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Since PCSing from Germany to Florida, I wasn’t feeling the holiday among the palm trees, heat and humidity.
I’d grown up amidst snowy Currier and Ives scenery in Pennsylvania, where mustering Christmas spirit was effortless, automatic, intrinsic. I spent holidays in a parka with a sugary slurry of cocoa and candy canes in my belly, pelting snowballs, breaking gritty icicles off gutters, and sledding until I was too numb to feel my nose running. Back then, I didn’t look for it – the Spirit of Christmas found me, drew me in, and captured me.
In Florida, the only icy thing was the AC at my local Starbucks, and half-dead Christmas trees were sold in hot strip mall parking lots. So, we erected a measly artificial tree on a table in our cramped base living room, and I hid my disappointment. I owed it to 11-year-old Lilly. Tenth-grader Hayden and eighth-grader Anna had stopped believing in Santa Claus, but our youngest was still captivated by the magic of the season.
“We have to make it special for her,” I committed.
So, while the kids were asleep on December 24th, Francis and I dutifully set the scene for another magical Christmas morning. Little did we know, Anna and Lilly were awake in Lilly’s double bed. Watching her sister play a Santa Claus game on her Kindle, Anna saw joyful anticipation in Lilly’s eyes, and felt resentful.
“If only Santa hadn’t been spoiled for me in Germany,” Anna thought, remembering late Christmas Eve when she witnessed the shocking truth through her bedroom door’s keyhole. While Lilly giggled at digital Santas, Anna thought, “How could Lilly still believe in Santa Claus? She must be faking it.”
Channeling her inner evil dictator, Anna blurted with deadpan delivery, “You know he’s not real, right?”
Lilly looked at her sister, confused. “Who’s not real?”
“Santa — the parents made him up.”
Lilly’s face contorted and her eyes welled with tears, but it was too late to back out. Anna went into detail, explaining that the bites from cookies were taken by Dad. The curly script on packages was written by Mom all along.
“You’re a liar!” Lilly cried, “You’re stupid!”
Anna fixed her with a glare. Rather than acknowledging that she’d squelched Lilly’s Christmas psyche, Anna did what she’d always done — she manipulated Lilly to take the blame for her mistake.
“Lilly!” Anna scolded, “You shouldn’t talk to me like that!”
As if brainwashed, Lilly’s anger transformed into contrition. “I’m sorry.”
“I just can’t understand why you treat me this way,” Anna folded her arms and sulked.
Lilly begged, “Anna, I’m sorry for saying you’re stupid. Please forgive me!” Anna ignored Lilly until she’d apologized three more times, then granted her dispensation so they could sleep. But ironically, Anna depended on Lilly for comfort. To quell her own guilt, she snuggled in close to her sister and fell asleep.
The next morning while waiting for chaos to ensue, Francis and I lit the artificial tree, played Sinatra Christmas songs, and filled mugs with hot cocoa, with no inkling that Lilly had been dealt a crushing blow.
In fact, Lilly knew denying Santa would ruin Christmas for everyone, so she bounded down the stairs and exclaimed for everyone to hear, “Santa came!”
“What’s this?” Lilly said after all the gifts were opened except one, “It’s for me from Santa!” She tore open the poorly wrapped gift, revealing a plush cow. I assumed Francis had picked it up. Conversely, Francis assumed I’d bought it. Our work was done, so we were too content to care.
Lilly hugged the fuzzy heifer and beamed, “How did Santa know?!”
Years later, Lilly and Anna revealed what had really happened that Christmas Eve. Though devastated by Anna’s revelation, Lilly admitted that after Anna had fallen asleep, she wrapped up the cow she’d recently bought for herself and hid it, hoping we’d all believe in Santa again.
Sweet, unselfish Lilly taught us that the holiday isn’t about Santa, or snow, or the presents we receive — true Christmas spirit is in giving. Lilly gave us this gift by giving one to herself. And for a while, we believed.
Maybe we still do.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
