Unfortunately my story isn’t as touching as the one above, but this was the day that I truly believed in Santa (the person (elf?)), not just the embodiment of the “Christmas Spirit” (what Christmas is all about). But alas, not all can be “feel good,” some just are what they are.

I was probably ten at the time. In those days I shared a room with my little brother. Our room had two windows and looked out over the roof of our closed-in porch. Dad used to tell us that Santa would land on the roof of the porch, climb through our window, walk through the family room, down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room where we had our Christmas tree. I was getting to the age where I had doubts about Santa. Some of the kids at school who had parents that didn't play "the Santa game" were starting to ruin it for the rest of us. Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to visit.

I awoke in darkness, it was sometime in the middle of the night. When my conscious mind reminded me that it was Christmas Eve (now Christmas morning) I was wide awake. I don't know why I didn't just throw the covers off then, jumping up to wake my brother and eventually my parents in a mad rush to open anything with my name on it. But I didn't. I just lay there, still, for some unknown reason.

I was buried under my green sleeping bag, even my head was under the covers. There was a small area between my blanket and the bed where my blanket had bunched, giving me a small window to look out into the room. I peeked out, towards my brother’s bed. And there he was. The jolly old elf.

I think most Americans have been socialized to know Santa Claus. To have a Platonian version of him in their head. If nothing else, burned into their memories from countless visits from him in various commercials through the years. I developed my "ideal form" of Santa at that moment, he sat just six feet away.

He sat on the very corner of my brother's bed, he might have even had an asscheek on the windowsill. There was a faint white light coming through the window behind him, from the streetlight reflecting off the snow. I could only see his outline, he was completely in shadow. My strongest visual memory from that moment was looking at the curls in his beard. His beard must have been large, and the curls vaguely resembled the "@" sign, curling multiple times. I didn't take a long look at him, both from fear and from the myth that "if you stay up and see Santa Claus you won't get presents." He sees you when you're sleeping, and he knows when you're awake, remember. I did. I knew that he was staring right at me, if I didn't pretend to fall asleep fast he'd just go back out the window and forget my house that year. I curled back up and closed my eyes. Then I heard the sounds of boots on our wooden floor.

The sharp sound of his footsteps quieted when he hit the carpet of the family room. Next the stairs, then I couldn't hear him anymore.

I was excited. He was leaving presents and I figured that I could do anything I wanted now, he wasn't going to go take them back. I decided that I would confront him, just to say 'Hi,' at least. And that's my last memory, I must have fallen back to sleep.

The next morning I told everyone what I had seen. I remember my parents being a little less excited then I was. I couldn't figure out why they weren't just busting with excitement after what I had seen. The years went by and I held onto my Santa sighting. I probably believed in him longer then most of my friends, anchored by my experience that night. Eventually I let go, but I never conclusively decided that it was a dream. The only dream-like quality of it was who was in it, and although it has been almost fifteen years it still seems real to me. I'm not saying that I believe in Santa Claus, but that dream was real enough for me to shake off doubters for years. I only wish some of my "other" dreams would have the same realness to them, (you know what I'm talking about). *wink*
It was a mild, overcast winter night, the sort that leaves you feeling cheated of a proper chill. I'd gone to bed and fallen asleep. And then I woke up, in the middle of the night, for no reason. And it was pitch black, so I turned on the light. Couldn't sleep. Went downstairs, had some milk, went upstairs. Couldn't sleep, too full of thoughts. You know how it is. So I pulled the curtains back and sat on the windowsill, looking out over the houses across the street. And the sky had cleared, a few perfect wispy clouds making their way across a bright moon in silence.

And just then, from behind the clouds to the side of the moon, I saw a tiny silhouette of a sleigh, and a reindeer team, and a little man with a whip. And in that brief moment that it moved across the moon and out of sight, I believed. Believed more than I ever had in anything.

Santa was real and I had seen him. In that brief shining moment, I smiled. All was good in the world. Santa was there, and no matter how bad things got, every Christmas Eve, there he would be, flying through the midnight air, giving the little children their presents and bringing joy and goodwill to all men.

The moonlight shone across the slate roofs where he must have so recently trodden, and from far away came his faint voice. “Ho ho hoA Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

And I closed the curtains and went to sleep.

Of course, the next day I did wake up. And it was all a dream.

Yet on nights when it all seems too much, I recall that night, and I know Santa exists.

While there is good in the world, he exists.

This is a recollection of something true. It did happen.

I think every kid remembers the age they stop believing in the magic of Santa Claus. As it happens, what I remember more clearly, is the night that there was irrevocable proof of his existence.

The story starts out normally enough; we were living in Quebec at the time. I was around 9 or 10. The age isn't important here. I was more or less at the age of understanding that the man in red wasn't all he seemed to be. The winters are cold in Quebec. This one was no exception. Our breath plumed out in white puffy clouds as we trundled out of the house in our snowsuits to visit some friends of the family.

Christmases were quieter then. We had no family around us save for us four: Mom, Dad, my brother, and I. This particular year we went visiting, seeking the company of friends. It was a fun time. There was laughter and good food and warmth. We were reluctant to leave, when the time came. But leave we did.

We arrived at our home tired but happy. As was usual, Dad opened the side door, and my brother went barreling in. What was unusual is that he almost barreled into someone. He came running back to the door saying, "Dad, Paul's here!" Paul, being the friend that we had just left, could not possibly have been there. Acting quickly, our parents rushed us next door, and with our neighbor, went running back to the house, carrying, if I do recall, a couple of shovels. I don't really know what they meant to do; I think they were just reacting.

This is where the story takes on a little sad note. We were, of course, robbed. Every last present was taken, their ripped up wrappings left behind. My mother's jewelry box. Other items I can't recall now. The house was a mess. They even messed up our tree. The police were called, of course, and investigated the scene. When they finally deemed it safe for us to return, the first thing we noticed was that on the table were two mangled gifts, left behind.

One was a Christmas angel my brother had made in school; the other, little poinsettia rings, made by me, also at school. I think I cried then. They were surprise gifts for our mom.

Exhausted and frightened, we crawled into our parents bed, and slept as best we could. I don't think either of my parents did.

That was the evening of the 23rd of December.

The next night, as always, we attended mass and gave thanks to God that at least we were safe. No one was hurt. But we still felt violated, empty. Christmas was no longer something to enjoy, but would be a day to reflect.

We slept fitfully. For the first time I can remember, the hall light was left on.

The next morning, my brother and I woke up early. We walked quietly down the stairs to play.

You cannot imagine the looks of wonder and delight on our faces when we saw our tree, perfectly intact, and underneath, such gifts! Everything we asked for, and more. How could it be? We wondered. Our parents were with us from the moment of the robbery until now. They could not possibly have gone out to get us anything else. Besides, they couldn't afford to.

Santa! He came! He really came!

It wasn't until years later that the truth was revealed. Our neighbor, feeling badly for us, gathered up funds from his peers, neighbors, whoever he could, went out, and got us these things. He only had a day to do this, but he did, for us. He kept it a secret even from my parents, and brought it all on the night of Christmas Eve, while my brother and I were sleeping.

Miracles do happen. They happen every day, through the work of those around us. The fundamental importance of this lesson was not lost on me: Santa Claus does exist. He isn't a person. He is a feeling. He is the spirit of why Christmas is important to us.

He IS real.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.