part 3 of “to Santa or not to Santa”
I began my parental relationship with Santa Claus with slight trepidation. After introducing him to our four and five year old children I still worried (I was such a worrier) about whether we had done the right thing. The kids understood that Santa had a few rules to follow if he was to remain welcome in our home, and I tried to tread that ground carefully, balancing my idealism with allowing my children to enjoy the gift of magic and excitement that he had always brought to me as a child. I didn’t want to hold him hostage, but . . . . . .
Oh how I wish that I could have had the slightest glimpse into the future – just enough to know that all would be well so that I could have relaxed a bit.
As time went on, I witnessed Santa evolve into the central figure in our Christmas celebrations as we enjoyed sharing the holiday with grandparents and aunts and uncles who delighted in the few children in both our families. We were riding a wave that I felt powerless to control, and I wasn’t happy about it. The way Christmas had developed – not because we actively created it, but because we allowed it – left me unsatisfied and feeling that I was letting our children down. Santa had become all I said I’d never allow him to become. He became our Christmas. I knew I could ask him to leave. I had reserved that right after all, but now there were so many others to consider. The overwhelming reality however, was that we were still the parents, and it was our responsibility to follow our hearts and reclaim the way we celebrated Christmas.
I tossed it around for months, considering different angles, and discussing the few that seemed reasonable with Dan. Santa and Jesus didn’t have to be mutually exclusive and although we had tried to talk about the source of the tender spirit-of-giving that motivated Santa, it seemed that our kids were so busy being ‘children’ (huh), full of the childhood wonder of Santa Claus with all his trappings, that I feared I had missed something really important. I sensed that time was ticking, and their memories were becoming more firm and important. It was clear that if were were to reclaim the way we chose to celebrate Christmas, we needed to create meaningful Christ-centered traditions. We were approaching Christmas 1986. We had four children, our youngest was just a year old.
In the end, we hit on a plan. We agreed to give Christmas Day to Santa Clause, but we reserved Christmas Eve for the Saviour. I wanted Christmas EVE to BE about Him. We wanted to talk about him and imagine the night of his birth. I realize that many families re-enact the nativity, but that wasn’t ‘us‘. We needed something that worked for us.
We talked about what kind of dinner Mary and Joseph might have had during their travels and after they arrived in Bethlehem. Research resources were not what they are now, but it seemed reasonable that their meal was very simple, and humble.
There was likely cheese. And undoubtedly bread. Flat bread. Perhaps figs or dates if they were lucky. Or dried fish. More than likely they would have drank water from a well or fresh wine / which wouldn’t have been much more than grape juice. It was probable that during their stay in Bethlehem they may have acquired mutton from time to time . . . . After dark, their only light would have been from candles or small lamps.
A picture began forming.
We envisioned, and then planned out our meal. It would be a simple one of white cheese with homemade flat bread, and grape juice. By candlelight. . . Preparing it was a family event. Making the bread. Cutting the cheese. Making the juice. Then we lit the candles and turned off the lights. Low light often reduces volume, and quiet discussion allows for tender feelings to be expressed. These are things we discovered while eating bread and cheese in the soft light of candles.
We have eaten bread and cheese by candlelight every Christmas Eve since 1986. There were years that were lean and cheese was expensive so there was less of it. In those years, we put homemade jam on the table. There were other years of plenty that saw fish and olives on the table. Other foods have been added from time to time. Figs. Dates. Pomegranates have become a personal favourite of mine. Oranges. More varieties of cheese. But always homemade flatbread. Always white cheese. Always purple grape juice. The grape juice has become our own, from our own purple grapes – saved for this meal.
It has become our most favourite Christmas tradition of all. One that we have maintained for over three decades. Half of my life. It is a delight to us to watch our children carry it on in their own homes with their children, and to hear that it remains their favourite tradition.
When does Santa get his time?
When the meal is over and cleaned up, and stories have been shared, and songs have been sung, . . . When guests have left, teeth have been brushed, . . . then we gather into the family room and Dan reads a favourite poem that we all know by heart but we listen to him anyway –
“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In the hopes that St. Nickolaus soon would be there ….. “
I’ll admit it gets a little animated. And for families who normally don’t role-play, or do charades, kid after kid has always wanted a chance to portray the “plump, jolly old elf with a broad face and a little round belly, that shook, when he laughs like a bowlful of jelly.”
