It took a Jewish doctor. I sat in the office of my ob/gyn, 36 weeks huge listening to the usual directives intending to calm, but having the opposite effect. Diet restrictions: yes. Rest: yes. Worrying: No. Due Date: Changing.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘pushing back’ the due date by four days?” I asked, panic rising. “Does that mean four days earlier or four days later?”

Earlier, perfect. Later and I’d be absent Christmas morning.

Not be there for my eldest’s squeals at the surprises unwrapped? Not be there to witness first hand the toddler delight of it all? Camcorder in hand, to capture on tape and in memory?

Maternity emotions raged. Due dates to me, meant just that. I had gone into labor on my eldest’s. When the baby’s due, the baby arrives, is my experience.

Scratching out notes on the chart, my doctor, not even glancing up, questioned, “Does it matter? What difference does four days make, for crying out loud?”

I shared my dilemma. This man, who had never peeked into a stocking Christmas morning; absorbed the beauty of Midnight Mass; placed baby Jesus in the manger on Christmas Eve; lit an Advent wreath; endured his Mom’s pleas throughout the year to ‘Look this way; let’s take that one again; one more time –that’d be a perfect Christmas card shot!’; made salt dough ornaments for his grandparents or trimmed a Christmas tree, listened to me. Unmoved. He considered my confusion.

And didn’t hesitate to share its absurdity.

Slight annoyance grew as it dawned on me…he doesn’t get it!

Well, what would he know about the magic, the beauty, the need to have Christmas, to be there at Christmas? After all, we Christians have it all locked up. Christmas and how to celebrate it. We get it. The end of December-ness; the twinkling colored lights exhibited on houses on the people who do get it; the quiet sharp, crystal night that is Christmas Eve. The decades of memories that are Christmas.

Again jotting notes, he muttered, somewhat to my chagrin and developing shame, “Think there’d be worse days to give birth than the day your Savior’s born, wouldn’t you?”

Slowly, I began to cry as the impact of his words hit me.

Having no mercy, he continued, “You should be upset. That’d be a beautiful thing. A child growing into adulthood, sharing something so powerful as the same day of birth as his Lord.”

Shaking his head, a flourish finishing his notes, handed me the chart with a perfunctory, “See you in a week unless you go into labor. Maybe I’ll be on call. Maybe I won’t.”

And left the room, shaking his head. And, I think, muttering something in disgust.

Wow.

I attended Catholic school from grade one through graduate school and yet nothing I learned in those years packed that power. That moment. Those words.

Simple meaning. Simple truth. From a man who did not even share the magic of Christmas with me.

Or did he?

And who am I to label individuals? Religion. Ethnicity. Socio-economic background. What do demographics have to do with recognizing the greatest Truth that the world has known?

Nothing, I found out that day.

My eyes were opened. How could I have believed that the Lord cannot work through…anyone? Elmo? A Jewish doctor? A new-found or a much-loved heroine in a picture book, novel or movie? Santa Claus?

Yes, the Santa vs. not-to-Santa debate within the realm of our Catholic Christian community is fresh, and has turned heated.

How did this develop? I believe that just as suddenly-well-meaning friends and family exhibit concern over our homeschooled children ‘missing’ a grand social experience, as in some variation on the predictable: “Do your kids have any friends?” that non Santa-ers among us feel compelled to address our outright Santa-ing.

The fact is, they say, as long as the Incarnation of our Lord is paramount within our family’s catechesis, Santa Claus is permissible. Well, I kinda think that’s preaching to the choir.

As a Mom who definitely, unequivocally and whole heartedly does the ‘Santa thing,’ was raised a believer and married a believer, I can tell you that those of us who do the (considered by non Santa-ers) wretched yet required, annual Santa events – the picture, the milk and cookies on Christmas eve, the enjoyment of Clement C. Moore’s classic -we actually and truly do place the birth of our Savior at the forefront of our celebrations.

I can also tell you with certainty that my children’s psyches will not be damaged because they are ‘deceived’; my children’s cognitive development is not arrested; my children will not suffer a traumatic blow when understanding that Santa is not ‘real’; my children will not have a distorted sense of the True Meaning of Christmas and the Magic of Christmas.

I don’t. Nor does my husband. Nor do any of the millions of Santa believers the world over.

How do I know? Because belief in Santa adds depth to our celebration of the birth of our Lord. Because we recognize that Santa Claus is continuing the tradition made great in the 4th century by the much beloved Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, who gave humbly and generously to those in need and to all children. Because we have come to embrace as part of our Catholic legacy that he was tough on heretics and took no grief from non believers in the One True Lord. Because belief in Santa does not make Christmas commercial or secular and it is a cop out for non believers to assert that it does.

Parents of Santa believers and non believers alike have instilled in their children a deep admiration for St Nicholas. He is a role model. He is a hero. All of our children may look to him as a moral barometer and a model of love for our Holy Mother Church as they grow to adulthood in a culture of spiritual depravity.

What of the Santa-compared-to St Nicholas debacle? Santa, too, gives without compensation. Only that the children to whom he gives, believe.

If belief in Santa offers our children another avenue to the understanding of the Lord’s depth of mercy; giving; second chances; third, fourth, fifth chances whenever we really need them, than who are we to doubt?

This is no lie or deception.

When my youngest is moved to shed a tear at The Magnificat put to song during the mass; when my oldest is honored to serve Christmas Eve mass; when both plan readings for the O Antiphon days around our Advent wreath, I know that my children understand the reality of our Christmas celebrations.

It works for my family. And I am truly blessed.

