When I was a kid, I believed in a bearded man that descended to Earth to fulfill my prayers. He donned robes of red and flew in a magical sleigh — his holy bible was the Sears Wish Book. I’d scour and study the good word (and pictures) for hours at a time, compiling my finds into a list. There were many movies dedicated to his ever-presence and magical fulfillment capabilities, so I was well-versed in the doctrine of Old Saint Nick.
One truth that was always told: it was NEVER too late to save Christmas. A Christmas Miracle was ALWAYS waiting around the corner until the very last minute. Children would be filled with glee while adults would finally feel the relief they desperately needed. At first they’d be incredulous, yet they’d have no choice but to believe in the magic of Christmas and graciously accept the gifts they were given.
To say that I’m a fan of Santa is an understatement. When I imagine building my perfect woodworking shop for instance, I imagine it looking like Santa’s Workshop. When I see folks donning his red robes, I don’t see imposters, I see celebrators of the season doing their part to extend his reach. Every lit bulb I see is the twinkle in that jolly ol’ fellow’s eye. I don’t see the commercialization of Christmas, I see the physical representation of joy wrapped in paper ready to be ripped apart to reveal the revelry within.
To gaze upon his visage, I see a selfless elf with boundless cheer toting a bottomless sack containing the fulfillment of everyone’s wishes. And all he asks in return, is that you live your best life. Is that not a being worthy of the highest praise? You ask me, when the chips are down, when times are tough, when the final flicker flashes — you ask me who I call for help? It’s Santa Claus.