I Never Believed in Santa Clause (or "I Feel Cynical")

It's true. I remember being a youngin' and wondering how all of the other kids could believe in such rubbish. Every year until I was around eight years old, I heard my classmates talking about what Santa would bring them for Christmas, getting excited to sit on Santa's lap and tell him in person what they'd written in the epic letters. I was busy looking in the trunk of the car, the basement, the attic, my dad's church across the parking lot...anywhere my non-Santa parents might have hidden away my presents.

I also remember wishing desperately I could belong to their faith--believing in magic, the Easter Bunny, fairy tales and unicorns. Wanting so terribly to be one of those children, I invented an imaginary friend, a mouse named Alex. I hoped that perhaps once you had created such a thing, like a chia pet, over time it would grow and become more real.

To my great disappointment, I was always painfully aware of Alex's non-existence. But pretending to believe in him made me feel like I belonged. And I realize now that I used this strategy in a great many arenas: Perhaps if I pretend to believe in Jesus, someday I'll feel that spirit moving inside me which struck a great many old ladies around Easter time. Perhaps if I pretend to believe in love, one day I'll feel that magic that seems to strike an increasing number of my friends.

But I haven't yet felt it. Instead, I feel like I'm living in My world and moving through Theirs--those enchanted idiots with secret smiles spreading across their lips as they meet others who've been struck, baptized--other believers.

And still, some part of me still hopes desperately that it does exist, and I'm simply a cynical creature for whom it's not too late. I'll raise my arms and shout ten thousand hallelujahs if only it will one day reveal itself to me, if I can only one day join their kind.