OSV STORY FOR DEC. 21

Santa’s ‘last’ Christmas

"When did you kiss Santa goodbye?" That’s the question we here at Our Sunday Visitor asked you readers to focus on in your Christmas-memories musings this year. An interesting question, no doubt. When did Santa Claus and his sleigh filled with toys give way to the real meaning of Christmas: a manger in Bethlehem filled with the Bread of Life?

This year we received approximately 25 different answers to this question from you faithful readers. Thank you for sharing them. But, as every year, we received more letters than we can print. The choices are never easy. Yet we believe the following 12 letters best capture the spirit of Christmas Memories 1997. — Our Sunday Visitor

Claus and the Christ

I didn’t "kiss Santa goodbye." In 1981, I received a poster-size picture of Santa Claus kneeling in adoration of the Baby Jesus, and I incorporated it into our Christmas celebrations.

I put the picture on our front door, hoping that it would help "neutralize" the pagan decorations throughout the neighborhood somehow.

That year I was teaching catechism to children, and I had small copies of the picture made up for them to color and make into Christmas cards. They were delighted. That was the lesson for the day.

As the old saying goes, "If you can’t beat them, join them." And in 1981, instead of complaining about all the Santa decorations around us, we decided to "join" him with our Christmas celebrations.

— Mary Hogarty

Ottawa, Ontario

Midnight with Christ

Public elementary schoolteachers, perhaps tired after the Christmas vacation, tend to assign the same thing every Jan. 2. (I can say this because I was in this profession for 20-plus years.)

Returning from the holiday, I, along with the rest of my fourth-grade class, was told by our teacher to rise and give a speech on what presents we had received for Christmas. This was going to be a snap, I thought.

"I got many gifts," I began. "But my favorite was the game of ‘Schmo.’ It’s so much fun, and the whole family can play." I was so excited telling the class how to play this fad game of 1957. At the conclusion of my speech, a boy asked, "Who gave you the game?"

I answered proudly, "Santa Claus!"

The whole class roared with laughter. "Santa Claus? You baby! There’s no Santa Claus!"

I was mortified. Embarrassed to tears, I sat down. I couldn’t wait until the school day was over. Going home for lunch, I asked my Mom, between tears, about the existence of Santa.

"Well, when you get to a certain age," she said, "Santa’s only for little kids. But you’ll still have Christmas. It’s still Jesus’ birthday. I bet you’ll enjoy Christmas more now that you’re growing up."

Yeah, sure Mom, I thought sarcastically. It was a very bad day — teased by my classmates and losing Santa. But when Dec. 25 rolled around the next year, Mom’s words came true at Midnight Mass. It was such a beautiful Mass — the altar, the choir, the sermon, the crèche and the flowers were all so lovely that year. I felt so close to the Lord that night. My first grown-up Christmas without Santa but with Jesus.

— Weda Mosellie

Phillipsburg, N.J.

Mommy and Santa

I discovered who Santa Clause really was when I was 8 years old. Before that, I believed that he was a real person.

I grew up in Massachusetts in an Italian/Irish family and was raised Catholic. I knew Christmas was the celebration of Christ’s birthday. However, I also was taught about Santa Claus. I wanted very much to see him standing in my living room, putting toys under the tree.

Each Christmas I would try to stay awake, hoping to see him. Each Christmas, a lot of my relatives would come over and stay up until midnight talking to my parents, while I lay in bed trying to keep awake. I would say over and over in my mind, "Go home, go home," until I fell asleep.

The Christmas I was 8, they finally did go home early. Soon I heard the rustling in the living room of someone putting presents under the tree. I thought to myself, I’ll pretend that I need to go to the bathroom so my mom won’t be mad that I got up, and I’ll walk across the hall to the bathroom and see Santa.

I did just that, and was shocked to see my mother putting the toys under the tree. I felt betrayed — why did she lie to me and tell me there was a Santa Claus when there wasn’t?

My mother sat me down and explained that Santa Claus was just a symbol of Christ’s giving, and that because the three wise men gave gifts to the Baby Jesus, we carry on that tradition through Santa Claus. She hoped I would understand.

I did and didn’t. I understood the part about Christ, the wise men and giving. But I didn’t understand why someone had to make up a story about Santa in order to teach people about Christ’s giving himself to the world as a Babe in a manger. And I still don’t.

— Camille Fadia

Canoga Park, Calif.

Two Christmas babies

Christmas 1994 was the Christmas that Santa gave way to the Babe in the manger. In August of that year, I received the good tidings that I would finally become a mother, at the age of 37. This was the long-awaited answer to my prayers.

