Why I Don't Hate Santa

Santa Claus is coming to town. Or, is he?

I never believed in Santa Claus growing up. Being raised in a Christian household, my parents worried that once we found out "the truth" about Santa, we might also be mistaken that the Baby Jesus part of Christmas was also just a myth.

I never minded this decision. They still let us play along with the Santa games. Gift tags under the tree would be signed by him (complete with the irony that his hand-writing looked suspiciously like my mother's.) I didn't care who was bringing the presents, as long as they came! And, we'd still get to go visit him at the mall every year to sit in his lap get our free candy cane. I would never even tell him what I really wanted. I knew that information was useless in the hands of a complete stranger. I would just blurt out a generic answer like, "doll!" all the while fixating my attention on the elf with the peppermint stick prize in her hand standing at the exit gate. It seems a little creepy now that I would willingly sit in a man's lap, that I knew wasn't Santa Claus, just for the free candy. But, I guess candy canes were harder to come by when I was six, so it was okay.

And, of course, there was the added fun of getting to ruin the Santa secret for all of my friends who did believe, no matter how much my parents lectured me not to. (I guess here would an appropriate place to apologize to my grade school friend, Julie, for breaking the news that the jingle bells she heard Christmas Eve 1981 were most probably being rung by her older brother.) I was a very practical and logical child. It would frustrate me to have playmates that were too naive to take a look at the cold hard facts.

As I became an adult, I was still indifferent to the harm of believing in Santa Claus. Plenty of Christians I know use him as a part of their Christmas celebrations. But, then way on the other end of the spectrum, were the ones who claim that it's my spiritual obligation to "hate" him. Maybe these are people who took Charlie Brown's lesson of commercialized Christmas-ism to the nth degree. But, the one argument that helped me choose a side on the great Santa debate surprisingly came from an episode of Seventh Heaven. One of the P.K.s (that's "pastor's kids", for the unchurched) had someone ruin the Santa secret for them on their very special Christmas episode. And, like my parents predicted long ago, the child started questioning the reality of Jesus's birth as well.

Well, Reverand Camden, being the wise soul that he was, sat the wee one down and found a brilliant happy medium. He told the story of the real Saint Nicholas. The historic St. Nick was born into a family of great wealth. Upon his parents' death at his young age, Nicholas could have been set for life, but instead chose to share his wealth with the needy. He eventually gave away all of his earthly belongings and became a bishop in the Christian church. He was imprisoned during the Christian persecutions, but later released and continued on with his ministries. The story of Saint Nicholas became elaborated throughout the years and he somehow, eventually, became mystified as Kriss Kringle and then Santa Claus. So, as Rev. Camden would explain, St. Nicholas is a wonderful figure of Christian charity to accompany our celebrations of The Nativity.

This episode of Seventh Heaven is probably a decade old by now, but it fortunately stayed in the back of my head. Because a few years ago, during one of my Bible lessons with my brother's kids, the confusion of Jesus/Santa/Christmas arose and Reverand Camden's message came rolling out of my mouth, much to my surprise, but with great thankfulness in my heart. I even soon found this child-friendly animated version of the story of St. Nick that has now become part of our Christmas movie viewing tradition. (Click link for DVD info.)

So, at the end of this Santa-searching journey, my Christmas verdict has become crystal clear. Jesus is the true reason for the season. But, please don't ask your kids to hate a saint.

The H Word

Happy Holidays! That's right... I said it. The H word!

In doing so, some people just moved my name from the "Good Christian" column to the "Bad Christian" one. Fortunately for me, whoever it is that edits this change isn't the same editor as The Book of Life, so I don't really give a hoot.

When did "holiday" become a swear word? It's not a lie... There are several holidays out there. I hope you enjoy them all! Thanksgiving is one and it's coming up next week and I'm a big fan of synonyms. So, you might hear me tossing off any combination of "Happy Thanksgiving!", "Have a nice Turkey Day!", "Enjoy your holiday!", "Gobble gobble to you!" in the coming few days. No one will clutch their pearls and gasp when this happens in November.

