So I’m 3 days into my write-everyday-challenge when I realize that I threw down the gauntlet at myself during the busiest month of the entire year. I tend to aim a bit high…
Part of approaching the Christmas season with a five year-old is trying to figure out ways of teaching said five year-old about Jesus and gratitude and giving and joy and…dare I say…Santa Claus. Disclaimer: if you are under the age of ten, or you are older than ten but still believe in Santa Claus, stop reading NOW.
I’m serious. You continue at your own peril.
I never believed in Santa. Mom and Dad told us from the get-go that he was a big fat myth, that presents came from parents, and Christmas was about Jesus. Period. Usually when I tell people the bit about Santa, they look a little sad for me…but we’re good. Promise. Those same sad-lookers are always relieved to know that we were under strict instructions to never tell our friends that Santa was a farce. So it’s not like we ran around terrorizing the neighbor children. (Not about Santa Claus anyway.)
Naturally, as I parent my own child, I’m confronted with the Santa question. And I have to tell you, if Liv ever wants me to shut up, she just has to say the words ‘Santa Claus’. I completely freeze up. What do I say?? Confirming or denying Santa’s existence is life-altering stuff. Isn’t it?
Yeah…it’s not. But the thing is, I have this wonderfully imaginative little girl who can dream up stories and places and people that I was never able to dream up, even as a child. So I’ve worried that shattering the Santa myth would put a dent in her talent for wonderment. That I would somehow be limiting her ability to be amazed. If only we spent as much time fostering their gifts as we do agonizing over whether or not we’re scarring them for life…
How misplaced this whole debate has been in my mind. It’s not a question of how I handle the Santa discussion. It’s a question of how I handle the Jesus discussion. And maybe that’s why I’ve been wringing my hands over jolly old Saint Nick – it’s so much easier to tell a kid that something’s not real than it is to talk about the very real things that are the stuff of this season, things like sin and redemption and sacrifice and joy and obedience and a love that was so, so very real that He who was boundless bound Himself in flesh. He who was ageless wrapped Himself in days. And He who knew no sin took on our sin. And that this, this one magical beautiful Bethlehem night that we celebrate with lights and ribbon and gifts and extravagance and merriment, it was really the beginning of His march to the cross. How do I tell her that?
How?
I’m desperate for her to understand, and I so wish I could take everything that’s in my heart and just transplant it right into hers, but I can’t. And I, the girl who loves words and can’t seem to spit enough of them out every day, can’t figure out a way to tell the story…because I’m trying to tell the whole story. I’m trying to take a few decades worth of firsthand experience, wrap it up with the deepest mystery man has ever known, and sum it up into a few sentences a five year-old can comprehend and consequently build a lifelong system of faith upon.
Like I said before, I aim high.
A dear friend told me not too long ago to keep it simple where Olivia and Jesus are concerned. She talked about how her own kids would ask these galaxy-big questions and she finally learned that the simple Truth, short and sweet, was enough for them. So that’s my goal for this season.
We were in trouble. God loves us a whole lot, so He sent Jesus to save us. And this is the day He was born. So we celebrate. Because He has saved us. Because He has made us glad.
Because He is wonderful. Counselor. Almighty God, the everlasting Father. The Prince of Peace.
Hallelujah.