As a young child Christmas
obviously had religious meaning. I attended Catholic Mass several times with my
mother on Christmas. I attended High Mass one Christmas Eve and was struck with
the additional pageantry that was not a part of my normal church going. Of
course there were gifts, which is what Christmas was really about. And Santa
Claus, perhaps magical at an age I can’t now remember, was a confusing figure
in my earliest memories.
I remember wondering how Santa Claus made it to every home at Christmas; and
he did that it only one night?? it just didn't seem right. Okay, my mom said
he had keys to everyone’s home (she said the story of coming down the chimney
was an old-time story and obviously couldn't work in our modern age when chimneys
were not common). That seemed odd too, why didn't I hear more about unlocking doors?
Why would you want Santa Claus to have keys to your house, even if he was a good guy?
What if he lost the keys, how did he get them, what if you changed the locks…something
was not right. And then there are so many kids in the world? She said each country
in the world had a Santa Claus specific to their country. And not everyone had
snow, and he had a sled, and…
Christmas was simple at
our house: On Christmas Eve we would open the gifts from relatives or friends. These
gifts were most often socks or a shirt; something practical and useful. Then I
and my siblings each received one gift from Santa Claus on Christmas morning along
with a Christmas stocking he filled with an orange, nuts, and one candy cane.
With little reference to other families outside my immediate and extended family,
I thought this was typical. Then one Christmas we had dinner with a family on
our block. They had been my god-parents when at the late age of eight I was baptized
in the Catholic Church (a story for another time). I was told he was an
Engineer at the company where my dad worked. They had several kids, and Santa
had brought MANY gifts to each of them. I was amazed. My mom said it was
because they were a rich family and Santa had to give them more.
When the day came that my
mom had to tell me the truth I remember feeling validated…the story was fake
and now I knew the truth! With all my suspicions, and now knowing the truth, I
felt so grown-up. I was told not to tell anyone, to let it be a secret, and to
let my younger siblings enjoy the fantasy. Okay, the important thing now was I
knew something only adults knew and kids did not. I was not a kid anymore!
Soon after this ‘adult-creating’
moment we went to my grandparents for a quick visit. My mom encouraged me to ‘tell
grandpa what you know’. And yes, I wanted to share, I was so proud of what I
knew. I grabbed my grandpa’s big hands and pulled him back into a bedroom, “Grandpa,
I know a secret I want to tell you”. I don't know if he knew what I was going to say; but when I told him he looked at me for an extended moment and then asked if I knew what
Christmas was really about. Well of course I did! I had just told him! He
started to explain the REAL meaning, and I said, rather impatiently, 'I know, I know'...and I left the room.
I wish I had stayed and
listened. I wish I knew now what he would have said to me. I can imagine what
he might have said, but I missed my chance to know. Whatever my grandfather might have described to me, about how he 'felt' about Christmas it is lost to me...but I know today that it would have been extraordinary; he was going to share a part of himself about something that was very
important to him. My grandfather died many years later, and I never really knew
him.
This story happened long ago, but every so often I catch myself repeating this mistake. I think I know something and in
my rush to speak I miss the opportunity to know something deeper, something
more meaningful, something more personal. I miss the chance to connect at very intimate level.
It happened again to me just the other day: I missed a conversation; instead I exchanged a few words. And I can't pull it back, can't replay it. I missed another intimate connection.
It happened again to me just the other day: I missed a conversation; instead I exchanged a few words. And I can't pull it back, can't replay it. I missed another intimate connection.
No, this is not a story
about Santa Claus…