But, come December, get ahold of that necklace because you might hear me saying that word in the most offensive of months! At Christmas-time. And, shame on me for not assuming your religious beliefs or nationality. Shame on me for living in such a diverse metropolis. Shame on me for having friends of different faiths. Shame on me for having manners and being inclusive.

I would never take the Christ out of my Christmas. My faith is the most important thing I have and hold. I do celebrate Jesus' birth on this holy day. But, if someone else doesn't celebrate the same holiday as me, why would I force them be merry on mine? And, why want to deprive them from being happy on theirs?

If you're sure of someone's religious or social practices it's lovely to greet them with more specificness. Then is the time to lavish on the Merry Christmases, Happy Hanukkahs, Jolly Kwanzaas or whatnots. But, to the friendly stranger on the street, to be utterly p.c. on December 25th do we use a general hyphenated "Merry Christmas-Chinese Food and Movie Day-One Day Before Kwanzaa-One Week Before New Years to you!"? Or do we save our breaths and just consolidate it to "Holiday"? Many people who do celebrate Christmas, don't celebrate Christ. Are they excluded from the Christian greeting and delegated to only using "Xmas"? Some Muslims celebrate our holiday, some don't. How do I make that call? And, what about the local Jehovah's Witnesses who don't celebrate anything? This all seems like too much homework for a two second passing with a stranger!

I do think it's a little silly to overly generalize holiday-specific items. Referring to a Christmas tree as a "Holiday Tree" to me is as silly as saying "Holiday Dreidel". If someone wants overdo it with the political correctness, isn't that just more funny than it is offensive? They just don't understand! Besides, Jesus doesn't live in my tree, He lives in my heart.

So, instead of being offended this season, just be delighted that a stranger is friendly enough to stop and greet you. Because you won't have a Merry Christmas if you spend the whole day grumbling. If you can't bring yourself to say "holiday" you can always give an everyday "hello" or simply plain go back to ignoring strangers altogether. Besides, everybody knows what the real "H" word is anyway... It's heinie.

Matthew 7:1 "Judge not, that ye be not judged."

9/11

I don't know why I even applied makeup this morning. I knew I'd be inundated with 9/11 sob stories. I knew it would be unavoidable today. I knew I'd be going to my brother's house to do my weekly Bible study with his kids. I knew I should try to work Patriots Day in somehow. But, dealing with ages ranging from 5 through 14, I was stumped on ideas how to.

As a warm up, I listened to part of a 9/11 sermon that was playing on the radio on the drive over. It was by one of those "shouty" preachers, so I'm not even sure what his message was about. (I've never responded well to shouty preachers. If I'm not being grounded, stop yelling at me!) But, just the topic at hand forced images of falling bodies into my head and I started weeping on M-5 at 65 mph.

For some reason that's my 9/11 image. For some people it's the image of one of the planes hitting one of the towers that will repeat in their heads on constant replay this weekend. For some people it's the image of the massive skyscrapers tumbling to the ground like a stack of blocks a toddler kicked over. Maybe, for you, it's the people in face masks running helplessly from the billowing wave of ashes and soot. For me, it's the jumpers.

I've created a theory that comforts me when I think of these bodies. When I was about eight years of age, I fell from a tree in the backyard. I couldn't have been more than fifteen feet off the ground. I don't remember falling. I don't remember landing. I only remember waking up a few minutes later to my mom checking my eyes for a concussion. I believe God built us with a mechanism of losing conscienceness when our bodies are facing a state of shock. If I couldn't stay conscious throughout a fifteen foot drop, my hope is that these victims that fell had their spirits taken from them long before impact.

I comfort myself with that thought, but it's the witnesses I cringe for. I watched a documentary a few years back that just happened to be following a team of firefighters on that fateful day. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/9/11_(film) From its footage is that famous shot of the first plane flying low throughout the skyway of NYC.) These firefighters, trying to save what lives were still savable inside before the buildings would inevitably collapse, had the added concern of having to avoid the falling bodies and listen to them each one hit ground. A sound that on film I will never forget. How much must it haunt the ones who were forced to hear it live? Another touching documentary from the History channel (102 Minutes That Changed America http://www.history.com/interactives/witness-to-911) is made up of footage from everyday citizens that got caught up in this madness and happened to have their home video cameras at hand. These were not trained emergency professionals. They've never been drilled in advance for such an attack. How on earth do they cope with these memories?