My view was radically changed that day, eight years ago in the doctor’s office. And I try to live that different change. I am not always successful.

When our houses are places of prayer, when we try to speak beautiful, grace-filled words among each other, when our to-do list is all things unseen, isn’t that what the Lord asks? Isn’t that what we all attempt despite different Christmas traditions?

The Lord’s ways are not always our ways and, we all know, are not always explainable. The goodness and kindness that the Lord wants us to seek and emulate might just be found, at any age, in the form of a red-suited, white-bearded, jolly, old elf who resides at the top of the world.

And really, why question that?

2010 Chris Capolino

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I’m not sure what it is that so defines this….. This stirring magnificence. This grandeur of the Adirondacks.

This broad, beckoning, deep-blueness of the lakes? There is no name, no container for this blue. It is too crystal, too sweeping, too untainted, too breathtaking.

This fortress of old growth forests? Striking soldiers of pine against sapphire skies. Hardy maples offering quiet shade to the littlest of creatures, creating sun dappled beauty on the shoreline. Magically coloring in autumn. Fragilely disappearing in the chill.

This delicate balance of humanity and wildlife? A mallard swooping with conviction to what calls him on the lake. A great blue heron gracefully lighting among the shore reeds. A tiny box turtle moving quick-as-he-is-able, taking refuge under the boggiest mossy meeting of land and lake, when he hears us coming. For we know that the animal kingdom, while instinctively claiming territory, has not imposed the borders on God’s precious gift to us, our home, our planet, as we humans have.

These mountains that call us perennially? They sit in quiet guard always. They rejuvenate and refresh with their pureness. Their very name resounds with distinction, vastness. And for us, familiarity, a coming home. A feeling of privileged return.

This rich fabric of history? Our collective history. These mountains echo with battle cries of the brave and the mighty. Those with strong belief in their cause. Battles that pitted God’s sons against each other over borders. And principles. And pride. So that one asserts its dominance in the French and Indian War and then, so that one claims its independence in the Revolutionary War.

It is the story of us all, fought for them and fought for us. For we are their future.

We saw the face of Jesus in our guide at Fort William Henry, as he ardently spreads these stories that he holds dear; as he conjures images that so aptly spring to life events at the Fort. In so doing, he spreads the Word. For these stories are the key to who we are. If we were there, on these battlefields two hundred and fifty years ago, we would have seen the face of Jesus there as well.

He was there. He carried each soldier. For Jesus takes no side. He was there. Encouraging and guiding and providing perseverance. He was there. And in their final moments, He was there. Consoling those left behind. Escorting the others Home.

And the tapestry of our family history, here, in this serenity? It is profound. Often it comes crashing and burning with such ferocity, I am back again. It is 1973 or it is 1978 or it is 1982. No matter. There is a rickety redwood picnic table. There are bare, sandy feet. There are stacks of books and board games. And up on Route 9, there is the comforting fixture of our American flag waving, though largely unnoticed. There is homemade potato salad and a plate stacked with slices of tomato and cucumber. There are fishing rods leaning by the cabin door; haphazard piles of sandals and flip flops alongside. Today there was dock jumping and row boating and mussel hunting. Then as the sun dipped low behind the mountains ringing Schroon, after a day all too fleeting, there is the whispery fragrance of citronella and hickory barbeque and the familiar July crescendo of cicadas. There is the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia, easily spied overhead night after night in the vast, velvety blankness. There is someone randomly asking, “Can anyone spot the Pleiades?” and “Who’s up for a game of Trivial Pursuit?” And most vividly, there are hushed, happy voices, familiar lilts and inflections, saying nothing of huge importance, but enveloping me in safe-ness.

Think back. You could not imagine ever being without them; but they have now been called Home. These cherished people, this thin place in time, these snapshots that flash back to you, unbeckoned. They all mingle to create the definition of childhood.

And so, an attempt to give to our own, the beauty of belonging, no matter where they are. Of cherished times to carry with them on their own journeys. My husband and I are now taken back at the awakening that this is our charge now. The everyday-ness. The rituals, the safety. It is in our hands. Forming a patchwork of memory fragments that our boys will look to decades from now. It is an awesome realization, an awesome responsibility. We are blessed to have been bestowed this grace from God to lead our small souls.

And so, there are many traditions. But one family event has become a sacred ritual for our boys. And for us. It is our annual trek north.

Shrouded among the stately mountains and indigo lake, reflecting the pines, the junipers, the aluminum rowboat and the bobbing dock, we are inside what could be a scene on a postcard. Paul and Kev chat comfortably while casting line and bobbers are configured onto brand-new-Santa-gifted fishing rods. Timmy is splashing happily, already submerged in the icy lake and half way to the dock. And yelling, “C’mon guys!” It is a day full. Boys on the loose will find enough nature to explore dawn to dusk. And it is made all the brighter by togetherness.

Later, after a hotdog and s’more feast around our dwindling campfire, sheltered and snug in the pine-y scented nylon of our tents, my husband’s voice trails off as he and Kev are immersed in their current before-sleep-novel. Timmy and I settle under his Pooh blanket and the neon of birthday goodie bag glow sticks and tons of hugs and ready the book we’ll now savor.

“Wait, Mom, one more quick prayer,” he blurts as the enormous, dark eyes, heavy with happy exhaustion, reach out.

“I know we should be praying for others, but I have to ask God for another day like this tomorrow. This was the BEST.” He hunkers down further in his sleeping bag and whispers, “Oh and thanks, God, for all of this. I’m so lucky.”

Yeah, well, me too.

He certainly HAS shed His grace on thee. On all of us.

2010 Chris Capolino

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