It’s nearly Christmas and I know, from my own experience and from watching my children grow up, these are days when doubts about Santa Claus bubble up.
It’s inevitable, kind of a right of passage, a crossroads in our journey toward adulthood where we decide how the red-hatted fellow who kept us up nights waiting for a glimmer, a sound, the faintest hint of a rooftop shuffle, fits into our unfolding narratives.
I hit that crossroads like anyone else. And I chose to believe. A good many years have unspooled since then, and I still believe.
That belief is a choice, because I can’t point to hard evidence to back it up. I don’t have photos of Santa tromping out from the fireplace. I haven’t seen satellite images of the North Pole that conclusively indicate a workshop, or elves, or reindeer that fly.
It’s a choice between believing in something good ‒ be it a jolly bearded elf, an idea or a spirit ‒ and believing the feelings of excitement and anticipation that gripped me every Christmas Eve as a child were grounded in nothing. I think it’s important to respect whatever choice a person makes, and I’ve made mine. I believe.