Well, I managed to wipe away my tears on the road and pull it together enough to get through Bible study. After our devotional I asked the kids if they knew today was. After slightly accurate guesses of "Sunday", "your birthday" and "The Sabbath Day" I hinted a little by telling them the date. The oldest, of course, knew much of the events of September 11, 2001. She was four years old at the time and she's been learning it in school and we've been answering her questions about it for years. The nine-year old knew it had something to do with planes crashing, but wasn't sure if it was just some sort of accident. And, the five-year-old was content enough to just know it was my birthday weekend and would we still be going canoeing?

I explained the events of this tragic day in the most child-friendly language I could create. Somehow that lead me to tell the story of United 93 and what heroes those passengers were in fighting back. In the middle of the retelling I began to no longer recognize the voice coming out of my mouth. Oh no. I'm crying again. Instead of stopping to gather myself, I made the mistake of pushing on and overcompensated by talking even louder. Oh no, now I'm sobbing. I know this because the kids all looked up at me to see what strange kind of creature had stolen my voice and taken over my body.

The action of me trying to cheer myself up and sound audibly decipherable again led us to stories of good things that came during this tragic time. I taught them how in the Pentagon, renovations were being done at the time, so the area that was hit wasn't nearly as populated as the terrorists would have hoped and was actually better built for such an attack then any other side of the Pentagon's structure. (http://whatreallyhappened.com/WRHARTICLES/911_pentagon_renovations.html) Insanely good luck or God's intervention?

I told them of how God provided for our own family's distraction. My older sister was pregnant with my twin nephews at the time. Not being due for another two-and-a-half months, the day after 9/11 she went into early labor. (The doctors blame toxemia, a small part of me still blames the terrorists.) These boys were forced into the world much too early for expected survival. But, after months of touch and go health and development, these babies got to come home before their due date even! Such love provided to us to focus on and distract us from the worries of the world. That's our 9/11 story.

I know there are people that doubt a loving God would even allow something like the attacks of 9/11 to ever happen. These people don't acknowledge that God chose to create us each with our own free will. There have been those who have chosen to use theirs in the most despicable of ways and others choose to do good work. He never promised us He would seize control of any of our actions, just that He'd faithful to those who believe. Faithful to some, might mean shielding us from any bad event that could possibly come our way. But, is that really what faith is?

I know my family prayed and prayed as this tragedy unfolded. I know we were met with even more shock and confusion in the possible loss of my first two nephews, my parent's first two grandsons, my sister's first two children that she so badly wanted... and we prayed and prayed some more. I'm glad our family's 9/11 story had a happy ending. I'm glad that we were granted the peace that passes all understanding that we certainly weren't providing for ourselves. I can't answer the spiritual mysteries of the world with my tongue or with my hand, but they've certainly been proven to my heart.

I don't know if I made a mistake in teaching a kindergartner of these events too young, too soon. I left out the jumpers, I baby-talked the definition of "hijacking". I don't know how the families of the victims of this day carry on and explain it to their young. None of us are perfect. There's no engraved rules on how to tell this story and which parts to leave out. I'm just thankful that as surely as I too will never forget... I have also been blessed with the gifts of coping and of moving forward.

Quit Trying to Fix Me Up!

An Open Letter to All Who Know Me:

Growing up in the Christian church, there was an unusual phrase I’d often hear tossed around. It was “the gift of singleness.”

When a pastor would use this term, it referred to people like the apostle Paul whose purpose in life and relationship with God was so fulfilling that he didn’t need to marry and have a family to complete himself. But, when people in the congregation would use that term, it was more in this tense:

• “What’s the story with the guy who always wears the Star Wars ties on Sundays?” “Oh, him? He has the ‘gift of singleness’.”
• “That woman with the cat hair all over her dress, who’s her husband?” “Oh no dear, you see, she has the ‘gift of singleness’,” “Oh my, I’ll bring her a tape roller next week, poor thing.”

