we knew she would like them and the giving of them gave us joy. The look on her face when she discovered them gave us even more joy. With that, a sparkle returns to her eyes for a moment and a smile plays at her lips.

Then, I turn it all around-to the very beginning. To where it started and where it ends. To where it ought to have been the whole time. Christ. Savior child. The greatest gift the world has ever received. I told her she had someone FAR greater than Santa Claus.

"Santa Claus, after all, is limited. He comes but once a year and IF you are good, will give you something you want.

God in INFINITE. He sees you everyday, and NEVER leaves you nor forsakes you. He doesn't come just one day a year but is EVER present. He not only gives us things, He gifts us things even when we are BAD. He blesses us even as we are so undeserving. But then, of course, He gives us things that are BETTER than what we want for ourselves...He surpasses our own expectations! He blesses us more abundantly than we could EVER ask for ourselves!" Cheeks are streaked with trails of tears now dried. I see joy again, bubbling from within. Then, we find ourselves sharing the gifts we have already received. Mentally writing the "Wishes Granted" list, sharing it with one another.

~ The birth of Jesus, our Savior, Redeemer and Sustainer in life. Miraculous child, Miraculous God.
~Our tastebuds. Food needn't have been sweet, or delicious-but God EVEN thought of that!
~Sunsets and snowflakes
~Smiling eyes and warming hugs
~Reading together
~ Legs- how HANDY they are!
~Minds that can create and learn and invent.
~The shape and colors of creation. Leaves. Flowers. Pumpkins. Stones. Acorn hats.
~Prayers answered.
~Each other, togetherness
~That mothers can make milk for their babies (that was one of HERS, by the way)
~the sound of giggling.
~A baby sister
~The sweet softness of her skin

By the end, we were both smiling and giggling, cuddled closer into one another than before; finding comfort and joy in one another and in the Giver of Joy.

Turns out, it's true: we have been gifted things I never would have thought to ask for. Any wishlist we may have created has already been far surpassed.