Santa wrote these stories for you all....
Welcome to the "Origins" Trilogy. I am going to re-tell three classic stories about my past that will help you understand how I became Santa Claus. I hope you enjoy the stories. I will return to posting my regular (and original) updates on Tuesday, December 1st as the Christmas Season really kicks into high gear.
The first Christmas I remember was when I was 3 years old. I lived with my father and mother near the small village of Drobak. My father was an exiled king. Before I was born, he had ruled a kingdom that stretches across much of what is now Germany. S oon after my mother became pregnant with me, my father's younger brother, who had been the next in line for the throne, conspired with a neighboring king to overthrow my father. Fearing for the life of my mother and me, my father fled to Norway. Though my father remained extremely wealthy, having escaped with much of the family treasures, we lived like paupers so as not to draw attention to ourselves.
Our house was just outside the Village. My father had built it with his own hands. It was probably the first thing he had ever built. It was small, drafty, and almost perptually dark as it sat under the deep cover of the forest... the only warmth coming from a stone fireplace and the only light from that fire and the candles my mother had made. Yet when we were all there together, it somehow seemed to glow with warmth. Back then, there was no Santa Claus (obviously!) to bring presents, no Christmas parades, no Christmas parties, no Sales at the mall, no TV Holiday Specials, no Christmas carols, nor gift giving. There were certainly no Christmas lights. In fact, the only semblance of a decoration for most families at that time was a small tree. Traditionally, a small tree was cut each year and brought inside on Christmas Eve to be decorated by the family. As you can tell, our Christmases were pretty "bare" by today's standards.
From that 'first' Christmas, aged 3, I remember getting in the sleigh right after we finished decorating our tree on Christmas Eve. We traveled several kilometers through the woods to the closest church. I remember my father crying - a small tear running down his cheek - as the priest told the story of how God had sent His only Son to the world - not as a prince but as a poor baby sleeping in rags in a stable - in order to save the very people that no longer believed in God. After the service, he knelt and prayed for the longest time. I do not know until this day what he prayed but as I now look back, I can imagine that he gave thanks and prayed that he would have the strength to be an example of that kind of love. It was dark by the time we started our trip back home. We stopped several times. Each time my father would jump out of his seat, pull something from the sleigh, and bound through the snow towards a nearby cabin. As I grew older, and after many years of the same stops, I figured out that my father was leaving small bags of gold coins at the doors of those most needy. The next morning, the residents would wake up to find the coins at their doorstep and their quality of life changed forever. Never again would they wonder where the next meal would come. No one ever expected it to be my father and that was exactly how he wanted it. I fell quickly asleep once we returned home. As I would every Christmas after that until I moved out, I awoke to the sounds of people chattering excitedly about Christmas morning. The smell of pancakes and hot cider permeated the air. Most of the villagers were gathering at our house. We didn't have much space, but somehow, almost everyone squeezed into that small, 1-room home for a delicious Christmas morning breakfast that my mom had stayed up all night to prepare. She did not want anyone to be alone on Christmas Day. She told me that morning that she believed Christmas was a day of Hope, intended to be spent rejoicing with friends and family rather than focusing on every day trials.
I will never forget that Christmas, though I was merely 3 years old. At the time I did not know it, but this was our annual Christmas tradition. My father never stopped weeping at the Christmas story. And he never stopped giving anonymously to those in need. And my mother never stopped hosting the village in our home on Christmas Day. As I grow older, I realize that my parents lived life, and approached every decision, with that same spirit of Christmas every day. The lessons they have taught me, will never leave me. I only pray to set the same example of selfless giving that my father & mother set before me.
Merry Christmas, all!
Welcome to the "Origins" Trilogy. I am going to re-tell three classic stories about my past that will help you understand how I became Santa Claus. I hope you enjoy the stories. I will return to posting my regular (and original) updates on Tuesday, December 1st as the Christmas Season really kicks into high gear.
The first Christmas I remember was when I was 3 years old. I lived with my father and mother near the small village of Drobak. My father was an exiled king. Before I was born, he had ruled a kingdom that stretches across much of what is now Germany. S oon after my mother became pregnant with me, my father's younger brother, who had been the next in line for the throne, conspired with a neighboring king to overthrow my father. Fearing for the life of my mother and me, my father fled to Norway. Though my father remained extremely wealthy, having escaped with much of the family treasures, we lived like paupers so as not to draw attention to ourselves.
Our house was just outside the Village. My father had built it with his own hands. It was probably the first thing he had ever built. It was small, drafty, and almost perptually dark as it sat under the deep cover of the forest... the only warmth coming from a stone fireplace and the only light from that fire and the candles my mother had made. Yet when we were all there together, it somehow seemed to glow with warmth. Back then, there was no Santa Claus (obviously!) to bring presents, no Christmas parades, no Christmas parties, no Sales at the mall, no TV Holiday Specials, no Christmas carols, nor gift giving. There were certainly no Christmas lights. In fact, the only semblance of a decoration for most families at that time was a small tree. Traditionally, a small tree was cut each year and brought inside on Christmas Eve to be decorated by the family. As you can tell, our Christmases were pretty "bare" by today's standards.
From that 'first' Christmas, aged 3, I remember getting in the sleigh right after we finished decorating our tree on Christmas Eve. We traveled several kilometers through the woods to the closest church. I remember my father crying - a small tear running down his cheek - as the priest told the story of how God had sent His only Son to the world - not as a prince but as a poor baby sleeping in rags in a stable - in order to save the very people that no longer believed in God. After the service, he knelt and prayed for the longest time. I do not know until this day what he prayed but as I now look back, I can imagine that he gave thanks and prayed that he would have the strength to be an example of that kind of love. It was dark by the time we started our trip back home. We stopped several times. Each time my father would jump out of his seat, pull something from the sleigh, and bound through the snow towards a nearby cabin. As I grew older, and after many years of the same stops, I figured out that my father was leaving small bags of gold coins at the doors of those most needy. The next morning, the residents would wake up to find the coins at their doorstep and their quality of life changed forever. Never again would they wonder where the next meal would come. No one ever expected it to be my father and that was exactly how he wanted it. I fell quickly asleep once we returned home. As I would every Christmas after that until I moved out, I awoke to the sounds of people chattering excitedly about Christmas morning. The smell of pancakes and hot cider permeated the air. Most of the villagers were gathering at our house. We didn't have much space, but somehow, almost everyone squeezed into that small, 1-room home for a delicious Christmas morning breakfast that my mom had stayed up all night to prepare. She did not want anyone to be alone on Christmas Day. She told me that morning that she believed Christmas was a day of Hope, intended to be spent rejoicing with friends and family rather than focusing on every day trials.
I will never forget that Christmas, though I was merely 3 years old. At the time I did not know it, but this was our annual Christmas tradition. My father never stopped weeping at the Christmas story. And he never stopped giving anonymously to those in need. And my mother never stopped hosting the village in our home on Christmas Day. As I grow older, I realize that my parents lived life, and approached every decision, with that same spirit of Christmas every day. The lessons they have taught me, will never leave me. I only pray to set the same example of selfless giving that my father & mother set before me.
Merry Christmas, all!
