Worldly Philosophers Club

The Worldly Philosophers, Vol.1, Number 24	December 24, 2007
THE Worldly Philosophers Club For Individualists Who Seek Worldly Wisdom

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About the Editor

Dear Worldly Philosophers,

December is a great time of year to celebrate friends, relatives, and the good life. In honor of this holiday season of giving, I asked my wife Jo Ann to write about her favorite Christmas story, written by the famed novelist Taylor Caldwell. It's unforgettable.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and happy prosperous New Year!

Good living, AEIOU,

Marcus Aurelius

THE MESSAGE OF CHRISTMAS:
WE ARE NEVER ALONE
by Jo Ann Skousen

I was baking cookies one winter afternoon when my oldest daughter, then 9 years old, came to me with a serious look on her face. “Mommy,” she began, “none of my friends believe in Santa Claus.” Then, with the fervent testimony of faith, she continued, “But WE believe, don’t we!”

Her earnest declaration stopped me cold. Santa had been a special visitor at our house since Valerie was a baby. I regaled my children all season long with stories only I knew about the “right jolly old elf.” I had visited him personally at his workshop at the North Pole when I was only 7. My mother knew his personal phone number and forwarded all her grandchildren’s requests directly to him. He invited the reindeer into our house while he delivered our presents, where they chomped on carrots and left evidence with their unusual teeth marks. He left my children elaborate notes in his curious penmanship. He brought his own wrapping paper, separate from the wrapping paper I used. Yes, I had done an admirable job of helping my children to believe in Santa Claus.

At the same time, Valerie had begun noticing that year that many of her friends’ families did not believe in God. They did not attend any church, and they did not pray at mealtimes or bedtimes when she visited their homes. I had spent many private moments with her that year, expressing my belief in our Heavenly Father and pointing out many evidences of His love and creativity, despite what others did or did not believe. Her declaration now was unbearably close to the declarations I had made: “WE believe in God.”

So I did the unthinkable. Point blank, on a cold, sunny December day while baking cookies for Santa, I told my sweet earnest daughter the truth.

She was, of course, devastated.

And Santa’s position in our home changed. No longer would I point out the evidence of Santa’s personal visits to our home. There would still be Christmas stories for the younger children, and visits to mall Santas with pictures taken on his lap. We left cookies out on Christmas Eve, and hung our stockings with care. But I made sure to do this always with a wink, and never with a declaration of belief. I would not be caught lying about faith again.

Until another sunny December afternoon twelve years later, when my youngest daughter, Hayley, then 7, was drawing pictures while I wrapped gifts in the family room. Hayley’s belief in Santa was strong, and naturally developed. She had the advantage of having seen the REAL Santa at a mall off the beaten track when she was only 3. She insisted I take her back to that nearly desolate mall each year, and she now had 4 consecutive pictures of herself with this same kindly old gentleman and his natural, curly beard. Though I did nothing directly to encourage this belief, there was no question in her mind who Santa was.

That day I was wrapping gifts for a family in our congregation whose financial circumstances were meager. Our bishop had asked me to provide Christmas gifts for them, and I gladly complied. In fact, I had spent several days in prayer and contemplation, asking for help to decide precisely which gifts I should purchase for this family of 5, and I had been guided to purchase some highly unusual items, including a lovely wall painting for their living room—totally impractical, and yet I knew it was precisely what the mother in the family needed.

As I imagined the happiness of this sweet family as they opened their gifts, Hayley asked me a question from her drawing table. “How do you spell Kris Kringle?” She was drawing a picture of Santa, and wanted to title it. When I spelled it for her, she sighed unhappily. “Now I’ll have to start all over,” she said. I looked at her picture. Beneath her picture of the kindly old gentleman were the letters, “C-H-R-I-S.”

And there it was. On my 6-year-old daughter’s picture.

The truth about Santa.

“No, no!” I told her. “Don’t start over! You spelled it just right. Just add a T!”

How could I have missed it all those years? Of course I believed in Santa. I celebrated His birth every year.

The truth is, I am one of his elves. Every year he sends lists to his regional elf managers, including our own bishop. Every year these regional managers give assignments to the worldwide elf army. Every year, as a member of that elf army, I thoughtfully contemplate the prayers and wishes of good little (and not so little) boys and girls, choosing gifts more carefully for those special children than I do for my own kids. And every year I come home from my assignments filled with the spirit of Christmas and love.

The truth is, Jesus Christ has many names. We call him Wonderful Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. We call Him Emanuel, “God with us” because like parents, he is always there. We call Him the Good Shepherd because, like parents, he tenderly watches over his flock. We call Him the Lamb of God because, like parents, he willingly sacrifices all for us. And we call him Santa (literally, saint) because, like parents, He loves to play games on His birthday.

I wish I had known this truth sooner. I would give anything to go back to that cold sunny December 25 years ago and add my own testimony to Valerie’s fervent declaration: “WE believe in Santa, don’t we”—the words, “Of course we do—And here’s my secret: I’m one of His elves!”

As Santa, God seems to enjoy a good surprise. Yes, he has to worry us sometimes, make us think we aren’t going to have the things we know we need, just as we often lead our children to believe they aren’t going to receive that special toy they want so desperately for Christmas. In fact, the better the gift, the more likely we are to make our children think it is impossible to have. Like Santa, God sometimes waits for just the right moment to bless us with a particular need, even though it may mean allowing us to endure illness or tribulation, not just at Christmas time but in dark hours throughout the year. I imagine he smiles gently to himself with His knowledge of the great gifts He has in store for us when the trial is over. And just as our children’s joy on Christmas morning is somehow greater for having worried that the gift would not arrive, our own joy when our trials end and the blessings are unveiled is all the sweeter for having passed through the trial itself.

