I believe...

in Christmas lists. Here's mine. :)

Dear Santa,

I remember sitting in the bedroom in Grandma Hoggard’s house, late after everyone had gone out to watch “Bicentennial Man” and they said I couldn’t go, and hearing the reindeer on the roof. I knew it. I knew it then that you were really alive, with a jelly-belly and a jolly face and everything. How could it not be true?

I thought that experience would last me the rest of my life. I could sit with my friends as they laughed about what their parents did to try to convince them that there was still a Santa Clause. I could laugh with them, I thought, and harbor inside myself the supreme truth, a secret smile. That there is still a Santa Clause. Poor friends, I could think, how silly they are to think there isn’t a Santa. Of course there is a Santa.

Then one day I realized that the elves’ workshop was down in my basement, past the blue linoleum stairs and the two-part door (a top and a bottom), painted a light green. How delightful! The elves work in my own house. How smart of them! How smart of you, Santa. How could they know our habits, the best time for you to come down the chimney, who really was good or not, if they didn’t live in the house?

And then we starting baking sugar cookies, or leaving out fruit instead, for you. Mom had recently given up chocolate, and both parents were trying not to eat desserts. Milk and fruit. Gradually, I guess, my thoughts of you and my parents melded together. I don’t think I ever had a defining moment in which to say, “What! No Santa?” My parents and you were so much alike that it wasn’t hard to make the switch.

And no, I’m not saying in that belly-full-of-jelly way, or how awesome they would look in bright red jumpsuits with fur-lining. Mom and dad, Santa, so loving and so kind. Always on the look-out to get us the best presents, to give us what we wanted. At the same time, though, my parents were better than Santa (no offense). They tried to teach me that, even while they were giving me the presents I wanted, Christmas isn’t about the presents. It has never been. Santa doesn’t teach that.

And yet, Christmas is the time where we give each other gifts. Mom and dad still write “With love, from Santa” on the presents under the tree. And we still write our Christmas lists.

Here, Santa. This is what I would like for Christmas.

1. My family to be together on Christmas day.

2. A week of baking delicious delectables to give to the neighbors, and eat some ourselves.

3. My heart to be turned toward Jesus Christ during this season.

4. Lots and lots of service.

And, if you wouldn’t mind getting me a really awesome nightgown, some good

music like Andrew Bird or Laura Gibson or Beurit, maybe Ingrid Michaelson, funky ankle socks, Charles Dickens (?), then Christmas would be absolutely perfect.

Sincerely, Rachel. Merry Christmas.