He hung on as long as he could, till the bitter end and then he fell. That was where I found him, in the cold, wet, grass next to the mailbox. I was crestfallen because he had gone from my life. Gone, when I was off somewhere else and could have perhaps saved him from this awful fate on a cold, rainy, dreary day if I had been near. I was guilt ridden as well—perhaps if I had used more black electrical tape to tape him up it would have sufficed. Perhaps glue might have worked, but since I was not there for this tragedy we will never know.
I remember when I put him on the mailbox—there he was so perky and ready for the Christmas season. Granted he was a print on a piece of mere paper - - attached to a decorative yard stake. But he looked so determined in his red truck, driving, driving madly into the jaws of the holidays. And he had that twinkle in his eye and he was so typically jolly that I knew, knew deep down he would not fail me. This paper Santa would be my talisman against the ravages of this particular holiday season. I knew he would drive right through lockdowns; I knew he could deliver a plethora of boxes from AMAZON and Walmart and all the other vendors I consulted as I found those Christmas treasures to be delivered for my loved ones. I thought I knew, but alas I was “too big for my britches” as we say here in the South, (no doubt a result of eating far too many Christmas cookies) and I expected too much from a sturdy Santa turned fragile.
But what else could I have expected from him? He was enduring the same things I was, in real time, with me. He was beset by what SEEMED like an unusual amount of rain for this time of year. He was driving into a land of viruses and plagues galore, but those seemed to bother him least of all. No, it was clearly the cold rain that relentlessly fell from gray December skies that wore him down, dissipated his glue. At first he buckled and I held fast to the hope that he would endure for the whole season. The buckle turned into a curl and finally, when I was nowhere to be found, he took his final nose dive.
He was like a metaphor for our lives. He was ready, dressed for the occasion and in his trusty truck poised to negotiate the highways and byways, to bypass fearful emotions and mandates and tribulations that lay before him, just as they did for us. Just as we must strive and hope to persist.
He lasted more days than a realist could expect. But this year I did not want reality, I wanted all the fantasy of the Christmas season. I wanted sugar plum fairies, and elves in workshops and reindeer with noses that blinked in the fog to guide Santa on his way. I wanted whimsy and sparkle and ribbons and lights. I had put all those up, and decorated with such, but the season finally wore me down too.
Mind you, I did not give up totally as my paper Santa was forced to do, but I felt a tad battered and sad and found myself yearning for Christmases past when all such things existed in my childlike experience. My parents might have faced debt or disease or death, but they protected me from it with enough magic to make it work.
However, I ultimately knew I had to just “suck it up” as they say in the Army or to the Marines. I had to face the reality that once in a while these times must come. Even Dickens (who wrote A Christmas Carol) stated as much with his quote from A Tale of Two Cities:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way–in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”~ A Tale of Two Cities
And so, Santa and Dickens aside, I headed for the only place where I could find solace. Granted it was a day late as Christmas fell on a Saturday and Church would be the day after. But no matter. Salvation and peace can come at any time, most especially during times of crisis and despair.
I have always loved our little church with its white steeple that splits the sky on a sunny day when the clouds are billowy white as they punctuate the cornflower blue heavenly canopy. When we enter I have always been drawn to the ceiling. It is made of rich brown wood that provides an expansive top to my imaginary vessel, as I am always reminded of what the ark must have looked like. And every time I enter there I feel safe from the vagaries of daily life, protected, like Noah and his family must have felt as they were buffeted by the waves. So I sit with my church family and sing hymns and hear the sermon and I find my peace. I am ready to go out the doors into what may come. I pray that the bad times will pass and good health will flood the land; that all our citizens will be gracious and noble; that all our leaders will abide forever in what is right and just; that Americans will just be kind to one another and that should solve most of our ills.
You have to admit it definitely beats a cardboard Santa who peddled as fast as he could, but perhaps needed a quick stopover at my church to garner the stamina required to really see him through his Christmas journey.
“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” – Isaiah 40:31