We owe a lot to Clement C. Moore – it is his description we rely on when we visualize Santa Claus. And he should know, because he spied him in his very own parlour all those years ago. I am grateful he took the time to write his experience down so that all of us might benefit.
I have come to love Santa Claus – and all he represents to me. I no longer quarrel with him. I am satisfied that he has done our family a great service in visiting us every Christmas Eve since that inaugural visit in 1982. We have felt his spirit as each of our children have discovered for themselves in their own time – who he really is, and what he really looks like, and WHAT HE DOES.
I think the tipping point for me in making that final decision all those years ago, was that I never felt the betrayal I’ve heard others speak of. Of course like others, I reached the age of doubting, but my mother always maintained that she believed. You could never get her to verbalize anything to the contrary. To this very day at over eighty years old, she still maintains that she believes in Santa Clause and always has. Because she always has, I always have, even though I wondered for a few years, whether I’d invite him into our lives as young parents.
One Christmas Eve when I was fourteen years old my older sister and I talked my mother into letting us help fill the stockings. Our Dad was working that night. We prevailed, and she allowed us into the inner sanctuary reserved for parents on Christmas Eve. The next morning I was shocked to wake up and still feel the magic. I confided to my mother that even though logically I understood, and for goodness sakes, had even filled the stockings, I couldn’t help it – I still “believed”! She never let me help again. Not even when I was seventeen years old and protested mightily. Not even after I was married. Until my own children hung their stockings, I was excluded from her private ritual. Although outwardly I rebelled, inwardly I always appreciated her refusal to give in. It kept the magic alive for me. And I have tried very hard to do the same for my kids.
In this house WE BELIEVE.
I’d love to hear how you incorporate your important family values into Christmas traditions. Please comment below.
Warmly,
Cindy Suelzle
“Who do you even call at midnight anyway? Where do I take the kids if we have to leave the house?” Of course this had to happen during the ONE night her husband was away from home. Figures! She called 911. They told her to get the kids up and get out of the house! She did. They all bundled up in the van. Four little sleepy-heads, not up for an adventure in the wee hours of the morning. Not much of an adventure anyway, when you’re stuck in car and all the action is going on in the house. But there WAS a firetruck! And the firemen WERE wearing masks. And all those things helped to make the adventure a little more “fun”. “Fun” bytheway, is all in the eyes of the beholder. 
And I wasn’t feeling well most days. Funny why I suspected that.
How could he possibly have known what it meant to find the rusted out chimney? The image to the left is not our old furnace, but it is the nearest image I could find to illustrate it. At a certain point a metal pipe exhausts into the brick chimney. When Dan touched it to check the join, it crumbled in his hand – screaming the horrible truth that the air that should have been leaving the house for all these months, had in fact been staying in the house.
A wise man named Jeffrey R. Holland told me that in a talk I heard years later, and I knew when I heard it that it was true. I already had a testimony of it, but the truth of what he said resonated in my heart again as if he spoke directly to ME. I knew that we had been warned weeks before that night when I first formed the words “carbon monoxide“. I didn’t even fully comprehend what carbon monoxide was, but the words were meaningful to me nonetheless. We had been warned repeatedly in various ways, right up till that very night – when we “luckily” decided to get-the-job-of-unpacking-done before retiring for a well deserved winter’s sleep. I really, truly believe that. And I thank my Heavenly Father for tender mercies. I thank Him for allowing two other children to join our family in the years following that night, and for allowing our original three children and their new brothers to grow to adulthood and have children of their own. I thank Him for paying attention to us, for watching over us. And I thank Him for guardian angels.
Carbon Monoxide is a silent, invisible, odourless, ruthless killer. It is a gas formed by incomplete combustion of carbon. Although our homes and furnaces are considerably better than they used to be, CM still claims victims every year – especially in the winter time.
hen you’re in a place where you see someone who might need a kind word or wave, or even more – simply ask yourself – “WHO IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN THIS ROOM?” I cannot tell you how much that has helped me be a better person and get over myself for the moment. Thank-you Michael.