Caloden

I remember the exact moment I figured it all out. I was five. We were at our kitchen table painting wooden Christmas ornaments, my mom was a combination of cheap and creative and so we often made things like ornaments. My pile contained a variety of Christmas and winter things. There was a snowman, a star, Santa Clause, Baby Jesus in a manger and a very pregnant Mother Mary. I remember looking back and forth between Santa and Mary, puzzling over why Santa traveled down the chimney and Mary had angels for boyfriends. (I have to insert that I had an older brother and through some rather unfortunate events I was well aware of how a lady could get pregnant, a bit much for a five year old to handle.) But as I muddled through the mystery, it hit me. It was all a bunch of hooey. Santa could in no way fit through a chimney and even if he could, he would die of ash inhalation or a clausterphobic fit. Mary and Joseph really were not so chaste, she got with child just like any other woman.

As I watch my own children grow I am awed by their faith. Their innocence is so precious and I want them to trust. I want them to have the luxury to believe.

Every year I get a little antsy around Christmas time. It’s a love hate thing. I want to believe in some of the magic but I end up feeling empty. I wish I could have told my parents at that moment, maybe they would have steered me back towards the magic. I just hope that my children will trust enough to let me know when they are puzzling over the bigger questions.