By Angela Carling
I could hear them moving around,
feet padding softly on the cold wood floor of the living room. Sometimes my makeshift
bed moved a little, a small bump and then I’d smell my mother’s perfume
drifting as she leaned over my frail Eleven year old body. Her hair tickled as
it brushed across my sallow cheeks but I still kept my eyes shut. It was easier
that way, the light only added to my sense of fogginess and the terrible pain
that ravaged my body.
“Maybe we should pray.” My mother
whispered her voice hoarse.
“No,” my father’s voice thundered
in return. You know we don’t lean on fictitious Gods and superstitious
nonsense.”
I couldn’t see it, but I imagined
my mom shrinking back, her forehead crinkled up and her eyes tearing in the
corners. A heavy silence set in and I felt myself drifting. I wondered. Was
this it? Was I finally going to die? The dark around me was thick and wet like
the bathroom after a long shower. Off in a distance I saw the pinpoint of
light. The light grew quickly and with it a warmth like nothing I’d ever felt
before. It rooted from inside me
working its way out until I was cocooned in a blanket of calm and serenity. Out
of the brightness stepped a man. I recognized him instantly even though he
didn’t match up with the many variations I’d seen in department stores and
parades.
It was Santa Claus or Old Saint
Nick as I’d heard him called. I wasn’t allowed to believe in him. My parents told me he was a lie as soon as I
was old enough to understand. Real is real my father always said. It you can’t
see it, it doesn’t exist. Still, I’d hoped up until just last year on my eleventh
birthday that he would come to my house and prove my father wrong. My father
caught wind of my hopefulness and showed me photo after photo of the North Pole
barren and cold, with no trace of a workshop or elves anywhere. He also
promised if I let go of my silly childhood fantasies, he’d double my Christmas
presents as a reward for showing my maturity.
I got sick a few months later. I
grew up quickly and stopped believing in anything I couldn’t see.
He stood in front of me. His snow
white hair grew wild and long and his broad shoulders filled out his thick red
sweatshirt. Most amazing of was the way he smelled, like pure childhood
joy. A little bit of mint and chocolate
and somehow like fresh snow and sunshine on a warm spring day. His gaze settled
on me piercing but kind.
He reached out and brushed his
fingers across my forearm. That was when I realized I was standing on strong
legs. Like a drug without side effects my pain was steadily fading away and along
with it the horrible fogginess from the pain medication. Soon everything was
crisp, the red of his clothes so vivid and the smell of his skin wonderfully
pungent. If this was death, I could deal
with it.
“Why are you here?” I asked. The
awe bled through in my voice and for the first time in my life I didn’t have to
hide it.
His lips curled up making his eyes
brighten in response. His fingers lightly tightened on my arm again tickling my
sensitive skin. “Christopher,” he began, “I’m here to give you your Christmas
gift.” Before going on, he winked and chuckled
as if he knew a delicious secret.
“It’s a gift that will last
forever.”
For the first time in a long time
my stomach flip-flopped with excitement and I allowed the feeling flow freely.
“Can we go now?” I asked feeling
like a regular ten year old instead of a dying child.
Santa glanced in my direction and
winked at me. “We’re already there.”
In front of us a narrow stairway
took shape. Somehow, like St. Nick, I knew it was always there but never saw it
before. I followed him down taking each stair with care. Unlike me, he bounded
the steps with eagerness. It reminded me of the commercials I’d seen of
children on Christmas morning. It was so different than our Christmases. His excitement was contagious and I began to
jump from stair to stair trying to catch up. Near the bottom, I froze my mind
commanding my feet to be still. Not far from the stairwell another familiar
scene was laid out before me. I knew it
instantly. I’d seen it many times before in pictures and on front lawns with
plastic figures and lit mangers. It was birth of the man the world called Jesus
Christ. Near the manger Santa rested on one knee peering down at the child in
the manger. His head bowed and his eyes wide with reverence and awe.
How could this be? Santa a figure of love and kindness, that
wasn’t hard to imagine as real, but a person that could save us all? I’d had
friends that believed. I knew what they said and who they worshipped, but my
father always said they were weak and simple.
Since the day I was born, I was taught to rely on science, on what I
could see and touch and now in front of me was something my father called a
lie. Yet it wasn’t.
I rushed to the manger and stood
next to Santa. The smell of fresh hay filled
my senses and the light of a dim lantern caused me to squint in the otherwise
black night. It all felt so real, so….
verifiable to use one of my father’s own scientific words.
Santa turned to me his blue eyes
shining in the flickering light. “This,” he said, “is the Son of God. He is the
Savior of the world and the greatest gift ever given to mankind.”
Without realizing I’d moved, I reached
out and touched the baby’s small hand. His skin was smooth and soft and the
rise and fall of his breath even and content. Inside me deep in my gut a desire
was growing. I had to know, was my father wrong? Was there really a God and did
his Son come to earth as a man to save us?
I glanced at Santa. He grinned at
me. “Go ahead,” he said again seeming to know my thoughts.
“Are you real and do you love me,”
I blurted out to the child even though I knew my father would think it was
silly.
The child opened his eyes and
looked at me. Behind his young gaze was wisdom and most of all, concern for me.
Almost immediately and without a word spoken I felt his response. My belly
began to swell with warmth and an indescribably bliss. That feeling grew until
my entire body tingled and burned with the happiest sensation I’d ever felt. Then
I heard a voice as if he were speaking directly into my heart and mind. “I am
real. Come and follow me.”
I dropped to knees and bowed before
the manger. Tears streamed down my face, yet I was happy. The feeling of his
love was so wonderful that I didn’t ever want it to end. “Oh Jesus,” I cried
“Let me be with you forever.”
I looked to my side and Santa was
gone. Just like Christmas Eve, he’d given me his gift and slipped away.
I turned back to the manger. Then I heard the Savior’s words as plain and
clear as he was a man speaking to me.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Now return to your family and bring them the
truth.”
The scene before me faded and I
heard in the distance my mother’s tender voice.
“Please God let him live through
the night.”
I traveled through the dark again
only this time, my body felt light. Soon the blackness gave way and I opened my
eyes to see my Mother kneeling by my bed. My father stood teetering from foot
to foot as she prayed. He was the first to realize I was awake.
I sat up in bed with strength I’d
hadn’t felt in months. “He’s real,” I blurted out. “I saw Jesus Christ and he
is so completely real.”
My mother gasped and leapt up from
her knees. She wrapped her arms around me squeezing me tight. Her love reminded
me of the way it felt to be near Jesus and I held her in return. “Jesus gave me
one more night, mom. He wants you to know he loves you.” Even though I couldn’t see her I knew she was
crying. Soon her tears began to drip on my neck warm and salty. I didn’t even
care.
When she finally pulled back, my
dad came close and sat on the edge of my bed. His eyes too, were moist. “I saw and touched Jesus.” I said, “And,” I
paused wondering if my dad would believe.
“I felt his love and even though I can’t see him now, I know he’s real.” My father searched my face. Like always, he
was searching for truth. Satisfied with what he saw, he pulled me close and
held me without saying a word.
We talked and laughed about other
things that Christmas night, but we were all thinking about the Savior.
Just after midnight, I heard my
mother’s voice again. It seemed to be
drifting away from me.
“He’s gone to be God,” she
said. My father didn’t object. The
darkness around me soon gave way to a growing light except this time; I knew
who would greet me. Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Eagerly, I ran to him letting
the light and love of my holy God take me home where I would wait for someday
when my parents would join me forever.
