Michael, this is Santa

As I come into the holiday season I am so not where I thought I was going to be in any area of my life.

I’m not sure what I thought it would look like exactly, but there I was, walking into the mall alone looking at an empty space where it’s my job to bring Christmas; using all my strength to not cry or scream. When my cell phone rang I didn't recognize the number and was not interested in finding out who in Georgia wanted to speak to me.  A minute went buy and I checked the voice mail to hear a southern accent on the other line say:

“Hello, Michael? This is Santa.”

People have asked, when they find out that I’ll be moonlighting at the Santaland if I’m going to be Santa. Besides the fact that this long, tall, drink of water to whom they speak would fail at pulling off a convincing Santa, the mall hires “Real-bearded Santas” for their holiday celebration. What this means is that there are men who, in July on the beach, have children come up to them to say hello to Santa. They are the real deal.

I was about to find out just how real. 

He was in the mall and wanted to meet me and I told him I was on the set. There was no mystery whom I was meeting as I spied Santa coming down the hall past the Williams and Sonoma. He had it all. Long white beard, rosy cheeks, and the self-admitted bowl full of jelly. He reached out his hand with an unusual grace and reintroduced himself as Santa (in case I was unclear) and we proceeded to chat. 

I had a million things to do and felt the weight of it all in my chest, but I couldn’t not stop and engage this man. I don’t know it was his compassion or my need for what he represented, but I found myself talking about real life with Santa Claus.

As I sat with this man, our conversation interrupted by children who wanted to come and hug Santa (who, by the way, was dressed in a sweater and black leather jacket like some badass elf), I discovered that he was also in professional ministry and found himself in an unexpected life. This was a man whose story I knew was going to tangle with mine. 

As he described his “Santa Ministry” I got the sense that this was more than a moment in time where life wasn’t the way I wanted it to be, but that I was here for a divine intersection. This was not going to be just a job for me, a way to bring Christmas to my boys, but it was going to be a place of soul battle and healing.

When a man is angry or afraid or lonely or in pain, there is some element of control that he feels he still has. I was broken, moving through all the stages of grief like a freight train, and God wanted to meet with me. The recognition of the loss of control that faith (and healing) requires can be terrifying and I felt my heart race as it became clear that I was supposed to be here. I was alone, but God is showing up like I asked him to.

I should have know for me he would show up in a long white beard. Ironic really.

I never actually believed in Santa as a kid. My mom really tried, but I wasn’t having it. It didn’t make any sense to me so I didn’t believe. I’ve never been anti-belief, but it was just not for me. Six months ago I was the Easter Bunny. As I searched for the risen savior through my whiskers, I found myself allowing belief to take up residence as I was exposed to child-like faith on a daily basis. 

This season there seems to be another search, only this time it’s the risen savior searching for me - through a whole different set of whiskers. 

I wonder if I’ll let myself be found this time.

It’s not just Santa who is calling me today.