A Season to Believe

I was going to get back my to my usual profanity-laced tongue-in-cheek ridonkulousness today to lighten the mood but — ya know what — I’m not quite ready just yet. I actually wrote this one weeks ago, and feel that it’s almost eerily appropriate for today. Hope you enjoy:

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been what I can only refer to as a “holiday junkie.” I can’t get enough of this season, and I go through serious withdrawal when it’s over. It seems like just yesterday that my brother and I would lie there on Christmas Eve and yell to each other from across the hall. “You hear him yet?” “Nahh, you?” “Not yet!” Of course, I never actually heard Santa, but that never bothered me, as I believed like no other. It didn’t matter that the card on the presents were in my mother’s handwriting, or that I never actually heard the reindeer hit the roof. I made sure not to think too hard about the fact that one portly gentlemen and eight reindeer were supposedly circling the globe, managing to get gifts to all the good kids in the world in one measly evening. He was as real to me as the air I breathed. Even when I got older and approached the time of finding out “the big and disappointing secret,” it seemed like my subconscious tried to fight it. I squelched the nagging doubt in the back of my mind, and managed to believe right up until that fateful day when my parents decided the gig was up. Sigh. That was a hard day.

Now that I have two boys of my own, I live vicariously through them, and you know what I miss the most? That suspension of disbelief. It doesn’t matter if I forget to move Rupert (our Elf on the Shelf), as I do nearly every day. I come up with an excuse each and every time, as I wait until my four-year-old goes potty to move him to his next spot. Without a hint of disappointment, he’ll exclaim, “Look, Mom, Rupert did move! There he is!” He’s a believer, through and through, and, for that, I can’t help but feel a pang of pure and utter envy. We’ve seen a grisly, drunken looking Santa at the mall, catching an elderly, cherubic Santa on the same day across town. He never questions the discrepancy, but cherishes every second of the season with a near fervor.

Oh we of little faith – as adults, we become jaded, expecting everything to be proven to us beyond a reasonable doubt. Our movies have to be realistic enough, with many actors now doing their own stunts. God forbid we actually think Tom Cruise can’t really scale a building with a carabineer, a flashlight, and a healthy amount of courage. Many of us have even given up on church (I’m a bit of a fallen-away Catholic, myself), wondering how any God could allow for things like cancer, AIDS, and the war-torn Middle East. We read of fiscal cliffs, school shootings, and the spread of meningitis. It’s no wonder we have lost faith.

But things are going to be different this year. I’m standing up to pessimism, and I’m choosing to have faith in the unseen, just like my kids. Perhaps it’s just a suspension of disbelief. Either way, I’m going to put out those cookies for Santa and those carrot sticks for Rudolph and his gang. I’m going to work on restoring my faith in God and in my fellow man, and I’m going to do one thing I haven’t done in years: believe.

Christmas picture

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Comments

  1. Ned says:

    What? There is no Santa?

    Nice article, Marn! Dadbapproves.

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