My Sister’s Santa
“What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?” That question inspired so much hope and excitement as a child. Believing it was possible to sit on the knee of the world’s most powerful and generous philanthropist and offer a list of things that would bring me joy on Christmas morning was magic.
The magic ended on my 6th Christmas Eve. I thought I heard something in the night and snuck downstairs to catch Santa in the act. That I did, though ‘Santa’ didn’t realize it at the time. The reflection in the mirror at the base of the stairs of my mother stuffing items into our stockings was unexpected. Two things came to mind immediately. One, she was filling the stockings like a pro with previous experience. Two, something that seemed too good to be true clearly was and, if I wanted to keep getting extra gifts from Santa, I needed to do something completely out of character. I needed to shut up.
Miraculously, I did just that. I didn’t even tell my twin sister our mother’s secret. That meant living with someone who believed something with her whole heart that I knew to be fiction. And believe she did. From gushing over Santa’s presents the next morning, to openly dreaming about his future generosity in the months leading up to his return, Jennifer was all in. The moment I was most tempted to spill the beans was Christmas Eve of the following year. It was a dark night with clear skies. I remember the moon was quite bright. My sister, standing at the window in our living room, gasped. She was certain she’d seen Santa and his sleigh pass in front of the moon. Eyes wide, she was earnest in her testimony. Knowing she was full of more than Christmas cookies, I challenged her assessment. She would not be swayed. She genuinely believed she’d seen Santa. It’s amazing what we can believe we’ve seen when looking through the lens of our expectations.
I went to bed that night thinking about how dumb my sister was. It didn’t occur to me I probably would have believed the same thing had I not seen our mom stuffing stockings the previous year. As dumb as I thought my sister was, I didn’t point it out. It wasn’t worth risking losing the rituals of stockings and extra toys. My judgment of her wasn’t entirely negative. There was something sweet about her insistence. I remember a pang of regret that I wasn’t sharing the moment with her with the opportunity to still believe in his magic. I felt older than Jennifer in that moment and kind of alone in having less to be excited about.
I’m not sure how and when my sister realized our mom was Santa. My guess is that my sister eventually asked my mother a straightforward question and no lies were told. My mother is good at vague when a moment calls for ambiguity. Lying has never been her style.
Like most years, this Christmas Eve I’m thinking about my sister standing at the window marveling over ‘her’ Santa. He wasn’t mine at that point. Mine was mom. It usually makes me giggle, but today I feel a bit heavy-hearted. For the first time, I’m wondering what that moment taught me about what to expect of life in general.
So much of my frustration over the past few years has been related to people believing in something or someone — with their whole heart, the best of intentions and assurances from people they trust & find credible — facts and logic contradict. What if this is their Santa? What if what they believe is perceived to play a pivotal role in their future blessings and good fortune? What if their Santa isn’t willing to admit they’ve been less than truthful for the sake of tradition, ego or popularity? How do we create a means for those who believe in something or someone to question what’s real without making them feel dumb for what they saw when looking at situations through the lens of their expectations?
