Being Santa

By Julie Wright

She crept up behind me and asked me a question that halted me mid-pan-scrub.

I am a terrible liar. I get all flustery and red when I try to fib. And I am not the Grinch. My heart is not two sizes too small. And my shoes fit just fine. I'd always loved Christmas-Santa Claus; packages; warm comforting smells from the kitchen-I loved it. All of it. And then I had her.

The lines between right and wrong and of good parenting seemed blurry with a child of my own, especially at Christmastime. Did I buy into the lie of a guy in fancy red pajamas breaking into houses to deliver presents? Or did I teach her the Christmas story of a stable, shepherds, and a baby?

Could I do both-cross my fingers behind my back and not count the little tale of the guy in red as a fib? I had avoided the issue by simply not stating one way or the other when it came to the reality of the fat guy in a red suit. I figured when the kids were old enough to ask outright, I'd fess up to the truth. Until then, I'd just avoid it all. Avoidance was a vital part of my parenting toolbox. It had served me well until that day of dishes and the question.

"Is Santa Claus real?"

Oy. I pulled my hands from the sink and methodically wiped them on a dish towel, my mind spinning for a good answer to that particular question-one that didn't implicate me as the bad guy. I bent down and stared at my four-year-old, her big hazel eyes wide with suspicion and accusation. "What do you think?" Hedging questions by placing them on the other party usually worked when it came to topic avoidance.

She wasn't having any of that, though. Her wide eyes narrowed, and her little hands went to her hips. It bothered me that she looked a lot like me when she did that. "I asked you."

I couldn't lie. But I couldn't tell the truth either. In a moment of decision, I removed one of her hands from her hips so I could hold it and walked her to the coat rack, pulling both her jacket and mine off the hooks.

"Well? Is he real?"

"Let's go for a walk." I opened the front door to the cold, gray-drenched landscape outside and led her across the street to the hair salon.

As we pushed the door open and stamped the snow from our shoes, she said, "Mo-om!" in that plaintive voice that meant she was tired of being put off.

"Just give me a minute." I scanned over the snowflakes taped to the window. Genders, ages, and wishes were found on each white piece of paper.

I told her what the snowflakes said and asked her which one she wanted to pick. Puzzled and still looking suspicious, she pointed to one. We pulled it free from the window and headed to the store.

"Mo-om! I asked a question!"

"Yes, you did. Just give me a minute." Stalling was another important part of my parenting toolbox, kept in the same general area as avoidance and hedging. The ability to explain complicated situations has always evaded me. It isn't that I don't know the answers, but it's hard for me to explain that knowledge to other people. And that's why I found myself wandering the store in search of the doll requested on the paper snowflake. I couldn't explain Santa Claus. I had to show her.

She picked out the doll and the wrapping she wanted to use, and we went home to wrap the gift. "Is he real, Mom?"

"Be a good girl and hand me the tape pieces. I'll answer your question in a minute."

She did as instructed, babbling about how the little girl who got this doll would love it because it came with hair jewels that could be used in real hair too. She placed a small finger on the ribbon while I tied the bow. "Are you not telling me because you don't know? 'Cause I can go ask Dad." I'd have been offended by such a statement if it weren't for the fact that her dad really did know a lot about everything. We went back out to the hair salon to drop off the present.

Once we were back out in the cold and walking home I asked, "Do you know what you just did?"

"I gave a present."

"Yes. You gave a present. You were Santa Claus for someone."

She stopped in the middle of the road. "What?"

I tugged at her hand. Stalling wasn't such a good tool when your child stood in the middle of the road. "You were Santa Claus. Santa Claus isn't anyone person. He isn't a guy with a beard who slides down chimneys. Lots of people get to play Santa Claus for Christmas. Your dad and I get to be Santa for you and your brothers. And sometimes, when there are people who are having hard times, other people get to be Santa for them, like you were just now for a little girl you don't know and might not ever meet."

"Has someone ever been Santa for you?"

I thought back to several years earlier, when things had been hard and finances tight. We'd found a basket on our porch filled with things we needed, and even a few things we just wanted. "Yes. Someone has been Santa for me."

"I like being Santa." She pulled harder on my hand and started to run. "Let's get the boys so they can be Santa too!" I had to stop her and tell her we had to wait until the boys actually asked about Santa before we could tell them.

I felt pretty good about the whole situation and patted myself on the back. Self-congratulation doesn't get out of the parenting toolbox very often, so I like to soak in it when the opportunity arises. It was three or four days later when my daughter came back with a statement rather than a question. I was doing laundry this time. "Heavenly Father is Santa Claus."

"What?" I mentally slapped my forehead. She still didn't get it. I thought I'd done a good job explaining the Santa situation, but it seemed I'd ended up confusing her even more. I should have told the truth, let her feel betrayed and have a good cry, and be done with the whole business.

"Heavenly Father gave us Jesus. That's a really good present. He's a better Santa Claus than even me." She skipped off, leaving me standing stunned with a pair of mismatched socks in my hands. With eyes stinging from tears, I glanced at the Nativity scene on top of the bookshelf. I dropped the socks back to the pile and wandered over to pick up the little carved manger with a baby in it.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given:

and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and

his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The

mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of

Peace. (Isaiah 9:6)

Every moment of my life requires that gift given on the first Christmas. A baby in a manger who grew to be exactly what every person in the world needed. Yes, Heavenly Father is a better Santa Claus than even me. Often when things are hard, that gift Heavenly Father gave has wrapped around me and whispered, "Peace unto you ... Merry Christmas."