Dear Santa,

Valerie (Griffin) Archual, here.

I realize this letter must come as a surprise as I know it’s been several decades since I last wrote to you. I imagine such correspondence from individuals of my “seasoning” is probably not the consensus of your regular mail. But I promise, I write to you with good reason.

Earlier this month, it came to my recent attention, as a result of a sudden midnight epiphany of sorts, that, for the first time in my entire life, you wouldn’t be visiting my house this year. I do understand my personal situation probably puts me in the minority, as a continuation of your steadfast visits over the course of half a century might certainly not be the norm; all this resting, of course, on those wise and ceremonious words of my mother: “You stop believing, he quits coming.” And I was certainly no dummy.

It has always been understood in the Griffin and Archual households that your visits would cease to exist upon one of two things occurring: the first being the said disbelief as mentioned above. The second taking place once one officially grows up, moves out of the family household, and starts a responsible, grown-up life of one’s own. However, the potential of your visits do return once children enter the picture, becoming much more gratifying than the first round.

The two-year span where I attempted the whole “adulthood” thing early on (failing miserably, I might add) brought me back home just in time for the holidays and, regardless of the situation, my stocking was always filled. Seeing how I was blessed with a little one shortly thereafter, your yearly stops by my humble abode never skipped a beat, making your visits more magical than ever.

But this year, as our youngest left the family nest, I came to the melancholic realization that, for the first time in over fifty years, your sleigh would bypass the roof under which I reside. 

True, the long, late-night hours of partnering with you as a parent on Christmas Eve weren’t to be taken lightly, especially in the beginning. There was the guarding of the bedroom doors, to ensure the little ones didn’t wake as you hurriedly delivered the presents, filled the stockings, gobbled the cookies, slurped the eggnog, and disappeared in the blink of an eye before their excited little selves woke up bright and early on Christmas morning. Oddly, I sometimes miss the “Christmas Day jet lag,” which definitely was not for the faint of heart.

As the kids got older, I was usually the first one to rise on Christmas morning, excited to see the clever and creative surprises you’d leave that always managed to marvel our two, even through their college years. 

Then there were the stocking contents that turned into countless unorthodox breakfasts of chocolate Santas and peanut butter bells to which I always turned a blind eye. The attire for our Christmas Day was always casual: pajamas from the night before. The entire day was spent together as a family, surrounded by the scattered and torn wrappings that would have me busily cleaning up on any other day of the year.

But as much as I treasure those precious memories and traditions of your visits from our Christmases past, I am reminded of the inevitable: time passes, and children grow up. I am also reminded in your absence that it’s not about you but rather the caring, compassionate, loving, and giving character you represent: the same inherent attributes of the Supreme One in whose birth Christmas is the very celebration.

And while all those traditions are some of my most cherished blessings, this year has taught me that even unexpected inconveniences can bring about special memories, most often when you least expect them and when they are needed most.

Yes, this Christmas was quite different. This morning, quiet. Walking into the living room, your absence was evident as the empty indicator hung loosely from the fireplace mantel. I smiled when I realized that while my stocking wasn’t filled, my heart certainly was; in fact, it overflowed.  

Thanks for the memories, Santa.

~Valerie