On the Eighteenth Day of Christmas: Eighteen Impetuous Responses

I was a senior in high school and my youngest sister four years old when our family experienced our first Christmas in South Florida. We had been used to snow or at least colder weather during December, and now we had to get used to shopping in shorts and t-shirts and decorating our home and yard in 70+-degree weather. Going to see Santa in the shopping mall seemed ludicrous; it’s enough of a stretch to believe that Santa can be all we’ve cracked him up to be over the years, that he can and does circle the entire globe each year on Christmas Eve, visiting the homes of earth's children, knowing who is and isn't deserving of gifts, guiding flying sleds and reindeer and breaking into houses through chimneys. Santa’s sleigh and eight tiny reindeer still seems irrelevant in tropical regions. Yet there he is on his throne in the mall by Thanksgiving Day, wearing his red, furry suit, hat and Duck Dynasty beard in the context of a North Pole winter scene. You’d think warm-weather Santa would be allowed to wear shorts and t-shirts, but I guess a myth is a myth; if you believe in Santa at all, you should probably believe there could be snowballs in Florida.

Whether or not my parents wholeheartedly promoted the idea of Santa, they wholeheartedly played along. Though Dad and Mom, both ministers, spent their lives telling people the truth about Christmas, my sisters and brother and I would find several gifts under the tree marked “from Santa." Each year they took us kids to see Santa at the mall and helped us put out cookies and milk for him and Rudolph on Christmas Eve. I’ve always thought them quite generous to share the credit for the time, thought and money they spent to make Christmas Day so special for us.

Remaining faithful to the Santa tradition even in South Florida, my parents took my young sister to see “him” in a mall. As they waited in line, they repeatedly rehearsed with her what she would say to Santa. There’s good reason for this: a few weeks earlier, Mom noticed some welts on the kid's legs when she picked her up one day from preschool; to Mom the welts appeared to be the result of some kind of physical smack. “Did someone hit you?” Mom asked her. “Yes,” my sister answered immediately, adding “with a ruler.”  In less than a nanosecond, Mom was on the phone to the director of the preschool for an explanation. The preschool director, assuring Mom that by law they were not allowed to spank the children, put her on hold to investigate. As she waited, Mom turned to my little sister and asked her again to explain what had happened. She replied, a sweet though impish smile spreading across her little face, that she had only been kidding.

So now, waiting in a long line at the mall, Mom and Dad rehearsed the little girl before setting her loose to speak to Santa. Her requests, appropriate and modest, were for a doll and a bike. While they were rehearsing, a man, standing in front of them with his son asked if they would save their place in line while he dashed into a nearby store to buy cigarettes. My parents happily agreed to do this.

When my sister's turn finally came, Santa greeted her, lifted her onto his lap and asked her, as he has every kid since joining the great commercial Christmas machine, "What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?" 

"I want a pack of cigarettes," she announced to the whole mall. And that was it.

She's also the little kid, by the way, who, when asked in front of some church group whose birthday we celebrate at Christmas, answered, "Jesus Claus."

My conclusion? Based on my experience as a former child, parent and now a grandparent, it's this: creative children teach us very early that there is no such thing as being in control. Sometimes you can only hang on for the ride and trust that there will be adequate wisdom and grace for the unexpected surprises and events—a packed sleigh for sure—that will surely come our way and break into our lives. Let’s plan to just enjoy it all—especially at Christmas.