When Santa Moves In |

By Natasha Hayden
December 11, 2014

photo credit: Joriel “Joz” Jimenez via photopin cc

Santa Claus did not come to my house when I was a kid. I don’t remember having any feelings about Santa Claus one way or the other, actually, because we celebrated Christmas differently. I come from a rich Christian heritage. My grandfather on one side was a pastor. My Opa on the other side was a missionary and Bible translator. My parents are missionaries, and I grew up on the mission field from ages 7-16.

We had interesting Christmas traditions like opening presents on January 6th, the day on which the Church observes the wise men’s presentation of gifts to Jesus. (I do remember that being quite a trial. It might as well have been two months instead of two weeks!) My dad preferred anything but a normal Christmas tree. At least one year, we had a gigantic live wreath suspended from our ceiling by ropes, a sort of hanging advent wreath. And Christmas stockings? I had one of those one year. I didn’t know what to do with it except fill it with homemade presents I intended to give to other people. I’d empty it sometimes to see what I’d collected, and that’s how I discovered a little surprise from my mom that I wasn’t supposed to see until Christmas.

When we moved to Brazil, there wasn’t even any snow to get us in the festive spirit. Nope, just 90 degrees and 100% humidity. In fact, if we celebrated any Christmases in Brazil, I don’t remember them. I remember more the times we visited family back in the United States or even Peru, South America (where the one set of grandparents were missionaries), for the holidays. Christmas was a time when family gathered. What we did didn’t so much matter as being together. And you know what? In all that, I didn’t really miss Santa.

But now it’s different. I live in the United States, and unlike what we did when I was a child, I don’t travel away and visit my parents for Christmas. Sometimes, they come this way. I’ve lived in this house in the heart of America 11 years, longer than any other place in my life. Everything is very American here, including Christmas trees, lights, snow, stockings, Santa–all of it. My in-laws are American (my husband grew up in a Christian family too), and we celebrate with them every year. I have the sweetest mother-in-law in the world who introduced me to the delights of Christmas stockings before I even married my husband. And I’d never seen so many presents beneath (I’m not sure that word is quite appropriate…surrounding maybe, encroaching upon…I’m sure there was a Christmas tree under there somewhere) a tree as I did that first year of celebrating with Nick’s family.

Five years ago, my son was born, and that, once again, changed my Christmases forever. I now have a three-year-old and a five-year-old. My oldest asked me a year ago if Santa is real. How do I answer that? For me, it’s just not that simple.

Maybe it’s my background, but it’s not easy for me to pretend believe in Santa. Despite my mother-in-law’s best efforts, I’ve always been the one at gift-opening non-intentionally looking behind the mask and asking, “Now, who did this come from?” Then I see my children so excited about the presents coming and so excited to find some small treasure in their stockings, and I don’t want to take away their excitement.

But Christmas isn’t really about all the presents. Some of us would like to think it is, but it’s not supposed to be. For all my childhood, it was always carefully focused on Jesus, as I believe it should have been. Not everyone does, but our family celebrates Jesus’ birth on Christmas, and the birth matters because without it, there couldn’t have been a later sacrifice to save us all from our selfishness and greed. We give presents, then, not because that’s just what everyone does at this time of year but because we emulate Jesus, who gave the world the greatest gift of all. Ironic, isn’t it, that Jesus’ sacrifice and death, the reason he came at Christmas, was to atone for our greed, which is most prevalent at Christmas?

So, what do I teach my children? Do I embrace my own childhood or my husband’s traditions? Is one better than the other or just different? Last year, when my son asked about Santa Claus, I found myself at a crossroads I wasn’t prepared for. It seemed to me that to give any credit to Santa, I might discredit Jesus. After all, how is a four-year-old to distinguish between reality and pretend when both of these Christmas heroes are so mysterious and unseen? I couldn’t compare them, and so I answered my very astute boy with the bare truth. Jesus is real, and Santa is not. And that answer stuck with him. Good, right?

But what if it’s not quite as simple as that? What if there is, not a better way necessarily but, a different way…a middle ground? I would never change my answer in a million years if it meant sacrificing my son’s understanding of Jesus, but Santa doesn’t have to be the bad guy either. My husband and I have seriously agonized (well, okay, more me than him) over how to handle this delicate subject matter. And Fyo himself helped us find the answer.

Fyo loves to give gifts. He makes paper crafts and pictures (recently, “books”) all day long and plans whom he’s going to give them to and wraps them if I let him, and I’m not even talking Christmas here. This happens year-round. We gave him white paper and tape for his birthday because he’d asked for them. One day earlier this year, Fyo told me, “I’m the real Santa.” When we put up our tree and stockings this year, a tradition I gladly adopted when I married, Fyo said he was going to be Santa and put some of his own stash of candy in his sister’s stocking. Then she reciprocated, which got them both wanting to do it again (and now I have to tell them that just because they put candy into each other’s stockings doesn’t mean they get to eat it).

It was in the midst of all this that we figured out a compromise to our problem, an idea which some very good Christmas picture books from the library helped to implant. It’s simple really. Five-year-old simple. And our answer is that there are many Santas. After all, do you think these kids really believe that the guys who dress up at the mall and in the parade are the Santa? We can all be Santas for each other. That idea focuses Christmas on giving. Could I have done the same using Jesus instead of Santa? Sure. But why not have both? Why not say, “Santa wouldn’t know how to give gifts without Jesus”? Jesus used stories to get his point across. Why can’t we use the story of Santa? Does that mean Santa can’t drive reindeer all over the world in one night? I don’t know the five-year-old answer to that one yet. Maybe Fyo does.

I’m sure our personal Christmas traditions will evolve over the coming years. We’re not stuck here. We can learn and grow up our answers with our children. What I’ve learned this time around is that there’s value to be gained from many traditions and from none. It doesn’t matter if your Christmas tree is real (despite what you want us to believe, Tim!) or fake or replaced by a gigantic advent wreath. It doesn’t matter if you bake cookies for everyone you know or aren’t even sure you’ll send a Christmas card this year. It doesn’t matter if there are 50 gifts under the tree or one small unexpected treasure in a stocking.

What matters is belief and attitude, one shaped by the other. The movies say you have to believe in Santa for him to be real. I believe that Jesus is very real, whether people believe in him or not. This Christmas, I hope my children understand what really matters. Most of all, I hope they know that Jesus can live in their hearts, but it’s okay, too, if Santa lives in our house.