I wrote and shared this story in 2006 and this year dusted it off and rewrote the ending. It is my story of transitioning from hating Christmas to embracing it.
Christmas Eve, in 1972, when I was four-years-old my older sister told me in the dark of her room in one long breath that there was no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. I can still see myself walking out of her room, thumb in mouth, heartbroken. In bed that night I tried to hear Santa’s sleigh bells but when the sound never came, I stopped believing. In elementary school, friends’ parents would ask me to “pretend” that Santa came to my house because their children still believed. This was a big task for a second grader, being asked to lie to friends by their very own parents. Tanya’s dad from the yellow house up the street gently pulled me aside whispering, “Santa comes to our house, Tanya still believes, so please pretend he comes to yours too.”
There are some unspeakable moments one Christmas Eve involving my very depressed father and another older sibling. When I recall it in my mind, it feels like a nightmare. Yelling, fighting—an ugly scene. Christmas began to take on a sleigh load of negative feelings and with its imminent arrival every year, I grew to dread it. Raised Catholic, my mother did her best to pass on Christian beliefs about Christmas. The four Sundays of Advent we lit the wreath with its purple and one pink candle, attended Mass, received simple gifts, sang Happy Birthday to Jesus Christmas morning, and drove to my grandparents for Christmas dinner. Sitting in church on Christmas Eve nights I would imagine that I was part of the manger scene. Sometimes I was Mary, absorbed in the true beauty of it all and other times I was one of the Wise Men traveling from afar, following the star with great anticipation of meeting the Messiah. This part of Christmas gave me peace and kept my faith alive but very soon the commercialism and hard ache of childhood memories dominated my attitude, belief and experience.
As a parent starting a family with my husband, any of the good feelings associated with the season were overshadowed by pressure to “buy-buy-buy” triggering my struggle of coming to peace with my Christmases past. How do I teach, honor and celebrate the season when I am no longer sure what I believe anymore? With my memories of Santa devasting and overwhelming I had no idea how to even “do” the whole Santa experience. How do I bring faith into it when I am not sure if I want to keep going to church?
Then Christmas 2005, I received a precious gift. I met Santa. On the morning of December fourteenth as I collected the morning paper from the front porch I found a small poinsettia on our door mat, wrapped in gold tissue and tied with a red ribbon. In meticulous printing our last name was written on a tag in unfamiliar handwriting. Opening the tag made of silken, creamy white paper, I searched for the giver’s name and only found the words, ‘On the first day of Christmas the McGlotherns received one poinsettia…’ Who could this be from? I didn’t hear a knock at the door and it was only seven fifteen in the morning. I was certain I did not recognize the handwriting.
The next morning, a bit earlier, six fifty-five, as I opened the door to collect the newspaper sitting right next to The Seattle Times sat a beautiful gift bag bearing two delicately wrapped hand-dipped, creamy white candles. I placed them in silver candlesticks next to the poinsettia in our front window. The same precise manuscript indicated the gift was indeed for us with the message, ‘On the second day of Christmas the McGlotherns received two glittering candles…’ Were the three dots a sign? An indication of a promise? Perhaps more to come? I ran to the calendar and counted. Ten more days until Christmas. The twenty-fifth would be the “twelfth day.” Not knowing any history about a “twelve days of Christmas” tradition, I was curious. Is this a celebrated tradition I don’t know anything about, like the “Secret Santa” tradition some celebrate in the workplace or in school? On the third day of Christmas “three tinkling bells” waited on our doorstep. Hanging them from the tree, in the front window, I thought, who could be doing this? I knew it wasn’t my best friend, too many miles between us and too many kids to juggle that early in the morning. I never heard a car, voices or footsteps. The printing looked like the work of a very meticulous seventh-grade girl and I didn’t know any seventh-grade girl. I would have to have faith that when they were ready, they would reveal their identity. Or would they?
Our four-year-old daughter, started coming into our room every morning with the question, “Have you checked the front porch yet, mama?” I was trying hard to curb my enthusiasm and wait until she could be the one to check the door. If I woke first, I would avoid the front room and busy myself with undone dishes, cleaning fingerprints off the refrigerator, anything to keep myself from going to the front door and turning the knob. Each morning continued to greet us with beautifully wrapped surprises; candy canes, homemade molasses cookies, walnuts the size of small apples, Satsumas as sweet as summer, and chocolates that were too irresistible to stop at just one. On the fifth day of Christmas, we opened a box with a photograph glued to the lid. The picture made me stop and look closely. It was a picture of a handprint in the snow, a child’s handprint, with the five digits perfectly imprinted into the white, glistening snow. Inside were five homemade snowflake ornaments hanging from delicate pink thread. I knew the giver was creative, thoughtful and most of all believed in Christmas.
