It was always the anticipation that filled the air, thick and sweet like the scent of pine. Christmas Eve felt different from any other night. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to happen. For a child, it was the night magic was real.
I remember when I was seven, when I heard whispers from older kids at school—"Santa isn’t real, you know? I felt a little bit disappointed, But still, that night, there was a feeling in my heart. I lay in bed, my face pressed into the sheets, wide awake. The glow from the streetlights filtered through the blinds. It was late, later than I’d ever stayed up, and the house was in complete silence.
I tried to stay still, tried to pretend I was asleep, but my eyes kept staring out the window, to the beautiful night sky I could see between the curtains. Would Santa come this year? I held my breath, straining to hear the sleigh bells, the sound of deers on the roof.
Then, I hear it,--ho ho ho. Could it be?
Without a sound, I slipped out of bed and went to the living room, careful not to wake anyone. The tree stood there, magnificent and tall, its lights twinkling like tiny stars. The presents were there waiting for me, each one wrapped in colorful paper. But it wasn’t the presents that caught my eye.
There, by the fireplace, sat Santa.
I couldn’t believe it. I stood frozen in the doorway. His red suit was fluffy and warm, his beard long and white, his eyes twinkling, the same as I had imagined for years. He was holding a glass of milk, looking right at me.
“You’ve been a good girl this year,” he said, his voice deep and comforting, like a thunderstorm or the rumble of a train far off in the night. His smile was kind, and he nodded as if he’d known me all along.
In that moment, my doubts melted away. Faith isn’t just something you hold in your head , it’s something you feel, something you know deep down when the world is quiet, and the magic touches you in ways words can’t explain. As I looked at Santa, my heart swelled with joy, not just for the presents, but for the mystery of it all , the way belief could fill the air like the scent of Christmas cookies, how it could stir the soul like the song of carolers in the street.
And then, just as quietly as he had appeared, he was gone. There were no reindeer, no sleigh, but there was a lingering sense of something greater,a feeling that the night was sacred, that the joy we share is woven from something more than what we can touch or see.
As I returned to my bed, I didn’t need any more proof. Faith wasn’t about having everything explained. It was about trust, about the knowing that love and goodness could fill the world, even in the unseen places.
Years have passed since that night, and like all children, I eventually grew older. The questions returned, the reality of a world without Santa settled in. But the lesson stayed: Belief in the unseen, in the goodness that surpasses explanation, in the grace that moves through the world like the breath of a child, is never wasted. It is a gift that, once opened, never truly leaves.
On Christmas Eve, I find myself still looking out the window, still holding on to that childlike wonder. Faith, after all, is not just a part of childhood. It is the quiet hope that everything will be made right, even when we can’t see how. The magic of Christmas isn’t just in the gifts it’s in the belief that love, in its purest form, is always near.