This morning I was thinking about Santa.
I was trying to remember how old I was when I learned that there wasn’t a Santa in the suit and reindeer sense.
I had no troubled with their sense of certainty. I think that year, Santa, or the Spirit of Santa, was morphing in my mind to the idea of Santa.
This is an odd thing, I suppose, to be thinking about on your birthday. But, when you are born at a time of trees and tinsel and carols and cookies, it’s hard not to be overtaken by that other kid’s birth.
I thought about how at certain ages we are supposed to stop believing in certain things – the fairy tales of life.
I thought about how many people suggest that by thirty you no longer believe in kindness, by forty you no longer believe in love, by fifty you no longer believe that anything matters, by sixty you no longer believe that you had a purpose at all. Call me naive, many have, but, like with the idea of Santa, I still believe.
I believe it all matters, somehow, that we all matter somehow and that God or not, Heaven or not, here is still here and my responsibilities here are still responsibilities.
My power chair broke down this weekend. Suddenly my life became so much smaller.
It’s an inconvenience, I don’t like any of the strategies or solutions we’ve come up with, but I’ll use them.
Because the chair can’t tell me to give up or get down.
It’s just a chair.
Santa wouldn’t give up on Christmas because, say, it’s foggy. He’d find Rudolph.
And, feeble as it may be, that’s my plan too.