The house was decorated in reds and greens and twinkly lights. Carols had been sung. Presents had been wrapped. Cookies and milk were carefully placed on the table by tiny hands. Carrots sat next to the cookies because, after all, reindeer get hungry too. 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even our dog. The stockings would have been hung by the chimney with care but we had no chimney so we'd left a key on the front porch for St. Nicholas--hoping he would soon be there. My brother and I were nestled all snug in our beds while visions of sugar plums danced in our heads. Oh, who am I kidding. To this day I don't know what a sugar plum is. I just looked it up on the Internet and, given the almonds and pitted dates that the recipe called for, I don't think I'd be much of a fan. Visions of sugar plums didn't dance in our heads. Visions of candy canes and cookies and presents definitely did. And mamma in her kerchief and papa in his cap had just settled their brains for a long winter's nap.
Just the thought of my mom in a kerchief and my dad sleeping in a stocking cap makes me smirk. They definitely don't slumber in such attire. In any case, out on the lawn--or somewhere, I don't know--there arose such a clatter, I awoke and froze in my bed...something was the matter. I was certain I'd heard Santa.
I was also certain that my bladder was extremely full and in serious need of relief. I also believed that if I got up and caught sight of Santa, he'd leave without bestowing gifts upon my brother and myself. I couldn't be responsible for such a Christmas catastrophe. So I laid there. And laid there. And laid there. I had no idea how long it took Santa to fill stockings and place gifts under the tree with care but I knew that I'd better make good and sure he was gone before I got up.
In all my five-year-oldness I squirmed. I couldn't take it anymore. I finally decided that I'd rather come face to face with Santa than wet my bed. I dashed from my room to the bathroom. I remember closing my eyes tightly and hoping that Santa would understand my basic human need to pee. When I finished I sprinted back to my bed, dove under the covers and whispered, "Sorry Santa. I really had to go."
In the morning my stocking was brimming with goodies and my name was on several of the packages under the tree. Santa had been there. Whether he'd been there at the exact time I had to go to the bathroom, I'll never know. I'll never know if he was there, unloading loot, at the precise moment that I was dashing down my hallway. I could have come face to face with jolly old St. Nicholas. But I didn't...
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This blog writer believes that Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life. She believes that he is THE reason for the Christmas season. She is also thankful that, as a child, her parents shared a little of the magic of St. Nick with her.
I concur. Santa is fun. There's no harm in it.
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