There comes a point in many of our lives, somewhere in the midst of adolescence, when we become extremely skeptical about Christmas miracles. And we don’t really know why.
Of the possible reasons, the most plausible may be this: this is a consequence of a tremendous blow to our pride — we sincerely believed in Santa Claus, and then suddenly found out that the whole world was deceiving us in the most insidious way. After all, in fact, this is the biggest fraud ever invented by people.
But how could we believe such a thing? Think for yourself: an elderly man who indulges in charity in the most radical forms, giving gifts to all the children and flying over all the chimneys on the planet at the same time — very plausible, right?
The question that is really interesting to ask yourself is this: why do we continue to support this fiction from generation to generation? What parent would be able to say to their three-year-old child, “Wait a minute, my dear, you won’t really think that this old man with a white beard really exists ?!” After all, no! We all play these games! We are all terrible liars, and so one day our children will be sorely disappointed. Isn’t it terrible to realize that we could succumb to such a farce.
Christmas is seeing our children love Christmas
And it’s even worse when they tell us how it all was arranged. When we find out that this philanthropist costume was pulled on by our tipsy neighbor or depressed uncle or stepfather.
So I ask again: why continue all this? Then, that … deep down we all have a good heart!
And then, more than anything else, we love to look at the shining faces of our children. In fact, Christmas is about seeing how our children love Christmas. We enjoy watching them open their presents much more than receiving presents ourselves, don’t we?
Well, I will speak only for myself: they always give me only socks. And in the admiring eyes of my son, I see a reflection of my own childhood. His joyful amazement is that magic ball that can bring me back to my joyful amazement.
Since during my childhood there were no video cameras (let’s not neglect this means of storing memories), from those years I have only very vague images, some fragments of them. Fragments of images that I can recreate when looking at my son. An absolutely extraordinary feeling.
If life were a movie, one could say that with children we watch its beginning again, and with parents we anticipate the end. It turns out that at Christmas we are shown the very first frames! We are becoming children again, and it doesn’t take much for us to believe in Santa Claus again.
Oh yes, how wonderful that would be! He would come, and I know that he would not give me socks.