The older we get the more we remember experiences of the far past. One such an experience seems to haunt me at this time of the year when Father Christmas is plastered on every television show.
Father Christmas' Secret - a short story by Martie Coetser
“Now where could he be?” Daddy asked while searching the sky for Father Christmas on his sleigh. “Perhaps he got lost. Let me go find him. Get inside! All of you! Wait in the kitchen until you hear Father Christmas come sliding down the chimney.”
We stormed into the kitchen. Our excitement had no boundaries. This year Father Christmas was not going to deliver our gifts in the middle of the night while we're sleeping. We're all going to see him.
I was five years old, hoping to receive a bicycle. I needed a bicycle, as I was about to start my first year in primary school. Riding to school on a bicycle would be better than walking, as the school was six blocks from home. I had explained this more than once to Mom and Dad, knowing that they were in connection with Father Christmas.
Mom said although I was sometimes naughty during the past year, Jesus forgave me and therefore Father Christmas would too.
“Let’s stand in a line!” I ordered my siblings and cousins. “Susan, you first, because you’re the oldest, then you, Yvonne….” I lined them up, all fifteen of them.
“You are supposed to stand behind me!” Susan said.
“No! I’m the organizer. When I start running, you follow!”
Mommy gave me one of her harsh looks – her way of reminding me that I was doing something wrong. "Please, Jesus, please, don't let whatever I have done wrong make Father Christmas give my present to someone else!" I prayed.
The noise coming from the lounge could only be Father Christmas sliding down the chimney. I was running down the corridor as fast as I could, not even bothering to look if the rest was following or not.
And suddenly there he was!
We stormed into the kitchen. Our excitement had no boundaries. This year Father Christmas was not going to deliver our gifts in the middle of the night while we're sleeping. We're all going to see him.
I was five years old, hoping to receive a bicycle. I needed a bicycle, as I was about to start my first year in primary school. Riding to school on a bicycle would be better than walking, as the school was six blocks from home. I had explained this more than once to Mom and Dad, knowing that they were in connection with Father Christmas.
Mom said although I was sometimes naughty during the past year, Jesus forgave me and therefore Father Christmas would too.
“Let’s stand in a line!” I ordered my siblings and cousins. “Susan, you first, because you’re the oldest, then you, Yvonne….” I lined them up, all fifteen of them.
“You are supposed to stand behind me!” Susan said.
“No! I’m the organizer. When I start running, you follow!”
Mommy gave me one of her harsh looks – her way of reminding me that I was doing something wrong. "Please, Jesus, please, don't let whatever I have done wrong make Father Christmas give my present to someone else!" I prayed.
The noise coming from the lounge could only be Father Christmas sliding down the chimney. I was running down the corridor as fast as I could, not even bothering to look if the rest was following or not.
And suddenly there he was!
An old man with a white beard, red clothes, and a bag filled with presents was singing ‘Jingle Bells’ in a deep, Father-Christmas-voice. Although I knew he would be there, my heart was in my throat. Taking a stand right under his nose was suddenly not a feasible plan. At the back I could be the first to flee when something went wrong. After all, there was no bicycle in his bag, or anywhere in sight.
One gift after another went from his hands into the hands of a happy recipient. When he demanded a kiss-on- the-cheek from one-year old Agnes, she bellowed with fear until Mom came to her rescue. Finally, there were no more gifts in his bag.
“Bye-bye!” he said before he left, closing the front door firmly behind him.
One gift after another went from his hands into the hands of a happy recipient. When he demanded a kiss-on- the-cheek from one-year old Agnes, she bellowed with fear until Mom came to her rescue. Finally, there were no more gifts in his bag.
“Bye-bye!” he said before he left, closing the front door firmly behind him.
The realization that I was too naughty to qualify for a gift caused a pain in my heart I had never felt before. Shuddering sobs wanted to explode in my throat for all to hear. I kept them inside with both hands on my mouth. Slowly, in order not to draw anybody's attention, I moved backwards. Once alone in my bedroom I would give free reins to my tears. I was going to cry forever and the reason would be a secret between me, Jesus and Father Christmas.
Suddenly the front door swung open. Father Christmas was back in our lounge.
“Hohoho” he laughed. “I forgot one gift here on the porch. A blue bicycle for… now I can’t see a name on this card.”
“Martie!” I shouted. “That’s the name on the card.” I was laughing and crying at the same time.
Father Christmas took my hand and led me out on the porch where the most beautiful blue bicycle was standing against the wall.
“Hohoho” he laughed. “I forgot one gift here on the porch. A blue bicycle for… now I can’t see a name on this card.”
“Martie!” I shouted. “That’s the name on the card.” I was laughing and crying at the same time.
Father Christmas took my hand and led me out on the porch where the most beautiful blue bicycle was standing against the wall.
“May I have a kiss on the cheek?” Father Christmas asked.
When I looked into his eyes I recognized my dad. How like him to play such a sneaky trick on me!
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Father Christmas has way too many gifts to deliver. So he always asks fathers to help him. He doesn’t want anybody to know this. So, don’t tell!”
I nodded my promise. At last I understood how everybody in the whole wide world gets presents on Christmas Eve. Relying on fathers was, of course, also Jesus' secret, I thought later in my bed while waiting for Sandman to sprinkle sand in my eyes.
***
When I looked into his eyes I recognized my dad. How like him to play such a sneaky trick on me!
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Father Christmas has way too many gifts to deliver. So he always asks fathers to help him. He doesn’t want anybody to know this. So, don’t tell!”
I nodded my promise. At last I understood how everybody in the whole wide world gets presents on Christmas Eve. Relying on fathers was, of course, also Jesus' secret, I thought later in my bed while waiting for Sandman to sprinkle sand in my eyes.
***