Then just the other day my heart skipped a beat when out of the blue she exclaimed, “You know mom, none of the kids at school really talk about Mrs. Claus, or the elves, or Rudolph and the other reindeer anymore. They just talk about what kinds of presents they’ll get. Some kids don’t even believe in Santa anymore.”
“Do you?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Then you’d better get your letter to Santa written,” I exhaled. “Finalize your list and send it in the mail tomorrow. It’s already December.”
So without further delay, she took out a piece of paper and penned this little note:
Dear Santa Claus,
How are you doing? How are your elfs? A special present from you would be a bell from your sleigh. But if you can’t get me that here are the other presents I want.
( . . . an eight-point list of mostly Webkinz followed)
Love, (her name)
P.S. Say Hi to the reindeer and your wife
A bell from his sleigh. The timeless gift Santa presented the doubting little boy in The Polar Express story, made recently into a Christmas movie classic. Her number one request wasn’t a toy, video game, clothes, or miraculously though close, another dreaded Webkinz, but something you can’t put a price on, something you can’t buy in a store.
And although asking for proof, she is also asking to keep believing. Believing in the things we take on faith until, unable to rationalize them with our minds, we come to know them with our hearts. She asked for the hope and mystery to continue. She’s not ready to give up on any of that, and neither am I.
I put her letter in an envelope, stamped it, and mailed it immediately to the North Pole.
What I know for sure is I’ll never deny that Santa brings those presents wrapped in the paper and bows none of the other gifts are done up in. And I’ll be able to do so with a clean conscience, because I, like so many other parents, am Santa Claus. We are all Santa Claus. And that’s real enough for me.
PREVIOUS PAGE
