Disclaimer: If you have children in your family who believe in Santa, please do not read this to them!
Growing up in a Portuguese household meant that Santa would come to our house and deliver presents to everyone on Christmas Eve.
Every Christmas Eve went the same way. At the end of a scrumptious meal that consisted of cooked codfish and vegetables, drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice, my dad would get up, put on his coat and announce that he was going to go fetch Santa.
When my brother, our cousins, and I heard the doorbell ring in our little apartment, we knew Santa was coming. He always looked the same: a chubby old man, with a white beard, and white hair. He wore the same outfit every year: a red jacket, a pair of red pants, white gloves, and my dad’s boots. He always brought a big red bag with him, full of presents.
All our hopes and dreams would come out of that bag. When we could see there was nothing left in the bag, we would turn and notice that, for some magical reason, more presents had arrived under our Christmas tree while we had been watching him unpack his bag. I never asked how he did that! After all the gifts were unwrapped, Santa would always take a picture with the kids, then leave.
I don’t remember him asking us how we had behaved that year. He would just walk in the room, call us by our names, give us presents, and then leave. That was it, thirty minutes tops!
Usually a few minutes after Santa’s departure, my dad would show up, looking very tired and distraught, because he was not able to find Santa. Every time, he would discover Santa had come and left already. Fortunately, Santa had thought of him. He always left my dad a box of his favorite chocolates.
When I was four or five, I asked my mom why Santa was wearing my daddy’s boots and why my dad was never around when Santa came to visit. That year, after Santa left and my, once again frustrated, dad arrived, I told him I was sure Santa had been wearing his boots, or at least a very similar pair. My dad did not say a word.
The next year, during dinner, my dad made an announcement. I was going to go with him to get Santa! OMG (For a lack of a Portuguese expression that actually translates into English)! I was going to go fetch Santa, the SANTA! I was ecstatic! I swallowed my food in a millisecond. The fact that dad had little success in actually finding Santa never crossed my mind.
When the time came to find Santa, my dad and I left the table and the family wished us a safe trip. I was shaking! When we exited the door of the apartment, my dad knelt down in front of me and started to explain the real purpose of our trip. He said, “Because Mom and I love you and your brother so much, every year I get to Be Santa. So, this is what I do every time.”
Then I saw with my own eyes the massive production put on by my dad and aunt to deliver a credible Santa to four tiny humans.
My dad came back and knocked on the door very softly instead of ringing the doorbell. My aunt opened it without making a sound. We crossed the very small and dark hallway, avoiding the living room where the rest of the family was, stalling the kids. My dad removed his jacket and tie (those who know him know that he does everything in a tie), tied two massive pillows around his waist, and pulled the red outfit on top of his clothes and pillows. He covered his head and face with white cotton balls and kept his “hair” in place with a red Santa beanie. He was trying to be as fast as possible (which is why there had been no time to switch his boots). He grabbed the big red bag, pre-filled with our gifts, and donned the white gloves, the final touch.
I was mesmerized and kept saying that it was unbelievable!
When he was set, we left the room, in the dark, and exited the apartment. We went down a set of stairs, all the way outside, to ring the doorbell of the building, not just the apartment door (after all, Santa goes to all apartments).
When we exited the building, there was a bunch of kids playing in the street (that’s what we used to do, back in the day). When they say my dad, I mean, Santa, they came running and he gave them fruit candy (How Seventh-day Adventist of Santa!).
You have no idea how emotionally high I was. Santa was holding my hand! After passing out the candy, Santa rang the doorbell and up we went to give presents to everyone in the living room of my apartment.
It was magical. I was now an insider, watching the kiddos react to Santa’s visit. Once everyone got his or her gifts, Santa left. Everything else is a blur. My daddy was Santa, and that was all that mattered.
If the adults in our lives go to such lengths to create thirty minutes of magic for their little ones, how much more does our loving God invest in showing us love? This Advent, let’s hold God’s hand and help perpetuate the magic.
Sara Pinto da Silva is a housemate, pet lover, auntie, Sabbath School teacher, praise singer, floor manager, student, and, occasionally, the International Enrollment Counselor at La Sierra University.