Dear Santa –

I think you must be God with blue eyes. Do cookies make up for my sins?

And Santa, I think that it must snow in heaven, and that’s why clouds are white: because we’re underneath the snow piles. And that’s why, when we lay in snow, we call ourselves angels.

And I’d just like to say that we’ve never fought a war over whether your name is Santa or St. Nicolas. In all the years, we’ve never marched a crusade to claim the North Pole. And Santa, no one leaves bombs wrapped in homemade paper with bows and ribbons curled with the edge of scissors, and little tags that say, “I love you enough to wrap this and worry that the corners aren’t quite neat enough and I used too much tape, even though you love me enough not to care about the wrapping or the tape or the bow or even the present,” though they really just say, “to you, from me”.

Nobody hates his neighbour in your name, Santa. Nobody follows me through airports and takes away my toothpaste because I said that I believed in you, and someone else said they believed, too, but differently, and so they have to hate me, and the family across the street, and the country across the border, and the people on the other side of the world who aren’t so different from them except that we believe you fly a sleigh, and he says you walk from door to door with a sack. Little differences, Santa. Like whether you wear a red and white suit, or a robe.

And Santa, your eyes are beautiful. They’re eyes that wink and laugh and crinkle, and they see everything. They see us bad and good and mixed-up in-between because that’s how we are most of the time, and Santa, you tell us to be good because you’re watching – and Santa, you must be God, because God just wants us to be good, too. And maybe we don’t know what good is, exactly, Santa, but we try our best when you ask. So why is it, that when God asks, things are so different?

And Santa, I can't say I understand, but I trust you. I left you cookies again, and carrots for the reindeer.

And Santa... I just want love, for Christmas. I want to give it away. I want love for you and love for God and love for the family across the street and love for the country across the sea, and love for the man in the airport who doesn't believe in God or Santa the same way I do, and love for the presents with ribbon and too much tape, and love for the people giving them and the people looking inside, and love for blue eyes and brown eyes and hazel eyes and green eyes, and love, Santa, for snow and clouds and cookies and angels. I just want love.

And I want it to be okay to believe.

Love,
Me.