A few weeks ago we visited friends who told us about the letter their son wrote to Santa.
"I want you to come read to me"
Actually the spelling was more avant-garde than that, though his mother understood. I thought about his wish. Such a small ask, really. Then I remembered.
I have the keys to the costume storage. There are no less than four full Santa suits. Not only that I am married to a man with a snowy beard. This could work.
We arrived a few days before Christmas, with books under our arms, and his parents invited us in. The small boy was, I will admit, as unconvinced as Susan of Miracle on 34th Street, though his curiosity about the illustrations drew him in.
Later that afternoon our family was in full on prep mode, with John and Benjamin shopping for stocking treats, and Hosanna wrapping gifts behind a barricade while the twins and I joined her to watch the classic version of the movie.
We laughed and cried at all the best parts, and I marveled again when the postal workers dumped thousands of childrens’ letters on the judge's desk. It's true. Believing in goodness wins out over skepticism.
Seventeen years ago we had our own personal miracle, when our mute little boy wrote that same movie title using letter cookies on the living room floor. Ben pieced Legos together to spell other things like Robin Hood, taking extra care with fancy fonts. He was confused at my exuberant response, but I could not contain my joy over the proof that he thinks, he understands, and God willing would one day speak to us.
Which he does. Some wishes do come true.
