When I was a very little kid—three or four years old—I was frightened to death of Santa Claus. He had somehow found his way to our house, some three miles from the town of Two Harbors. He was tapping on the back door window and gesturing that I let him in.
There was no way I would let him in.
Mom tried coaxing me to open the door. I was stoic, ignoring mom and sitting in my dad’s chair, staring straight ahead as the increasingly manic troll continued pawing at the back door. At a glance I noticed he’d begun winking at me.
Before long, my uncle Laverne entered the house smiling broadly. Mom asked if he’d seen Santa Claus, and told him I was afraid to let him in.
“I wasn’t afraid at all,” I corrected her. “I just wanted to sit in dad’s chair.”
May your Christmas memories delight you and those you love. May the awe of the baby Jesus, lying in a manger surrounded by shepherds, kings, and sheep, bring you peace.