“I don’t believe in Santa!” pouted Mr. Eight, “He’s not real.” I smiled and mentally added his name to my list. “We’ll see about that,” I muttered as he sauntered off.
Three days before Christmas an envelope from Santa appeared in Mr. Eights’ letterbox which left him speechless. That Christmas he received two special gifts: a dose of humility, and the knowledge that there may still be a little magic left in this cynical world.
His father wasn’t impressed. “You!” he cried, waving Santa’s letter in my face, “You’re behind this! It’s the sort of stupid thing you’d do!”
You see, my mate had just returned from a trip where he’d taken a wrong turn (there was a girl involved) and he found himself freezing outside Santa’s house in Finland. He didn’t get the girl, but he got Santa’s address, which he gave to me; for some reason.
Intrigued, I wrote to Santa, using my daughters’ name, and two weeks later she received a lovely letter from Lapland. I was so impressed I showed it to everyone we knew, only to have smart-alecky Mr. Eight scoff at it.
So, I wrote another letter to Santa with his name on it, then added the names and addresses of all the other children we knew. They, and their parents, were delighted when Santa’s letters arrived.
Except Mr. Eight’s dad. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want my boy growing up believing in some invisible, gift giving, sky fairy!” I glanced at the cross around his neck. “That’s different!” he yelled.
Correct. I’ve never heard of Santa suicide bombers, countries going to war over Santa, or reading accounts of First Nation peoples being enslaved, or wiped out, in the name of Santa. So folks, if you must believe in one of the many invisible, gift giving, sky fairies available, then you could do a lot worse than Santa.
Plus, you really can visit him in Rovaniemi, Finland. Or, if you’d prefer to stay warm, online at: http://www.santaclausvillage.info/
So kids, don’t tell me Santa isn’t real; or I’ll put your name on my list.