My Return to the True Faith

by Madeleine Kando

Like most children, I believed in Santa while I was growing up. How could I not? He was a sweet, jovial, warm kind of fellow and I always wondered what would happen if I would catch him in the act of coming down the chimney. Would he wink at me, say ‘ho, ho, ho’, put lots and lots of presents under the tree and climb back up on his way to another family’s chimney? Or would he get upset and do an about-face to teach me a lesson?

As Christmas approached I was always a much nicer person because I knew that Santa was paying close attention to what I was doing. In fact, closer to Christmas, every move I made was scrutinized by this little inner voice in my head that said: ‘What would Santa think of what you are doing?’

I don’t remember when exactly I lost the faith. Maybe it was after I saw my father sneak downstairs on Christmas Eve with lots of boxes in his arms. I didn’t observe any noticeable deterioration in my post-Santa existence, so he slowly slipped into the box marked ‘useless beliefs for the gullible me’, which I stored away in the recesses of my increasingly critical mind.

We still held on to the Christmas tradition, even after I discovered that the Santa I had believed in for so many years was the creation of a cartoonist by the name of Thomas Nast. This mere mortal had been commissioned to create the Santa character as a ploy to keep Union soldiers motivated in their grueling campaigns during the Civil War!

When we moved to a new town and a new house without a chimney, it was clear proof that being good around Christmas time was a waste of my time.

On a cold but sunny December afternoon, we went on our annual Christmas shopping bonanza. Perfectly trimmed Christmas trees were lining the wide and clean streets. There was not a chimney in sight. According to our map, downtown housed a celebrated statue marked as ‘Our Savior’. We approached it from the back, a gigantic construction, and we could see that it was primarily red in color. Soon we could distinguish its features and to our amazement, we recognized the familiar features: long white beard, red hat with a white pompon and the baggy red pants of none other than Santa!

Why would they put up a statue of Santa in such a prominent location? A little further down the road, we saw an oddly shaped building. It had the shape of a sled with stone reindeer statues flanking the wide entrance. A group of men and women were crowding each other to go in, their hands neatly folded, their heads bowed down.

As we passed the sled building we heard the crowd recite in unison: ‘Oh, Santa and thy elves, hallowed be Thy Name. Give us this day our daily presents, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.’ We saw people clutch what looked like Christmas socks as they stood in neat rows looking up adoringly at a gigantic photograph of Santa.

The large department store that we entered emanated a familiar scent, which we recognized as incense. Festive displays of giant sleds, T-shirts emblazoned with ‘Santa Loves Me’, Barbie dolls that suspiciously looked like Ms. Kringle, and mugs that read ‘Praise Santa’, were on display.

On our way home, we passed the same sled-shaped building, just in time to see a drove of elated town folk stream out of the giant double doors, their Christmas socks filled to the brim with presents. A few, here and there, their eyes moist with repressed tears, were dragging their sock on the ground, like deflated balloons, devoid of any content. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw them being unobtrusively followed by a group of men in red and green uniforms.

A little boy, beaming with joy, skipped by us and my curiosity got the better of me. 'Why are those people crying?' I asked, pointing to the deflated sock-holding individuals. 'Oh, they didn’t repent’ he said. 'They were told to go home and say 10 hail Rudolfs and come back next Christmas.'

'Does everyone believe in Santa here?' I asked him. 'Of course! Dad says that if I don't pray every day, Santa might send me to the South Pole after I die!’ Then he looked at me suspiciously and asked: ‘Hey, where is YOUR Christmas stocking?’

‘I stopped believing in Santa when I was about your age, kid’ I told him. ‘I had difficulty wrapping my head around such an obese person fitting through a narrow chimney passage millions of times within 24 hours. Granted, he could have gone on a crash diet for the big event, but still, how do you distribute presents to billions of children in one night? Then there is the problem of the payload of so much ‘stuff’ in one single sled, even if he gets the highest quality shock absorbers. And, let’s face it; reindeer cannot really propel themselves into the stratosphere. Even if they did, Santa’s schedule would require them to fly faster than the speed of sound, which would make them self-combust. It’s all a matter of physics. Figure it out for yourself and you’ll see.’

His expression slowly changed, his mouth fell open and without any warning, an eardrum-shattering bellow came out, like the siren on a battleship. ‘HEATHEN!’ he screamed, pointing at me as he retreated towards the group behind him.

Half a dozen uniformed men detached themselves from the group and slowly advanced towards us, walkie-talkie in hand, making sure to block our way in all directions. A sled appeared out of nowhere and screeched to a halt as a drove of elf-sized paratroopers jumped out, their pointy helmets equipped with night vision goggles, and hammers at the ready. They handcuffed us and shoved us into the sled, which sped off under the power of six mechanically driven reindeer.

The little boy's expression, a mix of glee and shame, was the last thing I saw before a foul-smelling gas entered my nostrils and I passed out.

I woke up with what I thought was a hangover from last night’s party until I remembered that there had been no party. There had been dwarf-sized paratroopers and mechanical reindeer. I looked around the bare room: a table, a chair, and the bed I was lying on. The table, on closer inspection, was covered with wooden tools; a hammer, a chisel, screwdrivers, and toys in different stages of completion. I recognized a wooden nutcracker, just like the one I had gotten for Christmas a few years back.

The door opened and a very short, dark-skinned man entered and placed a tray on the table. ‘Hi, my name is Black Peter. They told me to bring you to the ‘floor’ as soon as you are done eating. If you are diabetic, there is a syringe next to the sugar cookies. Better eat them all, they are not very reliable when it comes to meals.’

He handed me a neatly folded red and white striped outfit and a pair of shoes with upturned toes and red pompons. ‘Change into these. The foreman is a stickler for a neat appearance. Since you are a software guy, they put you on the detail of the electronic toy.’

My first year was the worst. I stood out like a sore thumb, what with my height and my stubble. Everyone made fun of me, whispering how an adult should know better than shooting his mouth off with that non-believer stuff. But they were mostly talking about the re-education program after which they would be allowed to go home if deemed properly re-educated.

I now realize I made a mistake by renouncing Santa. I abandoned Him in a bout of cynicism and am infinitely grateful for having spent time on the North Pole, working minimum wage in His Toy Factory, where I had the unique opportunity to come to my senses and regain the faith.

‘Thank you, Santa, hallowed be Thy Name. Give us this day our daily presents, and lead us not into rational temptation, for thine is the true faith .’ leave comment here