Dear Santa

My daughter’s letter to Santa. A little fuzzy, I know, but appropriate since I’m feeling a little fuzzy at the moment myself. The fairy charms and jewels and the Guess Who? game are hidden in the closet of my office, along with a few other things that will come as a pleasant surprise to her come Christmas morning. But what she wants most, for all the children to get thousands of toys? Well, that’s a little more than this Santa can deliver. Funny that she thinks every child should get a set of Crayolas. I think that’s a good idea. I agree that the world needs more brightening. I wrote a letter to Santa every year until I was nine, when The Dreaded Truth finally came out. After that, my annual wish list was devoid of carefully planned sentences and colored pictures and instead came in the form of a few scribbles on scrap paper that I handed to my mother. That Santa wasn’t real didn’t bother me so much, mostly because I suppose I always had my doubts. Rudolph, too, seemed a bit preposterous. A flying reindeer with a neon nose? Please. And I never really bought the fact that elves my toys either, especially since I found all of them on the shelf at the K Mart. But I missed writing my letters. They seemed so personal and intimate.

My son asked me this morning if I had written my letter to Santa. I told him no, that only kids wrote letters. “Grownups are old enough to take care of themselves,” I said. He thought about that then said no one can really take care of themselves and that the Bible said so. He had a point. I realized then that more than anything, having to stop writing those annual letters snuffed the magic out of Christmas for me. But now that I’m a father, I’ve found that somewhere in my secret places an ember still burned. That magic wasn’t really snuffed out at all. It has sparked once more. So the two of us sat at the dining room table together, trying to figure out what I wanted and what I really didn’t.

The result: Dear Santa, Hello from Billy. I know it’s been a while since I’ve written you, but I’m hoping you understand. And there have been times when I really wasn’t a very good boy, but I’m hoping you understand that, too. It is with full clarity of mind and absolute faith that I wish for no presents this year. I wish my stocking to be empty and my customary place beneath the tree bare. I need no gifts that can be purchased from internet sites or department stores. They will not make me a better man, a better husband, or a better father. Instead, I merely ask for another year of what I have received my entire life. I ask for love to accept my imperfections and failures. Not through excuse, but through the understanding that no matter how horribly I may act, there is not a day that begins without my solemn vow to make it a better one than the day before. I ask for companionship in those days of drear—of which I am sure there will be many—as well as those days of cheer—of which I hope there will be just as many.

I ask for faith to push me forward when I wish to turn away, to never surrender to the poisons of doubt and despair, and to convince me that God would rather lose His Son than lose me. I ask for hope to give me strength to see the world in all its cruelty and still believe that in the end good will triumph over evil, right will overcome wrong, and peace will reign forever more. Lastly, I ask for the magic to believe that the spirit of Christmas can be found throughout the year, that the giving and sharing of our blessings draw us not only nearer to one another, but nearer to God. And that miracles and angels abound every day. Love. Companionship. Faith. Hope. Magic. These are my wishes for this year. Gifts intended not just for me, but for everyone. Ones given freely on that first Christmas two thousand years ago, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. Hope to see you soon, and thanks in advance. Billy

Picture and post by Billy Coffey of billycoffey.com.