It was just before seven when I stopped by my friend's house to be in the presence of a true believer.
She sparkles when she tells me about the magic that Santa Claus brings to her life. I feel the joy and the unmitigated happiness of years of believing in this jolly old elf.
I grew up without this tradition. I put out my shoes on the sixth of December but the Nicholaus who filled my shoes was without too much personality. He did come on Christmas Eve, but he roared up the stairs with a sack of coal and an angry low voice, while I cowered in the corner. How naughty had I been that year? I was relieved to find out it was my Dad, all dressed up and that I was always given a reprieve and indeed granted the opportunity to open my gifts that night.
But, back to my friend, her Santa Claus has lovely compassionate eyes and she adores him and welcomes him into her home as soon as Thanksgiving is passed.
As my children have married and the little grands have appeared, I marvel how my own grandchildren are taught so many different stories about him. No matter how diverse he is always a bestower of gifts, one who knows our needs and brings a mix of justice and mercy.