But two weeks before Christmas, during a routine doctor’s visit, I receive the devastating news. The doctor could not hear the baby’s heartbeat. An ultrasound confirmed my worst fears: the baby had indeed died.

The worst of catastrophes, this meant there were no chances left for me and my spouse to have a baby.

Not two days earlier, I had decorated our home for Christmas, fully anticipating Santa’s arrival with gifts for our impending child. I fully believed that next Christmas I would be sharing Santa’s gifts with my recently born infant and starting a new Christmas tradition.

But now, while I went through the motions of shopping and wearing my festive apparel, the sparkle of the holiday season was cold. From that babe’s demise, however, the light appeared to me. This is the light of God’s Gift to the world.

For the first time, I realized how His mother, our Blessed Mother, felt at the lost of her only Child. The tinsel and glitter of the season gave way to a mother giving birth in a barn, and then, a few years later, watching her Son die on a desolate hilltop. The grandeur of the temporal world gave way to the true Light found in the manger: the Baby Jesus.

— Diane Miles

Houston, Texas

Home for Christmas

Christmas Eve was anything but quiet, with a house full of 12 children and an abundance of drop-in friends and relatives.

Yet this Christmas Eve was very different. People moved quietly and spoke in soft, solemn whispers. The usual tinsel and holiday trimmings were absent throughout the rooms, except in the parlor.

There was a Christmas tree, sprinkled with a few ornaments and a strand of lights. Underneath was the Nativity scene, with a traditional empty manger. Mother asked that it be set up "for the little ones." I was 4. One of the three packages had my name on it, but it didn’t interest me. I knew something awful was happening.

The "Christmas spirit" and excitement had ended for my family two weeks earlier, when my 13-year-old brother, Johnny, contracted the flu. He was confined to his room as his condition worsened.

He became ill the day before he was to be in a parish Christmas play. As the day neared, our anticipation waned as he had to drop out. The family was full of disappointment. Days passed. The doctor came and went. His grim face said it all: Johnny might die.

An aunt came by our house and sat by the tree. She began to read a Christmas story as she placed the Infant Jesus in the manger. She was speaking about that wondrous night when Grandmother motioned to her. I heard the word "dying" as she quickly dressed me in warm clothes and took me to her home.

On Dec. 28, Mother’s and Johnny’s birthday, family and friends gathered in the freezing snow-covered cemetery. Our pastor prayed over and blessed Johnny’s final resting place. My young age shielded me from the awful grief.

I recall seeing the sleeting rivers of pain move down mother’s cheeks as she held my hand. As we walked away, she murmured, "Johnny is safe with Jesus now."

The manger scene flashed in my mind, with the angel hovering over Baby Jesus with his tiny outstretched hands. That was the day I let go of Santa, all the tinsel and ribbons, and embraced the real meaning of Christmas. In my mind I saw those little arms hugging my brother and welcoming him home.

— Theresa Hoskin

Merritt Island, Fla.

Bread of Life

It is intriguing that this year Our Sunday Visitor asked for Christmas memories about the "real meaning of Christmas: a manger in Bethlehem filled with the Bread of Life." For it was truly the Bread of Life that I received one Christmas.

In the fall of 1965, my family moved from Wisconsin to Kansas City, Mo. I was in the second grade at St. Peter’s School, and I was younger than my classmates who had made their first Communion the previous year.

As a result, I was instructed at home for that wondrous event. I also got to choose the date, and picked one that I thought was most significant: Christmas Day.

On Christmas morning, my family walked to church and sat in the front row. At Communion time, as previously arranged, monsignor saw to it that I was the first one at the Communion rail. Then, on the day celebrating how "the earth received her King," so did I receive my eucharistic King: Jesus. Joy to the world and glory to God in the highest!

The photo I have of that day shows a child with her eyes glowing with happiness. Her smile is marred by a half-swollen bottom lip. A nervous habit of sucking my lip had started a few years prior. I had prayed to stop the habit, but seemingly to no avail.

However, miraculously, the habit stopped after this significant day of my life. Also, in the photo I’m holding a Christmas present: a doll holding a baby. I thought the most logical name for the doll was "Mary."

— Lise Blackburn Wagers

Big Creek, Ky.

‘Post Santa’

Christmas has always been one of my very favorite times of the year. Its favored status has had little to do with presents and decorations, but much to do with the fact that I am privileged to share Christ’s birthday, and that my father had a real passion for Christmas.

Dad grew up without much of a family, so when he and Mom married and gathered five children about them, he threw his whole heart and soul into any celebration that involved his family. For all five of his children, Dad’s passion is what "made" Christmas.

With all the warm and wonderful memories that I have of my father and of one special Christmas after another, one especially stands out: I was in seventh grade and just a year or two "post Santa."

