“Stacy!” I barked, “What are you doing?”
Stacy gave a guilty jump backward from my closet and looked at me.
“Nothing,” she answered, but without the ring of truth. She didn’t need to tell me; I already knew what she was doing. In the last few weeks before Christmas, the excitement and anticipation had overcome her. She was looking for Christmas presents.
“Out!” I ordered.
In spite of my gruff façade, I was sympathetic. I remembered just how slowly time passed before Christmas. I remembered the anticipation and the rising tension. Despite all that, I never peeked for Christmas presents. It wasn’t because I was extraordinarily good or because I was scared of getting caught. I didn’t look because I didn’t want to find them. I wanted to believe in the magic. I wanted the magic to be true. As I grew older, my childhood friends and I held spirited debates on the reality of Christmas magic, but always, I wanted to believe.
Years later, at 2:30 on Christmas morning, I was still wrapping gifts while nursing a glass of Christmas Cheer to ward off my inner Grinch. As I worked, I reflected on the magic that I remembered from my childhood. I knew that magic didn’t come from the North Pole, it comes from inside us. However, just because the magic comes from within doesn’t make it any less real. I thought on my little angels, fast asleep as I worked , and realized that the love that I felt for them and the love they felt for me was what brought the magic to life. That thought warmed me more than anything I drank and I was actually disappointed when I finished wrapping.
Too early the next morning, the sounds of excitement from the Christmas tree woke me. I rolled out of bed, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and went to witness the magic at work as the kids tore through their presents.
“Dad,” Stacy asked after the flurry of activity settled down, “How does Santa get all of this stuff delivered to all of the houses in just one night?”
“It’s magic,” I answered, smiling tolerantly at her.
“Magic,” Stacy scoffed, “you’re an adult and you still believe in magic?”
I looked at the room, strewn with the fragments of wrapping paper and thought of their excitement as they opened their gifts and my joy as I watched. If I ever needed it, here was proof that the magic was real.
“Oh, yes,” I answered, “I believe in magic.”
Bill Bartlett celebrates Christmas in Belton with his wife Sandi and their two sons.