The Christmas Heart - Guest Blog

Please help me welcome my Guest Blogger, my 20 year-old son, Nicholas, who wrote this Christmas tale for you today.I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

The Christmas Heart

By Nicholas Martone

It was December 24th, Christmas Eve, and children everywhere were preparing for the arrival of their gift-bearing, bearded friend. This was true for all but one young man from a small suburban town in the Midwest. The boy was convinced that Santa Claus did not exist and even insisted that it was his parents who stayed up extra late to do the deed of present laying. After making a strong case to his parents about his beliefs, they simply laughed and rushed their son off to bed. There the boy sat and devised a plan to catch his parents in the act once and for all. He decided that he would set his alarm clock for every hour on the hour and quietly tip toe down the stairs to peak into the living room. He did just that, hour after hour, only to find sleeping parents and a tree without gifts every time. Eventually it was morning and still no presents were to be found. The boy confronted his parents who he believed had purposely disregarded their "Christmas Duty" in an attempt to outwit him! 

“We would never do such a thing!” They told him. “Christmas isn't about deceit. It’s about having hope and believing that what your heart needs most of all will somehow find you.”

It was at that very moment that they all heard a firm knock at the door. The father answered the door in record time but to everyone's surprise not a soul was to be found. Not a truck, car, sled or reindeer. Just a stack of presents and a note. The boy raced for the gifts but first stopped to read the note. It said: “I didn't forget. I just wanted to help you to believe, as belief is what the Christmas spirit is all about. Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.” 

It was like a light bulb had gone off in the boys head. He was enlightened. He "witnessed" the appearing of the gifts on the front doorstep all while keeping an eye on his parents. As far as he was concerned, they were not involved and that's all that mattered. He finally believed. 

The boy ended up receiving everything he’d asked for, but the toys and games weren't what were most special to him. It was the "lesson" he’d learned that morning. That was the one that mattered most of all.

Dust in Santa's Eye

It had to happen. With Christmas bearing down I ventured, somewhat wearily, toward the mall yesterday to finish up with my purchases. In light of the recent mayhem in the news, I'll admit to feeling something other than merry and bright. I'll also admit to a low level of anxiety, a current akin to that of a distant engine running soft and steady. It said, "Look around you. Be aware. Not everyone is a happy shopper." Holiday music, piped in from speakers unseen, did what it could to keep spirits high. A cheerful sign reminded folks that Santa was in the building - a sign of normalcy during a suddenly strange and surreal time. I didn't follow the candy cane arrows, pointing the way toward the Jolly One himself. Yet I saw parents hustling their kids in that direction, looks of hope plastered on tiny faces. I went about my business, systematically aiming for a quick and painless exit. It was the last store I stopped in. The one with the longest check-out line. That was where I saw them. Two moms, two small children tucked between them. They spoke to one another and I couldn't help but overhear.

"I thought he was going to ask Santa for that video game he wants," one woman said to the other. "It was what we'd rehearsed that he'd say. But when he sat down the first thing he did was to ask Santa to help those children in Connecticut. I was stunned, frankly. Then he wanted to know if Santa was crying. I told him that Santa just had a little dust in his eye."

I imagine that particular Santa Claus had heard his fair share of wishes for fire trucks and dolls, video games and toys of all kinds; most reasonable requests. Standard operating procedure. Still...these are not standard times, are they? Life dictates that we digest tragedies gingerly but with all due haste. Because, in as much as it's an imperfect plan, life goes on. Holidays come along in spite of unexpected wishes whispered from the mouths of babes. Or from the hearts of mankind. Mornings arrive drenched in a misplaced sun, seemingly idyllic innocent hours following the very darkest of nights.

And so I pause momentarily to mourn, to lick invisible wounds, to wonder if Christmas will feel the same to children here and there. And to grown-ups everywhere - with dust in their eyes.