That year would be a new beginning, though, in how to celebrate Christmas: I was allowed to go to midnight Mass for the very first time.

My best friend, Mary Ann, and I walked to church with my dad, who always ushered, and we sat by ourselves. It was so exciting!

Nothing could have prepared me for that night, and for the way I was to mature as a Catholic and as a child of my father.

Sitting in the presence of tall, glowing candles, an altar overflowing with poinsettias, and gazing at the beautiful crèche, the whole purpose of that night began to wrap around me in warm, comforting layers: This was Christ’s "birthnight." This was the Son of the living God coming down to live with earth’s spiritual and material poverty just for me.

No wonder the organ and voices of the choir rejoiced. How fitting that the candle flames danced higher than ever before.

The true seal of assurance of the wonder of that night, though, came from something I’d known all my life. The organ sounded the opening notes of "Silent Night." Then, above every other sound and voice, I heard the beautiful, sure, Irish voice that was not only singing the words, but praying them.

It was that same voice that always called me "honey girl," the voice that called my mother "Mom" and made it sound like "Sweetheart."

It was on that night that I realized the depth of special meaning Christmas held for my father. Christmas was a way of life, a life of goodwill to men, all men. Christmas was how my dad lived every day of his life.

With this realization on that early Christmas morning, the Christ Child, with a little help from Dad, gifted me with the true meaning of Christmas.

— Mary Pat Hoerner

Pittsburgh, Pa.

True giving

My family was devoutly Catholic, but my parents were never strident about their faith. It seemed to me that they felt example was a more effective teacher than preaching.

Our Christmas holidays were Christ-centered, but we kids also believed in Santa Claus. The Christmas that really made me understand the Gift of Bethlehem and what giving really means was the year I was 7. That was the first year my parents felt I was a big-enough girl to stay up for midnight Mass.

It was snowing hard that night, so we were a bit late for Mass and had to sit in the back. I was overwhelmed by the incense, decorations and by being up so late. Just before the Gospel reading, the door opened and there was a disturbance behind us. I turned to look and saw an old hobo standing there, shivering and wet — no coat, no hat — hands blue with cold. As he stood there looking bewildered, he suddenly bent over and was sick on the floor.

"Daddy, that man threw up," I whispered to my father. My dad turned to look, and without hesitation was up and helping the man into a side room with a chair. Then my father disappeared and was back in no time with a mop and bucket and cleaned up the mess so quickly that I doubt anyone even knew it happened except us.

As Communion was starting, my dad was back sitting next to me, and I turned to see the old man leaving. He was wearing my dad’s favorite jacket that he kept in the car for hunting trips. My dad loved that jacket — and now he gave it away to that old hobo.

I never forgot that night and the example of true giving that my dad gave me. He gave me an illustration like none I’ve ever seen since of what Christian compassion means: real giving is not giving what you don’t want, can’t use, or can spare; it’s giving what you love and cherish — like we all were given that night in Bethlehem.

— Susan Guastaferro

Buffalo, N.Y.

Grandma’s love

Many times over the years, I have recalled Christmases past, and I can vividly remember being held on the lap of my great grandmother.

On Christmas Eve, my Mom and dad, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins all used to gather in our living room to open presents. A huge family dinner proceeded this event, but my strongest memory was my great grandmother rocking me and talking to me.

Many Christmases have come and gone since I was a babe in her arms. We moved from that house, and off we went to East Lansing, Mich.

After my youngest brother, Tom, was born a little over a year later, tragedy struck. My older brother, Jerry, drowned. He had been going for his "merit badge" in lifesaving for Boy Scouts. Christmas was so sad that year, and our family pulled through only by the grace of God and the support of friends and relatives.

My memory of my great grandmother stands out through all of this. When Jerry died, it was Grandma Ray who rocked me and sang to me and reassured me that everything would be OK.

Christmas would find us all together at someone’s home in our huge extended family. But as the years went by and families grew up, and families moved farther and farther away, our big Christmases got smaller and smaller.

The extended family continued to decrease as well, through death, but the hardest death for me to cope with, after my beloved brother, was that of Grandma Ray.

She died at the age of 90 in 1970, after years of helping others, loving others, doing for others, but not for herself. I was in college then, and my dad called me to come at once.

I arrived and entered the nursing home. My dad met me and said to brace myself. When we entered the room, Grandma heard my voice, and as I leaned over to kiss her, she opened her tired eyes one last time and looked at me and said, "You’re here at last!" She died soon after.

As Christmas approaches and the snow falls so gently down, I have the warmest thoughts of a saint. She wasn’t even Catholic, but a saint she surely was, and here we called her Grandma Ray.

— Richard Dawson

Traverse City, Mich.

