As you know, my belief in you did not disappear quickly or easily. Long after most of my friends were too intellectually sophisticated to believe in you, I championed your existence.

In Great Britain, where children call you Father Christmas, you are dressed in a long tail coat and squarish beaver hat. In Belgium, you are St. Nicholas; in Germany, Kris Kringle; in France, Pére Noël.

So, Santa, don't forget our house this Christmas. The milk and cookies will be waiting.

  Dear Santa,

This is Mike from over on Holman Lane in Canyon--you remember; you brought me a superman suit and a set of Roy Rogers six-shooters when I was five—except I don't live on Holman anymore; I live on Mable Drive, and I'm not five; I'm 50.

I'm writing because I want you to know that I believe in you again, and I'm feeling guilty because I realize how bad it must make you feel when people like me get "too old" to believe in Santa. Yet I'm guessing that your sad feelings are not so much for yourself but for grownups like me who lose their sense of childlikeness and magic, and, with them, their experience of surprise and joy.

As you know, my belief in you did not disappear quickly or easily. Long after most of my friends were too intellectually sophisticated to believe in you, I championed your existence. I told them about my empirical proof—the jingling of sleigh bells I once heard on our roof, the unexplained disappearance of the cookies and milk we left for you, Dan True's Christmas Eve weathercast on channel 10 where he tracked your path across the sky with the very radar used to locate spring tornadoes.

Then, when I was about 10, my older brothers showed me a stash of Christmas presents in our front closet, some of which read "From Santa." The evidence seemed indisputable (Today, I call that kind of reasoning a non sequitor. The fact that parents help you distribute gifts does not disprove your existence anymore than do those department-store santas who help you take orders.)

As I got older, I had another question: How come you look different in other parts of the world? For instance, in the Netherlands you wear clerical robes and ride a white donkey. In Great Britain, where children call you Father Christmas, you are dressed in a long tail coat and squarish beaver hat. In Belgium, you are St. Nicholas; in Germany, Kris Kringle; in France, Pére Noël. Now I know this is just part of your magic, like the ability to shinny down a chimney, to be able to change forms at will to please all children in all lands.

At another stage of my life I had religious questions about you. Do not Santa, elves and reindeer take one's mind off of shepherds, angels and the Christ-child? Does celebrating Santa take away from celebrating Jesus' birthday? Then a preacher friend pointed out to me how the incorporation of other stories and symbols into the Christmas celebration showed the power of Christianity, not its weakness. The Christ who can take even pagan practices and use them for good is truly Lord of all creation.

I now see that you don't compete with Bethlehem's baby. Like the wise men of old, you, too, worship him. The joy you bring points to the joy he brought. Your gifts point to his gift.

But my revived belief in you has not come mostly because of intellectual considerations. For this year I've looked into the eyes of a two-year-old granddaughter and I've seen there a world that I once knew, a world I've decided to reenter if only once a year on Christmas eve, a world where reindeer fly and wishes come true, a world of great surprise and great joy and great peace and great love.

So, Santa, don't forget our house this Christmas. The milk and cookies will be waiting.

All my Christmas columns:
The Most Important Christmas Message
In Search of a Christmas Tree
I Believe in You, Santa
Christmas in July