believe

Apparently, this is the year none of my children believe in Santa Claus. And get this. They think that I am Santa. They think my husband is Santa. How ridiculous is that? Like I have the time and money to pull off what Santa has done for the last 17 years. Please, I am hard pressed to get dinner on the table seven nights a week. How on earth can I afford to buy, wrap, hide, and, without waking anybody up, place stacks of gifts that magically appear by sunrise? And what about that one Christmas morning we all woke up to find a dog under the tree? A dog! I would never do that.

And my kids are funny. The little ones- (and yes, I include the 13 year old in that, and if you are thinking to yourself, “Lady, what is wrong with you? She is in the 7th grade!”, then you can just stand in the corner with my husband, who is currently shaking his head and saying the same exact thing) -they poke and prod me the weeks before Christmas, testing me and questioning me, demanding that I just confess, once and for all, that there is no Santa to believe in. But the moment I suggest that maybe, just maybe, it is their father and mother that make the Christmas magic happen, they gasp out loud, and cover their faces, as if the mere sight of me speaking this hideous nonsense will burn their eyes. And then, after what feels like hours of silence, they drop their hands, open their eyes, and walk away heavy, leaving behind a trail of let down and disappointment. And so I call them back, and I look them square on and I ask them, “Which is more fun? Believing that Santa brings you gifts, or believing that mom and dad buy you gifts?” Without hesitation, they whisper, “Santa”.

My husband and I have always believed that once the kids were old enough to “know the truth” a certain burden would be lifted. For starters, no longer can the sky be the limit, asking for outrageously expensive gift items because at long last, they would understand the value of a dollar, and how few of them we have. The fear of them stumbling upon packages and wrapping would diminish, allowing us to let go and relax, and truly enjoy the weeks leading up to Christmas day. In theory, this sounds great. But the truth? Along with the truth comes the knowledge that we can no longer hope for the impossible, because with mom and dad, there are limits. And we can no longer expect magic and mystery, because the one we believed in doesn’t really exist. And yes, I get that this is a good thing, for our children need to understand that Christmas is not about what lies under the tree, but rather, who lays in the manger. And nobody wants her children to get that more than me; to grow so close to Jesus that their desire to want for themselves gives birth to a greater desire to give of themselves, even on, especially on, Christmas morning.

“Yes, blessed is she who believed, that the promise made her by the Lord would be fulfilled.” (Luke 1:45) I imagine Mary quite often. I try to picture in my mind what she looked like, how she was sitting, what she was wearing, when the angel appeared to her, taking her “to do”list, and tearing it up into a million small pieces. I try to imagine what must have run through her mind, and I search for a speck of doubt, a moment of hesitation. And then I hear her say “yes”. I picture her... so incredibly beautiful, so humble, so trusting. And then I see the shadow come upon her...and I have heard others comment how scary this sounds...but oh, not to me. I see it like an enormous, heated blanket; the kind that is weighted, and smells of lavender, where it’s very heaviness on your shoulders is not a burden, but an embrace. And you have to wonder how she had the courage to agree to this. You have to wonder how she could have thrown away her plan, to take on God’s. And there is only one word that allows this story to make any sense to me: believe. Mary believed. She believed in God. She believed in doing His will. She believed in His promise. She believed that His plan was better than hers. She believed that it was for the good of her soul. No matter how troubling, no matter how impossible, no matter how inconvenient, she chose to believe. And blessed, is she.

I want to believe like Mary believed. Of course, I like to justify my moments of disbelief by saying, “Well, come on...she got an angel!!! I mean, if you sent me an actual angel I could see and hear, Lord, well then for sure, I would totally believe.” When the truth is, if God sent me an actual angel I could see, I would probably be so frightened I would either try to beat it with a baseball bat or immediately die of a heart attack. I panic and dial 911 when the UPS guy knocks on my door (true story), what on earth would happen if an angel appeared? And while I admit that my faith can waver with circumstance, I still, no matter what, get into my bed at night and whisper, “yes, I believe. Jesus, I trust in You. I do believe.” Sometimes with total conviction, and other times, through sorrowful tears. But still, no matter how much I may doubt or wish that things were different or easier, I choose to uncover my face, to open my eyes, and to whisper, “I believe.”

My ten year old just shared with me that he is a little bit scared because when he mentioned the X box he wanted for Christmas, dad rolled his eyes, as if to say, “not happening”. I asked him, “Has Santa ever let you down on Christmas morning?” He took a moment, then dropped his shoulders and blew out a sigh of relief, because for this little boy, Santa has always come, just as expected. Then he straightened up and said, “Well, I am not asking the fat guy in the red suit for an X box, I am asking Saint Nick.” And perhaps this is his way of holding on to the mystery and magic. And maybe, just maybe, it is a good transition from the Christmas the world sells us, to the Christmas that came to save the world. And I am ok with this. We are ok with this. Because either way, we have not let go of hope; the great expectation of good gifts to come. Like Mary, we choose to believe, because we trust in the promise we know will be fulfilled. And blessed, are we.