Yes, Virginia

These words have been rattling around in my head for some time now; it just seems like finally the right season to force them out into a semblance of coherence.

Several weeks ago in Sunday School, the S-man came up...... the Guy in the Big Red Suit, Saint Nicholas, none other than Mr. Santa Claus himself was a brief topic of discussion amongst my 3 and 4 year olds (and 2-yr-olds, if indeed Sunny counts as more of a participant than a mascot). I'm not sure how, or why, or how he related to what we were discussing, but one of my sweet, little Sunday School girls innocently commented, complete with her adorable lisp, "Santa's just pwetend.". I smiled at her and went on with our lesson, hoping neither of my girls had picked up on her little statement.

After multiple time-outs, too many scream-fests to count, and behavior nearing the Mommy-may-tear-her-hair-out-piece-by-piece level, I finally figured out that not only was Miss Mouse upset that our Sunday School drama stage had changed, which it had that day, but she had also heard the Santa posit. Rats.

So, as we continued to deal with the "why did the set have to change to tell different stories" question repeatedly asked and answered for three days (our Miss Mouse is a definite creature of habit), I also decided I needed to address the Santa comment in question.

Far earlier than I had ever imagined, I took Miss Mouse on my lap and asked again if she had indeed heard what Little Cute Girl said at Sunday School. Oh, yes, indeed she had. "Okay, deep breath, Mommy," I thought and proceeded to utilize this strange age of technology to pull up the "Yes, Virginia" letter within seconds online.

I remember coming home from school having heard similar rumblings about Santa and asking my mom "the" question. I distinctly remember sitting at the kitchen table with her as she read that letter. I remember she had a hard time reading through it and had tears in her eyes, and I remember clearly that I couldn't figure out why. I'd be willing to be she still has that copy of the newspaper editorial; it was, I think, yellowed already at the time she read it to me, say 25 years ago. Maybe it even came from a neighbor or someone who had already used it for her own children before us. Whatever the case, I remember her reading it, and I remember a sort of disappointment as the idea took hold that perhaps Santa wasn't really the person who put all the glorious presents under the tree on Christmas morning....but there was also a sense of security, warmth, and love as I was given permission to believe, if not in the person of Santa Claus, definitely in the idea of him. At that point, it didn't matter to me that the Santa who stopped by Papa's house on Christmas Eve was Jim Grote (and maybe Ron, too, sometimes?) rather than Saint Nicholas himself; it mattered that we were celebrating love and giving and Jesus' birth together in that warm house and that Jim cared enough to spend his own Christmas Eve traipsing around the neighborhood in a big, red suit.

And so I read and snuffled and read and sniffed and read and swallowed really, really hard. I explained as clearly as I could to my four-year-old Miss Mouse that Saint Nicholas - the real Nicholas - was a giver because he knew of Christ's gift to him. We have a book about Nicholas, so Miss Mouse does know his real story. She knows we give Christmas money to our Compassion sponsored children because Jesus died for our sins; she knows we donate food to the food bank for the same reason; she knows that is why we rang the Salvation Army bell for an hour last week in below-freezing temperatures to raise money for those who have no food or homes; she knows that is why we have "adopted" a soldier spending Christmas in a dangerous and distant land and are sending him a care package. She knows we give because of the gift we have received in Christ.

And she knows that is why Saint Nicholas gave and why Santa Claus, today, gives to us. At our house, Santa doesn't bring humongously large, impressive presents. One year, "he" painted a moon on Miss Mouse's bedroom wall; the next year, he gave her a note that said she'd get to go to another session of skating lessons. This year, he's going to be a real hit if he comes up with clip-on earrings for Sunny and lip gloss for Miss Mouse. No doubt he'll come up with a few more impressive items to add, but he's definitely not the "cash cow" here that he has come to be in our society-at-large.

So, for now, Santa is still safe at our house. The Mice can't hardly wait to go see him when he comes to "live" here in town for the season; I'm holding my breath that our Santa is still "our Santa" given that that man is actually our neighbor a few doors down and lost his son early this summer. More than ever this year, I hope "our Santa" can feel the promise and hope of Christ that encouraged Saint Nicholas so many hundreds of years ago.

*This post is not intended to be a critique of those who choose not to let their children believe in Santa Claus. I first heard of that practice when we were pregnant with Hope seven years ago, and I was honestly horrified because of how beautiful my experience with Santa, and even my experience finding out that he wasn't "real", was. I realize, though, that not everyone's experience was like mine. I love the Little Cute Girl who made the comment at Sunday School, and I harbor no negative feelings towards her or her parents. I was just shocked at how young we had to address this issue, and my reason for writing about it is to remember how we addressed it and why we addressed it when and how we did, not to critique anyone's parenting choices.