I was reading over Christmas columns I’ve written over the years. It’s no surprise that the message is sometimes similar, if not often similar, maybe even always. I can’t help myself. I overheard someone in the grocery store the other day asking a child what she wanted for Christmas. We don’t often hear that question asked anymore, telling our children it is better to give than receive. It was a standard question back in the day. Let’s not forget my desperate wanting for a Secret Sam Spy Kit, a plea that went unanswered I might add. Probably for the best; I may have grown up to be a professional assassin. But as I drove home, I thought about the question posed to the child and … it got me thinking.
What would I ask for if Santa planned to stop by with my requests loaded on his sleigh. I have no chimney, but I’m guessing he has encountered those roadblocks in his day. We didn’t have a chimney while I was growing up and he still found his way to our tree, thankfully. The Secret Sam thing is the only gift I remember asking for. I wrote a confidential letter to Santa and didn’t expand on my aspirations to my parents with any convincing effort, obviously. I don’t recall making my Christmas Wish List public. Anything horse-related was in our eyes-squeezed-tight-prayers. One year my parents had a large, sealed cardboard box in their bedroom. At every opportunity, my sister and I tipped it over and over, trying to imagine what could be inside. We were convinced it was a saddle, but it seemed too heavy, and it clunked. I don’t recall being concerned we were damaging the contents of the box while we tipped it right and left, listening to the sounds with an ear to decipher what was inside. It was a manual typewriter, not even close to what we were imagining, but we were pleased and could play office, our regular play on rainy days, with some authenticity. We were always pleased; it didn’t matter what was under the tree. Well, there was one year when my sister got a plush winter coat with the Centennial tartan pattern on it. She was disappointed and didn’t hide it very well, despite a Herculean effort. She thought she was too old for the Centennial tartan; my parents were not on the same page as she was.
I hope we were always grateful. I remember as an adult, crawling into bed on Christmas Eve with the question of “is it enough” swirling in my head. That’s a shame, the real meaning of Christmas lost in our worries of what we wrap instead of what we share.
If I was asked now what I want for Christmas, certainly the standards are front and centre – food and shelter for the homeless, easily accessible medical care for those with mental struggles, peace for those in conflict. In simpler terms, I’d like to fall asleep at night with ease and not wake up twenty minutes later with a long list of worries. I’d like some scientist to make a discovery that the planet has found a solution for its ailments, and it turns out we can indeed reverse the destruction by not drinking from plastic straws and bringing our bags to the grocery store, which seems our only commitment. I’d like to open the top drawer of my dresser and see it stocked adequately with proper fitting bras without having to lift a finger to find them and maybe a pair of socks in every colour of the rainbow, though that seems more than greedy now that I think about it. I’d like government to be guided by the needs of those of less fortune than the benefits to big business and banks. I’d like to remember not to point my toes at night when I wake up, remembering before a cramp happens that will be life threatening. I’d like the elderly to have their needs met without having to know every detail of how to maneuver the maze of information to get at those solutions. I’d like to be able to walk through a doorway without hitting my elbow or shoulder on the door frame. I’d like to leave home for the grocery store with my list in my pocket instead of abandoned on the kitchen table. I’d like a dime every time I drop something. I’d like every soul to feel a sense of purpose and to know they belong, they are not alone.
I’d like to have my four daughters crawl into bed with me on Christmas Eve and giggle with anticipation and excitement, believing that the person who ate the cookies and drank the milk left by the tree really was Santa himself. I’d like to turn back time and celebrate again every Christmas Eve, tucking in my wee ones, the magic alive in their eyes and on their faces. And I’d like each of you to feel the hope and joy and love of the season wrap you in its warmth. Merry Christmas, from my heart to yours.
wendistewart@live.ca
