Berto and St. Nick (in his own words)

         I am 15 years old, and I believe in Santa Claus – although I haven’t always. When I was young, Santa was an intriguing topic for me. I believed in the jolly old man with an extreme case of dad-bod, dressed in a red suit because I trusted my parents. My parents told me he was real. Besides, what evidence did I have against them? Santa Claus showed up every Christmas. Every year, my siblings and I would awaken before the crack of dawn to wake up our parents, who we assumed would be well rested and willing to sacrifice an hour or two of sleep to see what Santa had brought us. The moment our parents stepped out of bed, we were in the mentality of an Olympic sprinter. Our finish line was just down the hall and to the left, where our presents sat under our 7-foot-tall artificial tree, with a blanket wrapped neatly around the base. Each year we experienced the rush of Christmas morning. But then I grew up.

            As I became older, I pushed the thought of the magical man to the back of my more logical brain, simply accepting but not quite believing. At that point, I found more magic in the presents than the man who delivered them. Around the age of 10, I began thinking about Santa again. My parents explained where St Nick’s magic came from by telling us that Jesus gave the jolly old man the power and ability to deliver presents because what he was doing gave so much joy to children all around the world. As a devout 10-year-old Catholic, it made some sense. After all, if Jesus had the power to do anything, why not? In my heart though, I knew. It was illogical. Santa Claus wasn’t real; it was my parents. After all, why else would I be unable to request one million dollars from him?

            I finally went to my parents, taking them aside as to not ruin it for my siblings by declaring I did not believe.

            “I have a question,” I told them.

            “What is it?”

            “Is Santa real?”

            My parents paused.

            “Do you really want to know?” My mom asked, in that moment unintentionally answering my question.

“Yes,” I said. “Well, I already know, but…”

“No, he’s not,” my parents responded kindly.

My parents continued to explain to me that now that I knew, I was “part of the magic.” Whatever I did, I couldn’t expose what I knew to my siblings. Each year I had to act as if I was just as steadfast about believing in Santa Claus as I had been five years ago. I assured them it wouldn’t be an issue. However, I didn’t really feel so magical.

            The first Christmas that I was in-the-know, setting out the festive snowflake shaped sugar cookies and milk in a bowl of ice (to insure it was cold), I felt a little empty. I didn’t understand why, but it wasn’t the same. The joy of Christmas had mostly filled me up, and the wintertime spent in our humble house in Chandler, Arizona, reflecting on the birth of Jesus was still thoroughly enjoyed. The topic of Santa just didn’t feel the same, however. Christmas Day, the presents came, taken out of their hiding spot in my parent’s closet. In my mind, I was torn. I saw how happy my siblings were, as was I, and I knew what my parents were doing was special. But it didn’t feel magical.

            Over the next year I matured. I became taller, more intelligent, and was able to wrap my head around more things. And I think that made all the difference that year.

            That year at Christmas I felt especially good about everything. As my family and I watched the Nativity Story, I felt the spirit of Christmas fill up inside me. I felt happy for my siblings, and my mind was free of any “stress” I had felt the year before. I went to bed excited to wake up the next morning and find presents under the tree. Sure enough, my siblings woke up before the sun on a once again frigid yet snowless Arizona Christmas morning. I felt a crazy sense of anticipation that felt almost nostalgic, as if it was from three years ago. I felt good, but the magic of Santa still wasn’t quite there. For the sake of my siblings I rushed out through the hall to the tree behind them, taking time to turn on the light so we could see our presents. But I still didn’t see the magic completely.

While we were opening the presents I looked at my siblings, pure joy lighting up their eyes in a Christmas fire as they tore through presents and stockings, and at my parents, looking tired yet completely overjoyed at the experience and feeling they were giving their kids by being Santa Claus. In those two seconds, something clicked. I recognized the magic. The magic was real. Santa was real. I was experiencing it. It wasn’t about the magic sleigh, or the immortality of Santa Claus – it was about the spirit of Christmas, the feeling of giving and receiving gifts, and the elation of it all. My parents were not obligated to be Santa, but out of a desire for us to experience that magic, they were. But it was not only them, it was me too. I was Santa. I was keeping the magic alive by convincing my siblings of the existence of the mythical, yet very real man.

            What I realized that year was very important, and made me truly believe Santa Claus was real. Believing in him will make all the difference. I will be able to keep that spirit alive for my children and all the little kids in a world where Santa’s magic is dampening, being smothered by newer generations who believe children need facts, not hope. Indeed, what would Christmas be for kids without the jolly old man?

Other posts about the Jolly Old Man and his magic:
Berto and St. Nick
Santa and St. Nick

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: Mass and Liturgy

My husband Matthew, recently confirmed, invited me to Mass one Sunday when we were dating. With the decision to join him, I embarked on a sort of odyssey, but it would be years before I reached any kind of shore.

I had this notion that Catholic Mass was very rigid, probably boring, and I had heard many people say that it left no room for the movement of the Holy Spirit; it was too scripted.

Mass is indeed scripted according to the words of the most awesome Author; it follows Scripture. That was what struck me that first Sunday.