Yes, the majority of the world was designed to be half of a couple, to be fathers and mothers. We don’t need the human race to dry up, this is a good thing! And, yes, many single people do feel incomplete during that timeframe where God’s still working on their other half, preparing them to be “just right” at the just right time. The waiting can be frustrating, I comprehend this and sympathize for these people. I just can’t relate.

When the movie Jerry Maguire came out, at the moment the women (and some men) in the audience heard the line “You. Complete. Me.“ tears broke out throughout the theater. I may have squeezed out a little saline too, but I think mine had more to do with being in the midst of a mass crying jag. (Certain movies do that to you and you get caught up in the bond of crying with a group of strangers.) The little sign language bit of [point, circle motion with hands, point at self] became the trend of the season and a box office hit was made. I understood this intellectually. I comprehend what “you complete me” means. But, again, can’t relate. How sad that people are walking through life feeling incomplete. People road away from that movie on the great swell of the story of love. I walked out with my main mission in life being to track down Jonathan Lipnicki and give just one pinch to those adorable cheeks!

No ring, no problems! Oh oh oh! ♫

It’s a wonderful feeling of elation the day a person becomes content with the way God made them. I can vividly remember the time I was loosed of my boy-crazy chains. For background, it’s been awhile but, yes, I dated in my late teens and twenties like everybody else. Although I hated being set up, even back then, and wouldn’t allow it. My whole life, I have always felt a closer bond with my male friends. I love the male species (and, yes, am very attracted to them) and always had them around, so it took me awhile to understand that some girls were dying to have a boyfriend just to have a boy around. It was a mystery, they wanted to spend time with one of these elusive creatures. I, in turn, always had guys around… so it would take a very special one to perk my interest enough to cross that comfortable line of friendship into that uncomfortable territory of dating. Anyone I’ve tried this with had already been a friend of mine for a decent amount of time, and I would already have to be a little bit in love with them to be willing to take that scary step. These generally weren’t what the world calls “committed” relationships and never lasted long-term. It was always sad when they ended but, on my end, it was almost equally relieving to go back to being just friends. I’m not an ideal girlfriend. God didn’t give me that talent. I make a better girl-next-door. A buddy. In fact, I think I excel at buddy-dom.

So, moving on, at one point when I was in my mid-twenties I was part of a small-group Bible study where me and my girlfriends had all read this book on Christian dating and we somehow, to my chagrin, decided to make a joint dating pact. We decided to take a “dating fast” for six months and spend that time getting to know ourselves. I was the oldest of the group and probably the most resistant. You see, my biological clock had turned into a biological time bomb at that age. I couldn’t sniff a baby with knowing that was true. No kidding, anytime I would hold a newborn infant, whatever pheromones they’d release from the top of their soft spot, would be inhaled through my nostrils and directed swiftly to my womb. I understood wholly the concept of a “panging womb” in those moments. Any woman can tell you, there's no better word for it than “pang”. Immediately prior to me signing the dreaded dating fast pact (yes, we actually signed a dotted line) I had been secretly trying to figure out which of my guy friends to try to date next. I needed a baby in the panging womb, but none of my remaining male friends seemed like a perfect fit.

Well, to me, an oath is an oath. And, I soon enough delved into dating myself. I came to find out that I really liked dating myself! I’m a lot of fun! My tunnel vision kicked in and, being free from the distraction of men, my creativity sky-rocketed and I began painting again and writing again and being crafty and communing with nature. My life had never before felt more on-track! When the six-months was up, I announced that I was going to extend my fast to nine months because I had begun writing a book and wanted to finish it. The nine months turned into a year, because I was trying to find a publisher (Thank you Lord that I never found a publisher! I enjoy writing, but wouldn’t want to make a career out of it. The book I had written at the time was on the same subject matter and would have been humiliating, in retrospect, to have been released to the public!) Side note: I also discovered during this time that there is nothing more attractive than an unavailable woman. I had never been asked out more in my life and actually started to find it really annoying.

