The holidays bring with them anticipation, excitement, expectation. Already this year, I’ve heard from several people who are trying to figure out how to fulfill the wishes of their children, some of whom have gone hunting for their Christmas presents. There are economic concerns, dreams that just once, at Christmas, everything could be ‘perfect,’ and the heightened hopes of those we love — all wrapped up in one, big, emotion-filled package.
And so, as a gift to all those who wonder if all can be fulfilled, and as a reminder to all of us about the qualities and values that are the most important at this time of year, I hand over this space to my husband, Ben Soule, who shares his recollections of “Putting on the Suit” at Christmas time. Ben wrote this piece four years ago, but what he and I have found, miraculously, is that our daughter continues to call him to “put on the suit.” The deeply felt correspondence with Santa has continued, just as the cookies and eggnog continue to be placed carefully on the table near the fireplace in the living room. Some traditions are meant to endure, beyond reason, logic, or what we ‘know’ to be true. And a good thing it is — for faith plays a big part in what makes Christmas the treasured holiday it is.
Enjoy.
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My wife and I always say that parenting is a process of letting go. Most days you don’t notice, but there are moments when you realize your life has just taken a sudden irreversible turn. What I had forgotten is that the same lurches come to our children.
Christmas in our house is a bustle of baking cookies, caroling with friends, going to church, making gifts and cards, buying presents, and spending time with family. For twelve beautiful years, our younger daughter added her own piece: an unswerving belief in Santa Claus. Most of her friends had already given it up, but we decided that we would do our best to support it as long as she continued to hold fast to her belief. We found a way to answer her direct questions positively and honestly. We wrapped the Santa presents in different paper, and each Christmas Eve, when she wrote an earnest note to Santa, we prayed that her list would overlap with what was hidden away in the basement.
Late on Christmas Eve, when all the presents were wrapped and under the tree, I would sit next to the tray of eggnog and Christmas cookies she had lovingly put out, with paper and pencil in hand, and close my eyes.
I once told my wife it was like “putting on the Santa suit.” I tried to meet my daughter in her own reality. It was a beautiful and difficult place to which she led me, and there, I became for a few moments a better person, floating a little bit above my fears and my faults. Then I would write to her, using a neat backward-slanting script, and try to say something that would encourage her better qualities. I’d mention the reindeer, thank her for the snack, wish her a merry Christmas, and sign off – “S. Claus.”
Last year was different, however, and when she wrote her note to Santa, along with the doll accessories she requested an iPod – she was twelve after all. Fortunately, she had dropped enough hints so that Santa was able to produce the requested item on Christmas morning. As the day went along, however, she made it clear that she had been hoping for a better model –one that my wife and I had discussed but rejected as being too expensive for a sixth-grader. We told her we’d talk it over.
Two days later, over breakfast, she called the question. My wife and I had already decided to do the upgrade, which would come with a talk about caring for one’s belongings. However, somewhere in the ensuing conversation, we slipped. We were making a present from Santa conditional upon parental restrictions, and we didn’t notice the trap until we were in it. One of us asked her an unguarded question, which, if she answered truthfully, would acknowledge Santa’s non-existence. There was a small nod, a whispered “yeah.” The last gossamer wisp of the veil that had protected her faith softly fell, and she was face to face with the bleak reality. She collapsed in tears. “I’m such an idiot,” she sobbed. “I really wanted to believe.” My wife held her, but I was blinded by a sudden realization – that next Christmas Eve my daughter would not lead me to that beautiful and difficult place where her faith in the impossible could lift me up and for a brief moment transform me. My own tears stung my eyes.
Over time my daughter will learn for herself that the joys of Christmas can be found in many places – in making gifts and baking cookies, singing carols and sharing love with family and friends, in bringing magic to children, in helping those less fortunate than she. She will learn that believing in Santa is an act of faith and love, not idiocy. And starting this year I will have to relearn those things too. But I will miss putting on the suit.
— Ben Soule
Morning Stars Rising 