“The gospel has not abrogated legends.
It has hallowed them.” -JRR Tolkien
It happened one Christmas when I was a boy. It seemed back then that I was always sick and spent hours at home absorbed in my books. One of my favorites, especially at Christmastime, was The Polar Express. I can remember how my heart would swell when I would come to the end and ever time I would whisper earnestly, “I do believe.”
That Christmas my dad spent hours out in the shop doing something. Whenever I would ask him about it he would smile and say, “Something special.” Then, one evening a week before Christmas, he came into the house carrying large objects draped in a sheet. Mom, sister and I gathered around him with excitement as he set them down next to the tree and uncovered them.
“Merry Christmas,” he said with a chuckle.
For a moment, we all just stood there gazing at them. Then, mom looked at dad with a half smile and said she wasn’t too sure about them. She went into the kitchen to finish supper and I looked up at dad and saw a twinkle in his eye.
“I made them for all of us, but mostly for you,” he said, looking right into my eyes.
He followed mom into the kitchen and left me and my sister staring at the sculptures.
“It looks like Father Christmas,” she said.
“Or Santa Claus,” I added.
“How did daddy do it,” she asked. “He looks so real.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But daddy’s can do things that other’s can’t.”
She smiled a moment, contemplating my answer. Then, as if it was enough for her, she turned toward the fireplace and continued with her dolls. But I couldn’t stop looking at dad’s sculptures.
“They are amazing,” I whispered in awe.
I dropped to my knees and crawled around to inspect them closer.
Father Christmas was kneeling by a manger. His red cap was in his hand and his head was bowed as he looked at a perfect little baby laying there. The baby had a glow about him and seemed to be looking up into Santa’s face with an infant smile.
“I like it a lot dad,” I said as I went to bed that night.
In the days that followed I spent hours by the fire in the living room reading, looking at the tree and contemplating the meaning of Father Christmas and the baby Jesus. As the days passed, mom and dad brought in gift after gift until the tree was heaped about with bright packages. Christmas Eve came all too fast, as it always does. Sister was jumping up and down with anticipation and my heart had that holiday flutter that it always gets.
That night mom made all of our favorite treats and dad recited the Christmas story out of Luke. I remember he read The Night Before Christmas and then, The Polar Express. We knelt around the tree, Father Christmas, and the manger and said our prayers. Just before we went to bed, we hung up our stockings on the fireplace mantle.
I lay in my bed for a long time that night thinking about the magic of the hour. I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard something above me. Rising up on my elbows, I listened carefully. Sure enough, there was something on the roof. I could hear the crunch of snow and a chorus of muffled thuds. With my heart in my throat, I threw back my covers and crept downstairs. A glow filled the living room as I looked over the railing toward the tree. Santa, yes…that was Santa, was kneeling before the tree with his back to me. No, wait. That’s dad’s Santa. I drew as close as I dared. The manger was radiating light.
“Come here my boy.” Father Christmas was looking at me. I could hear my heart pounding in my throat as I drew back.
“S…Santa?” I said, faltering.
“I’ve been watching you, son. You said you believed. We have something in common, you and I,” he said.
I couldn’t believe my ears. He put his arm on my shoulder and we took a few steps together toward the manger.
“I do believe,” I said in a small voice. “I really do.”
Soon Father Christmas and I were kneeling together before the baby Jesus. But the baby was not alone. His mother was reaching down and drawing him into her arms. Joseph smiled at us. And the room was filled with the anthem of a thousand angels. My eyes pooled as I tried to sing along. As the refrain faded, I felt a tug on my night shirt.
“Father Christmas,” a young voice asked shyly.
I looked behind me. It was my sister. She was staring at me, her mouth half open and her eyes wide.
“No,” I said. “Santa is right…here….” My voice dropped off as I realized that Father Christmas was gone.
“I thought you were him,” my sister said. “You were singing and kneeling by the manger.”
I looked again. There was only a manger there with dad’s baby Jesus laying in it and I kneeling before it with Santa’s cap in my hand.
“Where’s dad’s….” I didn’t finish my question. I fingered Santa’s cap as I gave my sister a hug and helped her back to dreamland.
The next morning it was true. Father Christmas was gone. We looked high and low but he was not to be found. Through the years the baby and the manger have stood by our tree each Christmas. To this day, my family speculates about what happened to Father Christmas that night.
But I know. And, from the twinkle in his eye, I think dad knows too. Through the ages, the whole world has looked on as the pageant of the manger King has been re-enacted in myth, story and song. But only those who believe are transformed. Santa’s cap hangs by my door every day of every year, for I believe. Dad’s Father Christmas is me.