I was mostly content not knowing the giver but I soon had everyone around me puzzled and determined to figure out this mystery. Friends and family members offered their unsolicited ten cents? What about your neighbor across the street? What about your friend who lives on the corner, isn’t she up early? I had an answer for every question. None of them seemed plausible, specifically because I didn’t recognize the handwriting. My husband believed the mastermind behind it all was someone we knew, but others were doing the assembly, handwriting and delivery. That didn’t sit with me, I was certain it was a stranger who obtained our last name from our front porch nameplate adorned with two angels. Since my husband leaves for work long before sunrise and we stayed out late the morning of the fifth day of Christmas, we had the time narrowed down to somewhere between six thirty and five minutes after seven. My neighbor Kathy, was stalking out the giver before her early morning trips to the gym. Our porch would be empty on her drive past our house and full with a mysterious present on her return home, with no clue, of the giver.
I would get calls from friends, just to see “what was delivered” today. One friend had her whole office so excited about our front porch deliveries that it became a part of their morning meetings, “What did Jenny get today?” “Did they sign their name this time?” “Did she hear footsteps, a car, anything?”
Through all this excitement, I forgot I didn’t believe in Santa. I forgot I hated Christmas. Each day was offering me a new joy besides a surprise gift at the front door. I discovered the great delight of baking sugar cookies with our four-year-old daughter. In years past the baking was a chore. Christmas shopping wasn’t a burden, our list was short and family received homemade gifts. Our friends received a Christmas card with a handwritten message. Even the cold, grey weather was comforting. I didn’t long for the colors of springtime; instead, I found solace from the dark sky and consolation from the light of a simple white candle. I never once turned on the television, so I wasn’t aware of the Christmas sales, hot items of the season or the temptations of the last-minute shopper. Evenings were spent reading Christmas books, listening to the Nutcracker, playing games and coloring. I taught our children about my childhood traditions of putting evergreen on the fireplace mantel, straw in the manger and hanging mistletoe in doorways. My husband strung lights, hung wreaths, and helped our children hang their stockings. He helped our daughter write her letter to Santa. I saw how Santa could be brought into the season without being the main focus and without corrupting my mood or Christmas spirit. We talked about Jesus’ birth, buying a goat through the Heifer Project, making gifts for family and what color of sprinkles our friends would like on their cookies. All our daughter wanted for Christmas was a pants belt and for her brother to have his own doll, she was happy to give him one of hers. Santa’s job would be simple. He didn’t have to impress the children at this house.
By the tenth day of Christmas, the day we received ten walnuts and a silver nutcracker, all our friends and family knew about our morning doorstep surprises and wished they had done something like this. They all responded with passionate wonder. I want to do that, they all echoed. Without these exact words their responses were saying: I want to reach out, I want to give, I want to believe and share in the spirit of the season.
On Christmas Eve, I went to bed listening for sleigh bells believing that if I was supposed to find out who was behind the mystery I would. At five in the morning our son, hollered out in his sleep. His cries woke me and although he fell back to sleep easily, I lay in the dark, tossing and turning. Like many children around the world that morning I hopped out of bed, unable to keep still. I went into the living room and turned on the tree lights, lit the creamy white candles in the window and sat down with a cup of hot tea and my journal. The tea went cold before I had a sip and my journal remained unopened. I went back and forth to the window, peering out into the dark morning, I kept opening the front door. I even stood on a chair to peer out the window at the top of the door. Nothing. I wrote a note to the mystery elves, telling them that if I never found out who they were I wanted them to know they changed my Christmases forever. At eight o’ clock, when my family was awake pulling a pants belt and baby doll out of their stockings, I checked the door one more time. Empty except for my note. Did they forget?
Forty-five minutes later, with Christmas wrapping strewn around the room our coffee mugs empty, I heard singing outside. “Honey”, my husband said gently, “You are going to want to answer the door.” The caroling was coming from our front yard and very soon our front porch. Opening the door, I was surprised to see my new friend Erika, her husband and their three sleepy daughters. I collapsed into Erika’s arms, “I’m so glad it’s you. I never even thought of you being the ones, “I wept softly. We wiped each other’s tears of joy. “You helped me to believe in Christmas again,” I whispered.
Since our surprise of 2005 we have delivered joy to four other families for twelve days in a row. Santa no longer complicates my feelings about Christmas. He adds to the mystery. The mystery of a baby in a manger, kindness in small gestures of love and this year in our children coming home for the holidays after our first season of being empty nesters. My faith not only in Santa but in others was restored that Christmas in 2005. I am grateful to say, I now anticipate the season with the wonder of a four-year-old little girl. Eyes wide open, heart open wide and faith in this beautiful thing called life.
Cheers, Jenny