I heard the most basic, scriptural teaching of our faith in the Nicene Creed, and the line that struck me most forcibly that first time was, He will come again to judge the living and the dead/ And his kingdom will have no end (Acts 10:42-43, Isaiah 9:6-7). I held hands with others as we prayed the Lord's Prayer just as Christ had taught when the apostles asked of Him, "Lord, teach us to pray just as John taught his disciples." (Luke 11:1-4). Then came the exchange of, "Peace be with you," in imitation of Jesus' greeting to his disciples after the resurrection, followed by the response, "And with your spirit." (John 20:19, John 14:27, 2 Corinthians 13:13, Ephesians 6:23) And we proclaimed with those in Jerusalem who watched Jesus pass on a humble colt as the Lord entered the city before his passion, "Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord." (Mark 11:7-9, Psalm 118:26)

All that still may not have been enough to make me fall in love with this strange Mass. Then....I heard the words of Christ at the Last Supper pronounced by the priest at the consecration, and I fell. I was in awe. The priest used the exact words of Christ Himself; he cannot add or omit anything. Nor did he begin or conclude, as I have so often heard elsewhere, "Now, this is merely symbolic..." I had never seen communion treated with such reverence anywhere. I have been in a few churches where tiny plastic containers holding wafers and grape juice were passed out. To me that was not communion. Who could put Christ, or something they believe is symbolic of Him, in a plastic tube with a peel-off wrapper?

So with the consecration I began to get somewhere through the grace of God, but more amazing is that it continues these nearly twelve years later. The more I attend and listen at Mass the deeper I delve into the mystery of Scripture. For instance, I have never been a lover of the Psalms, despite the fact that I have listened to them sung at every Mass for years. Recently, however, I have found myself paying far greater attention to them, because it was pointed out to me that these songs were prayed by Jesus, too, in the Jewish synagogue. Through studying them more openly, I have learned that these songs of David are wonderful inspiration for prayer at diverse moments in our life. In Psalm 51:11-14 we find a poignant plea for mercy to guide all repentant hearts and in 118:19-25 a joyous prayer of thanksgiving and praise.

But I have not only discovered the Psalms. Just a mere two years or so ago on this journey, I also began to truly listen to and appreciate the words we pray right before receiving the Eucharist:

Lord I am not worthy
that you should enter under my roof
but only say the word
and my soul shall be healed

Here we echo Matthew 8:5-8 in the words of the centurion, the man of whom Jesus said, "Amen, I say to you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith." We do this every Mass. Every Mass we declare Jesus Christ is Lord and join in faith with that faith-filled centurion who professed that he was not worthy for Christ to enter his home but believed Jesus could heal his paralyzed servant simply by saying the words. And He did. And so we believe he can heal our souls in the same way. That is beautiful.

I leave here now with this thought:

Is it even possible that this liturgy, overflowing as it is with the Word, could fail to invite the Holy Spirit to move among the hearts of the faithful? Yes, I have been in a Protestant church and felt the exhilarating presence of God's Spirit, because God was there - that does not surprise me. But I have also felt Him surrounding me as I listened to the communion hymn sung by the Christian family in my parish, my head bowed over a kneeler in silent Thanksgiving.

One Bread, one body, one Lord of all

One cup of blessing which we bless

And we, though many, throughout the earth

We are one body in this one Lord

 

From One Bread, One Body, music composed by John Foley and words based on 1 Corinthians 10:16-17, Galatians3:28, Ephesians 4:4-6

The Grand USA Automobile Expedition



I just got back from the great American road trip - fast food, long drives, short visits, "Are we there yet?"s, and continental breakfasts in cheap hotels. We Americans love our "great" cross-continent excursions. Our family sped through Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Oregon and California, and what I would like to know is this: what happened to the great American train journey? Why on earth did we give up on that?

 

 

I would dearly love to bring back that era - mingling with strangers from all over in the passenger car, taking a stroll to the dining car for lunch or a cocktail, sleeping in a punishing foldout bunk, stopping at historical and culturally idiosyncratic train depots on the way.

 

Something like Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney in White Christmas.

 

Of course, the engines and railway cars of those days are now best used for slooooow but scenic trips to places like the Grand Canyon. We did that once with my sister's family, visiting from Virginia. It was pleasant and leisurely, and we were entertained by a musician who played some of the great country-western classics and by actors who played outlaws and held us up...for, uh, soda and snacks. But I fantasized about some real excitement...like going more than 30mph.

 

Europe and Asia didn't give up on train travel. They just made it faster. Why don't we have bullet trains zipping through our states? The Great American West needs a few outstanding bullet trains, something to rival the almighty automobile and the cocky airlines.

 

Through many frustrations on our road trip - stops at gas station restrooms, sibling kick fights in crowded hotel beds, a five-year-old's homesickness, and an awful, overpriced meal at a lonely trucker's diner in a tiny town (but with a Starbucks) - I kept saying, "Remember, kids. This is the great American road trip!"

 

Yes, it was, and it was worth it. Really. We visited cherished relatives we very rarely see. My kids got time with their great-grandparents and discovered new cousins and got a taste of small-town living. And I saw again the landscape that shaped my parents, remembering Dad's tales as we passed familiar landmarks. We saw a dear and dearly missed friend and her family in Oregon, and my Man and I became godparents to her daughter during Mass. And on the long drive back through California to where we started from, with nothing to do but wish we were home already, we stopped in a beautiful park by the Sacramento Zoo to eat a real lunch with cheese, fruit, salad and utensils beneath huge deciduous trees. Afterward, I chased my kids who were racing leaves, squirrels and each other, and we desert rats merrily kicked through the drifts of exotic, brightly-hued leaves until Papa sternly motioned us to the car, telling us he'd been patient enough.

 

It was the great American road trip, my friends. Yessiree.

 

But I'd still like a revival of the great American railway journey of yore - only with greater speed.

 

 

P.S. That title was just so clever, wasn't it? As you see, I go out of my way not to be redundant. No need to thank me! But I really sweated coming up with that one, I can tell you...it paid off, right?