Well, it’s now at least a decade later, I’ve never officially ended my fast. Writing that embarrassing book (where I’d even included diary entries for the love of Pete! What was I thinking?!) had one amazing purpose. It forced me to scour the Scriptures and solidify my faith. (Oh, background needed again? I’m a born-again Christian since the age of four. I’m not one of those Christians they parody in TV and movies. Y’know, the gay-hating, judgmental, abortion-clinic-bombing type. I’m the good kind. I simply believe in God and that Jesus was the Messiah. I love reading the Bible and praying. I really get a sense of truth resonating when I do these things and, to me, that's proof of God’s existence. I won‘t thump you on the head with my Bible. I won‘t try to change you if you don‘t feel the same way. If you ever change your mind, I‘m happy to answer questions. I’m a recovering gossip, who knows it‘s wrong, but it‘s my biggest temptation. I‘m embarrassed that this is a trait that falls under the “Christian stereo-type” and I don‘t want to be a stereo-type.) In my faith, dating is a means of finding a spouse. I realized I don’t really want a spouse at the moment. I really feel complete and whole. I’ve never been happier than being romantically independent. I’m not a lonely person. I don’t feel like half of a non-existent couple. This past decade has been the happiest and most fulfilling of my life!

So how did I cure the baby pangs? In a way only God could align the stars for. While I was dating myself, the most life-changing thing happened... I became an aunt! To be honest with myself, in my twenties, I only wanted to get married for the intent of having kids (of course, and to have someone to fool around with now and then.) I never really was one to dream about my wedding day. I never had the ideal type of man I wanted to end up with. When I thought of the future, in the family sense, it was always just a picture of me running around and laughing with kids in my life who thought I was awesome. Marriage itself always seemed like a chore.

Well, the ultimate cure for the baby pangs was overnight niece/nephew visits. I remember distinctly the night I found my biological snooze button. One of my nephews, age of one (or it might have even been negative-one at the time) was spending the weekend with us. Our family was going through the terrible trial of his brother facing life-threatening surgery. So, my parents and I would take in this nephew whenever his brother would have to stay in a hospital out of state. (By the way, that tragedy is over and nephew #2 is healthy and happy today.) I always knew sleep was important to me. Missing one night of it, one can always run on adrenaline until the next evening. Missing two or more, I found, was definitely my limit. I had realized that being an aunt was cool, but I am much too lazy to be a mom. When I would mention this discovery to friends, they would always say the same thing, “Oh Kim. You’d be wonderful mom. It’s different when it’s your own kid. You’ll see!” They never got it. The snooze button had been pressed! The pang had left my womb and had jumped into the nearest twenty-something female’s body. I was free!

Happy aunt!

But, my snooze button story is longer than that. Many parents of grown children will tell you that they’re glad they’d had the experience of teething, learning to walk, potty training, watching their kids grow up, but they would never want to go back and do it again! That I can relate to as well. More back-story? About a year or two after my snooze button had been activated, I became a full-time aunt. Without delving too much into my siblings’ personal business, I’ll just say that one of my siblings had become a victim of the economy and their whole family of five moved in with us for several years. I had the incredible honor of helping raise their kids, just out of happenstance and the sole fact of having shared a roof. I’ve been through the teething, first steps, potty training, homework, bath times, meal times, etc. that come with parenthood by default. They are some of my most precious memories and I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. I’m still incredibly close with the children even though we no longer share a street address and we sometimes joke about how I’m an honorary bonus parent. Having that experience was enormously fulfilling to me, but like an empty-nester, I can’t say I want to start over and do it all again with children of my own. (Especially the potty-training!) I'm in no hurry to have kids. So, I'm in no hurry to find a husband. I may never find the need for one! Don't be offended, I'm not pushing this lifestyle on you.

So, when you see someone without a ring on their left-hand, do some research before you start trying to “help”. People who want help finding a mate, usually will ask you for it. Not every unmarried individual is lonely, depressed, incredibly shy, a closeted gay, incomplete, asexual, frigid or cuckoo. Some of us chose this lifestyle. Most people will tell their loved ones that they just want them to be happy. When you say this, please realize that we all have different things that make us happy. None of us are hard-wired the same way, God didn’t create us all to have the same path in life. The gift of singleness is a real thing, don't get it twisted just because you don't have it. If you try to force someone to be happy in the way you think they should be happy, you just may be robbing them of their own bliss!

As, for me, put those phone numbers away. I’ve already found my bliss and I’m the happiest person I know! Aunthood: Nature’s snooze button.