Grace and the Christmas Fish

"Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. 
Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, 

it is a period of necessary defrosting 

of chill and hide-bound hearts." 

~ Lenora Weber, writer

'Tis the season for sentimentality and cynicism. Christmas comes rolling in like a giant out-of-control snowball before we've even finished washing the Thanksgiving dishes and keeps picking up speed as it crashes through December. I can be grumpy, frantic, joyful, tearful, pissed off, or peaceful, sometimes all in the same day during the Christmas season. With luck, I usually recover sometime mid January.

I married Ebeneezer Scrooge. It may say Paul Kretschmer on our marriage license, but that's just an alias. Paul would probably choose dental surgery over most Christmas activities, so the bulk of the Christmas chores land on my To Do list. Today he surprised me though. He told me he likes our Christmas mornings. He likes watching the kids open presents, he thinks Santa makes good choices for them, he appreciates that they are grateful for what they receive. Part of me thought, isn't that nice. A much larger part wanted to say, you DO know Santa isn't real, don't you? Somebody has to actually shop for and wrap those presents, the same somebody who considers putting coal in your stocking every year.

I like Christmas. Really I do. But I'm feeling a little blue this December. I'm missing my children. I've sort of gotten used to Scrooge. But what happened to the two people who have given me the most holiday joy over the years?  At twelve and (almost) fifteen, Miles and Frances are suddenly jaded and apathetic about the whole thing, well everything but the gifts. They showed about as much enthusiasm for decorating the tree last weekend as they do for clearing the dinner table. Yet, it wasn't that long ago that their excitement over holiday traditions and their giddy anticipation of Santa's arrival were what kept me going this time of year. And it wasn't that long ago that there was a little magic in our Christmas.

When Frances was nine years old, she and Miles sat down to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but that year Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. I thought a letter might help keep Mr. Claus around awhile longer. I wasn't ready to let Santa out of the bag yet, so I kept silent as Frances pondered questions like, how does Santa manage to cover all that territory in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from stores if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for outright lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do you think?  And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

So letters to Santa were written. Among other things, Frances asked for a fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put it in the mailbox and went about our decorating, baking, and nightly reading of our many Christmas books. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. Besides, I didn't want her to ruin the magic for Miles. I'm a firm believer in childhood magic. There's plenty of time for reality when you grow up.  As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "The realm of enchantment is open to us all, if we are willing to step over the threshold." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids and for me too.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could this be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us. It made no sense. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances into the room. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. She opened the package. There was a copy of her letter and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair and sensible shoes choosing Frances' letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I've named her Grace. I can picture her shopping for the chocolates and coming up with a clever way to give Frances a fish. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a Beta fish named Harry Water. Harry was part of the family for several years.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like in The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace gave us one more year with Santa Claus.

May you find a little magic and grace in your holidays this year.