I still believe in Santa

I still believe in Santa.

I realize that may sound a bit delusional from a 37 year old woman, but it is true. I still believe in Santa. It comes in handy, as a nanny. I get to genuinely participate in the delight of my charges.

Don't get me wrong, I've had my doubts over the years. Questions. Suspiscions.

When I was three, I asked my mother why the Santa at one place had brown eyes and the Santa at another had blue eyes. She pointed out that it could be pretty hard for Santa to be in all places at one time, so sometimes his helpers dressed up and passed the news along to him about what all the kids wanted. Thirty four years later, this still makes sense to me.

When I was five, I recognized the handwriting on the gift tags as my dad's handwriting. He didn't miss a beat when he said that the elves and Santa get pretty busy so they sometimes leave the gifts for the moms and dads to wrap and tag. This, too, still makes sense to me.

I was just beginnning to truly suspect something was awry with the whole Santa spectacle at age 8, when we moved from Minnesota to southern California. We moved into our warm, sunny new home in October.

Santa lived across the street.

I'm not kidding. There he was...white beard, round belly, red pants...woodworking in his garage. He told my brother and I that it got pretty cold for old bones up in the North Pole, so he and Mrs. Claus had moved south. It was a secret, he said. To fit into society and keep an eye on people, he and Mrs. Claus called themselves Preston and Dixie. When it wasn't Christmas season, they performed as professional clowns so they could see what all the kids were up to.

It made perfect sense to us, the idea of leaving a cold and snowy land for bright California. All year long, we'd scribble out lengthy letters to Santa about what we wanted and then...because we were the luckiest kids in the world on this front...we walked our letters across the street to Santa's house.

When I started to hear ugly rumors at school, I questioned my parents about Santa again. They handled it with rare sensitivity. "Santa," I was told, "is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time." Well, I can buy into that, can't you?

Eventually, I figured out that the presents beneath the tree probably weren't made by tiny little half-humans on the polar ice cap and that they probably didn't arrive via a fat man, eight reindeer, and a sleigh. In fact, when I realized that my parents were behind the Christmas morning toy bonanza, I spent WEEKS thanking them for each individual item I could remember as a Santa gift. I felt horrifically guilty for the expense, ashamed of my own greed, and determined to keep cost in mind for every future Christmas list. Since the actual day of a holiday was usually a disaster in our home...packed chock full with rages, accusations, fights, and tantrums...I learned to focus on what I could give, rather than what I got. No matter how unhappy a Christmas got (including the one stellarly awful Christmas in college when I got thrown out of my mother's house on Christmas Day for a snarky comment), I kept in mind that one answer about who Santa REALLY is: The spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. It gives me a focus, not just for how I choose to be, but for what I choose to see in the world around me.

It would be easy to grow cynical; to bemoan the greed around me, to snark that it would be nice to see generosity all year around rather than just at the holidays. I guess I could focus more on the crazy drivers in the mall parking lot rather than the friend who politely held the door for more than 100 people at a busy restaurant last weekend. But, I remember my second Christmas in mission and being on the flip side of Toys for Tots...the side that got to hand out box after box after box after box of donated toys to weeping, grateful, shame-filled parents who just wanted their own little ones to experience a bit of magic in their impoverished lives for one, sparkly, gift filled morning.

I remember a former nannykid taking a big gulping frightened breath and asking me if could keep her secret about something. (I, of course, immediately imagined the worst and suggested she tell me first, then we'd deal with the secret part). "I don't know," she ventured, "if I believe in Santa anymore." The perk in her step and the glow in her eyes were well worth it when I told her the truth: "Well, I still believe in Santa. Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time, and I believe in that with all my heart."

I remember my first Christmas in mission, sicker than I'd ever been in my life thanks to a bout with intestinal amoebas and having had to miss the last night of posadas and a real Honduran holiday...I crawled out of bed while everyone was in the chapel to a message on our message board, "Merry Christmas, Tara...we love you, your brothers and sisters in Christ."

This year, I believe in Santa more than ever.

Three months ago, one of my own nanny babies was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, Burkitt's lymphoma. The treatment has been brutal on this little boy. He has spent more time in the hospital than at home. He is unable to attend first grade. Because of how the tumor is sitting, he has almost no sensation in his lower body save for extreme nerve pain. While I'm sure his parents must have many moments of despair, anger, and frustration, they walk this journey with their boy with humor, grace, and optimism in a way that puts me in awe every day. I know how very much I love this child and I'm just his former nanny. So, I know that how his parents love him is infinitely wider and greater than what I can imagine. I know how his suffering breaks my heart, so I know that the agony his parents experience watching him go through this has got to also be infinitely wider and greater than anything I can possibly imagine, as well.

They don't show that side much. It is extraordinarily humbling and inspiring.

Last month, as the holidays approached, I realized that he probably wouldn't get to see Santa this year at any of the local malls. His immune system is shattered from the chemo, and going to a germ-filled mall could be very risky. So I thought...Santa is magic. Soon, this child might start to not believe in the reality of Santa magic because he's getting older and getting to that questioning age. Cancer has taken so much from them these past few months, I'll be damned if it is taking Santa, too. There has to be a Santa out there, I thought, who will let me pay him to go to their house.

I mentioned this thought to a new friend. "Oh, I know just who you need to call. Santa Norm is the real Santa. He's a friend of mine, he might do it." I asked her to contact him for me and to see what he would charge. She did so delightedly. I suspect she's part Santa.

Santa Norm waved off any fee. Santa understands his magic, and understands how precious that magic can be. So this wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man...a total stranger...gave of his time and self during a very very busy time of year in order to bring Christmas to life for a family he did not know.

This afternoon, at that family's home, there was a knock at the door.

Sometimes, Santa doesn't come down the chimney, after all.

Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. And yes, I still believe in Santa.