The gift exchange

Every Christmas we were assigned classmates for a gift exchange. In the fifth grade, the girl assigned to me had a sister also in our class. They came from a poor family.

When the day arrived for the exchange, the nun told us to get our gifts ready. When I looked over, my partner and her sister had very troubled looks on their faces.

The nun walked around to make certain everyone brought a gift. When she reached the two sisters, she saw that they both had old stuffed animals that weren’t wrapped, as required.

The nun proceeded to scold the two girls. As they both sat and cried, she said they were not to participate.

Because they had no money, the sisters had to bring a prized possession of their own for the gift exchange. I could tell they cherished those stuffed animals because of the way one of them clutched the one-eyed, fury old bear.

I exchanged gifts with the girl my partner’s sister was assigned to. At lunch, I asked her if she would give up her gift so we could give them to the sisters, and she eagerly agreed.

We found the sisters in the school yard as they sat by themselves, looking very sad. We offered the gifts and said "Merry Christmas."

They both started to cry, and the one handed me her bear, after she kissed him goodbye. I asked her to please keep it, because I could see she loved it very much.

That day, I learned the true meaning of Christmas. No gift I have ever received from "Santa" made me feel like I did on that day. I truly believe that Jesus touched me.

Years later, in a store, a stranger hugged me and started to cry as she told me her name. She was the little girl in the fifth grade with the old one-eyed teddy bear.

— Roger Fierst

Lancaster, Ohio

It takes a child

It was Christmas 1986. My son and his wife and daughter were attending Christmas Day Mass with my husband and I.

Angela, my 2-year-old granddaughter, had been very good during the entire Mass, but was anxiously awaiting her trip to the manger after Mass. She kept peeking at the crèche in front of the altar.

After Mass, Angela skipped joyfully up to the manger. She stood and looked, stepped back and looked again. Then she slowly approached the manger.

She asked questions: Why was the baby born in a shed with animals instead of a hospital like she had been? Why was the mother dressed as she was? And why were there animals in the house?

After she got the answers to her questions, she again stepped back. Then she knelt down to the crib and started slowly placing straw over and under the Christ Child.

When questioned about her actions, she said, "Well Grandma, the Baby Jesus won’t be cold anymore. He needed a blanket to keep His toes warm. You know, babies cry when they are cold." After placing the straw she said, "There, He’ll sleep much better."

It takes a child to think of the little things about Christmas. For several years, Angela went to the crib and always placed straw over the Baby Jesus.

— Mary Fryman

Lodi, Wis.

No Santa to kiss

I always knew the real meaning of Christmas. Since my earliest years, there were no packages decorated with ribbons and bows under our carefully selected Christmas tree. Instead, there was an exquisite wooden manger that my father had carved.

The Christ Child was lying on some straw, and the Blessed Mother knelt lovingly to one side with Joseph, her spouse, opposite her. Approaching this scene were the lavish Three Kings. This is wheat I expected to see under our beautiful Christmas tree every year.

I don’t think I really believed in Santa Claus, yet he seemed to belong to the season. Somewhere deep within me I had hoped that he might come to our house, but he never came. It was the Great Depression, and times were hard.

Nevertheless, it didn’t matter because preparing for Christmas was busy and joyful at our house. My older siblings would sing Christmas carols weeks in advance.

My mother made sure that she had the nuts, apricots and prunes that she needed to bake the many rolls of kolachi required for our large family and the many visitors we expected.

The sound of my father playing the organ filled our home with "O Come, All Ye Faithful," "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "Silent Night." He was the organist and directed the choir at our parish, Sts. Cyril and Methodius in Warren, Ohio. He practiced his Latin responses to make sure that he was in good voice.

This atmosphere made me happy with excitement that something great was about to happen.

After our Christmas Eve meal of customary Slovak food and traditional oplatky wafers, my parents told me to get ready for midnight Mass. This was the high point of our Christmas preparations, and we knew it was a very important event.

Seated next to my mother in church, listening to the choir and the strong voice of my father, I realized how privileged and proud I was to be a part of this solemn celebration of the birth of my Savior. I thanked God for His great Gift to me, the grandest one of all — far too important to be delivered by reindeer.

And to this day I am grateful for having been spared the bitter disappointment of having to "kiss Santa Claus goodbye."

— Margaret Kacir George

Warren, Ohio

Copyright Our Sunday Visitor, 1997; from the 12-21-97 edition

HEADLINES FOR DEC. 21

Birth of Innocence (editorial)

Can a president be both great and good?

The Christ Child at the Met

It’s no sweat in Newark

Prophecy in blood, sweat and tears

Homeless bound

‘He has changed the lives of so many individuals’