*This is a post I've published for the last several years. I hope you enjoy it. I post it every year as part of my remembering something special in our family's experience.
I'm 40 years old and I believe in Santa Claus. I really do. Let me tell you why--and then maybe you will also.
I didn't always believe in him. In fact, while I was growing up, I didn't believe in him. My sweet mom really wanted the focus to be on Baby Jesus (and rightly so), consequently Santa just wasn't a big part of our celebrations.
I was never anti-Santa, I thought he seemed harmless enough, but he just didn't play much of a role in my life. Until I was married with children.
A lot of you know the first part of the story. While on a mission for my church, I became quite ill. I managed to struggle along through the complete two years, but I came home severely weakened and exhausted.
Still, I fell in love, got married and we started our family. Then I relapsed and the sickness came back with a vengeance. Those years are a blur for me. For basically three years I could do nothing but lay in my bed and sleep. On good days I was able to watch a little TV. I had to drop out of school and it was impossible to work. My poor wife was essentially a single mother of two little boys--in addition to taking care of a sick husband. It was terribly, incredibly, perpetually bleak during those years. There was not much to cheer us as we trudged through the soul-numbing bleakness that was always there.
Eventually, miraculously, I was healed. But after three years, we were in a pretty deep hole--financially and emotionally.
Christmas came the next year. We were grateful that I wasn't sick any more, but there were residual effects. I was way behind in school, we had no money, and Christmas was going to be fairly sparse for our kids--and now there were three of them. That was okay. We weren't miserable or anything--but it wasn't exactly terribly festive, either.
Then, one night we heard a noise outside. Someone left a beautiful artificial Christmas tree on our doorstep. That was followed by decorations and some other things. That really brightened our holiday.
Then, several nights before Christmas, we heard the distinct sound of bells outside. I opened the door and went to see what it was. I opened the door and Santa Claus walked in.
Of course, the gifts were nice—wonderful, in fact--but the greater gift was the way our hearts were lifted up and the love that was so clearly manifest. To this day, we aren't sure who was behind this. We racked our brains and went over every possibility. But we never found out. And they made that Christmas for us. We remember--and relive this--every year.
At this time of year, we celebrate miracles—the miracle of a lamp that burned for eight nights in a time of darkness, and the miracle of a baby in a manger. But as we celebrate these miracles, there is another miracle I love to think about: the miracle of human kindness—the miracle that happens when we reach out and show love and concern to those around us. And when we do, we embody the spirit of miracles. And to me, that is who Santa is—the symbol of our best intentions and kindest actions. And that is why I believe Santa is real. That is why I know Santa is real. I met him many years ago on a cold night in a small apartment in Provo UT.
Merry Christmas, everyone!