Taylor Caldwell, who became a highly successful and critically acclaimed historical novelist, knew what it was to receive one of God’s special gifts, complete with worry and desperation. Long before she published her first book, she was a struggling single mother desperately trying to maintain her faith and her finances. Her account of her most precious Christmas gift is one of my favorite stories, and reveals unequivocally the Truth about Santa:

My Christmas Miracle
By Taylor Caldwell

For many of us, one Christmas stands out from all the others, the one when the meaning of the day shone clearest.

Although I did not guess it, my own "truest" Christmas began on a rainy spring day in the bleakest year of my life. Recently divorced, I was in my 20s, had no job, and was on my way downtown to go the rounds of the employment offices. I had no umbrella, for my old one had fallen apart, and I could not afford another one. I sat down in the streetcar, and there against the seat was a beautiful silk umbrella with a silver handle inlaid with gold and flecks of bright enamel. I had never seen anything so lovely.

I examined the handle and saw a name engraved among the golden scrolls. The usual procedure would have been to turn in the umbrella to the conductor, but on impulse, I decided to take it with me and find the owner myself. I got off the streetcar in a downpour and thankfully opened the umbrella to protect myself. Then I searched a telephone book for the name on the umbrella and found it. I called, and a lady answered.

Yes, she said in surprise, that was her umbrella, which her parents, now dead, had given her for a birthday present. But, she added, it had been stolen from her locker at school (she was a teacher) more than a year before. She was so excited that I forgot I was looking for a job and went directly to her small house. She took the umbrella, and her eyes filled with tears.

The teacher wanted to give me a reward, but--though $20 was all I had in the world--her happiness at retrieving this special possession was such that to have accepted money would have spoiled something. We talked for a while, and I must have given her my address. I don't remember.

The next six months were wretched. I was able to obtain only temporary employment here and there, for a small salary, though this was what they now call the Roaring Twenties. But I put aside 25 or 50 cents when I could afford it for my little girl's Christmas presents. (It took me six months to save $8.) My last job ended the day before Christmas, my $30 rent was soon due, and I had $15 to my name--which Peggy and I would need for food. She was home from her convent boarding school and was excitedly looking forward to her gifts the next day, which I had already purchased. I had bought her a small tree, and we were going to decorate it that night.

The stormy air was full of the sound of Christmas merriment as I walked from the streetcar to my small apartment. Bells rang and children shouted in the bitter dusk of the evening, and windows were lighted and everyone was running and laughing. But there would be no Christmas for me, I knew, no gifts, no remembrance whatsoever. As I struggled through the snowdrifts, I just about reached the lowest point in my life. Unless a miracle happened I would be homeless in January, foodless, jobless. I had prayed steadily for weeks, and there had been no answer but this coldness and darkness, this harsh air, this abandonment. God and men had completely forgotten me. I felt old as death, and as lonely. What was to become of us?

I looked in my mailbox. There were only bills in it, a sheaf of them, and two white envelopes which I was sure contained more bills. I went up three dusty flights of stairs, and I cried, shivering in my thin coat. But I made myself smile so I could greet my little daughter with a pretense of happiness. She opened the door for me and threw herself in my arms, screaming joyously and demanding that we decorate the tree immediately.

Peggy was not yet 6 years old, and had been alone all day while I worked. She had set our kitchen table for our evening meal, proudly, and put pans out and the three cans of food which would be our dinner. For some reason, when I looked at those pans and cans, I felt brokenhearted. We would have only hamburgers for our Christmas dinner tomorrow, and gelatin. I stood in the cold little kitchen, and misery overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I doubted the existence of God and His mercy, and the coldness in my heart was colder than ice.

The doorbell rang, and Peggy ran fleetly to answer it, calling that it must be Santa Claus. Then I heard a man talking heartily to her and went to the door. He was a delivery man, and his arms were full of big parcels, and he was laughing at my child's frenzied joy and her dancing. "This is a mistake," I said, but he read the name on the parcels, and they were for me. When he had gone I could only stare at the boxes. Peggy and I sat on the floor and opened them. A huge doll, three times the size of the one I had bought for her. Gloves. Candy. A beautiful leather purse. Incredible! I looked for the name of the sender. It was the teacher, the address simply "California," where she had moved.

Our dinner that night was the most delicious I had ever eaten. I could only pray in myself, "Thank you, Father." I forgot I had no money for the rent and only $15 in my purse and no job. My child and I ate and laughed together in happiness. Then we decorated the little tree and marveled at it. I put Peggy to bed and set up her gifts around the tree, and a sweet peace flooded me like a benediction. I had some hope again. I could even examine the sheaf of bills without cringing. Then I opened the two white envelopes. One contained a check for $30 from a company I had worked for briefly in the summer. It was, said a note, my "Christmas bonus." My rent!

The other envelope was an offer of a permanent position with the government--to begin two days after Christmas. I sat with the letter in my hand and the check on the table before me, and I think that was the most joyful moment of my life up to that time.

The church bells began to ring. I hurriedly looked at my child, who was sleeping blissfully, and ran down to the street. Everywhere people were walking to church to celebrate the birth of the Savior. People smiled at me and I smiled back. The storm had stopped, the sky was pure and glittering with stars.

"The Lord is born!" sang the bells to the crystal night and the laughing darkness. Someone began to sing, "Come, all ye faithful!" I joined in and sang with the strangers all about me.

I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all.

And that, of course, Gentle Reader, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.