I Saw Santa Cry

My oldest siblings and I grew up in a small forest ranger’s cabin at the edge of a vast national forest in Idaho, hemmed in by ancient pines that stood tall and sighed in the wind. Our father, a ranger in his green uniform, spent his days deep in the forest riding and walking the trails, ridges, and hidden creeks he knew by heart. He also kept watch over the old gold-mining claims in the forest where the ground had once yielded fortunes. Sometimes we trailed along, kneeling beside cold streams to pan for flecks of gold that glinted like tiny suns.

Our nearest neighbors were always miles away. Life happened outside: barefoot summers on soft moss and pine needle beds, fishing for brook trout, learning to read clouds in the sky above and animal tracks in the soft dirt below. Winters brought deep snow; we skied or snowshoed behind Dad, checking for poachers or fallen trees on roads no one else traveled. The seasons announced themselves by scent—spring sap, summer dust, autumn smoke, winter’s clean bite. We had no television for years, only a crackling radio and books hauled home from the distant town library. As kids, the forest fed us berries and mushrooms, warmed us with wood we split ourselves, and gave our imaginations room to roam.

Christmas, though, let the outside world in.

Every week we traveled many miles to church in a small branch. At Christmas we’d drive even further to the city for a church holiday event. There, my father—six-foot-four, two-hundred-forty pounds, built like the pines he tended—became Santa Claus. Children lined up to climb onto his lap and whisper their wishes. I always knew it was him beneath the red suit and white beard.

One year, the last time I ever sat there, I looked straight into his eyes and spoke my ten-year-old resentment. I told him how poor we were, how I knew we would never have the bright store-bought toys I coveted from catalogs. I asked, just once, for a “real” Christmas present. In that moment, I saw tears gather in his eyes, run onto his cheeks and disappear into his beard. He knew I knew who he was, and I knew he knew. My words cut him deeply—deliberately, cruelly. Instead of thanking him for the rich, wild, beautiful life he had given us in the heart of God’s creation, I complained about what we lacked.

That memory still pierces me every Christmas. I weep when I recall how I wounded the man who sacrificed everything for us. I would give anything to go back, to climb onto his lap again and say thank you—for the forest mornings, the handmade gifts, the love poured into every imperfect detail.

Our tree was one we cut ourselves, often leaning no matter how we braced it. Ornaments were pinecones painted with dull water colors, strings of popcorn, stars folded from old calendars. Gifts never came from stores. Mom sewed on her sewing machine –  shirts, wool-lined mittens, quilts pieced from saved scraps, pants with fake labels sewn into the pocket so the kids at school would think they were from the store.  Dad carved – animals, flutes, slingshots. We baked cookies and slathered them with watery icing and boiled cinnamon until the cabin smelled like heaven.

Those gifts carried the weight of time and care. Yet at ten, having seen the gleaming pages of the Sears catalog, they felt like not enough. I smiled and thanked my parents—I knew the labor behind each one—but inside I ached for what “other kids” had.

Fifty-five years later, in a far more comfortable house with all the modern conveniences and a flawless store-bought tree, I find myself longing for those handmade things: Dad’s slightly crooked wooden fox with knot-hole eyes, Mom’s red mitten whose thumb she ripped out and re-sewed three times to make it fit just right, our lopsided cookies iced amid laughter. Store toys break or are forgotten in a season; those gifts live on because they carried the hearts of the givers.

Now I see clearly what I could not see then: every good thing we received was a small echo of the greatest Gift ever given.

Our parents’ humble offerings pointed, however imperfectly, to the Father who gave His only Son. Jesus did not arrive in palace splendor with effortless abundance. He came in poverty—a baby laid in a feeding trough, wrapped in rags, born to parents who could offer no more than love and obedience. Yet in that stable the true wealth of the universe was revealed: God Himself, entering our scarcity to give us what no catalog could ever contain—forgiveness, reconciliation, eternal life.

The toys I once envied have long since vanished. But the love woven into handmade mittens and carved cedar foxes endures, just as the love that sent a Savior endures forever.

My childhood regret has become a lifelong teacher: be slow to complain, quick to give thanks. For in the end, the only wealth that matters is measured not by what lies under the tree, but by the One who hung upon it—Christ Jesus, God’s perfect gift to an ungrateful world, including a ten-year-old boy who once made Santa cry.

This Christmas, may we all receive Him anew with open, thankful hearts.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life” (John 2:2 RE).

“In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you. for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus” (1 Thessalonians 1:14 RE)

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved

Life in the "Fast" Lane

I Recently Completed a 108-Hour Fast  

(4.5 days: water, black coffee, nothing else)

I didn’t do it to be holy or to punish myself. This was a controlled test of one question: Can I stare down the loudest, most primitive drive in my body for four and a half days and refuse to blink?

The answer is yes. And the side effects were a fair bit more interesting than I anticipated.

**Hours 0–60: Pure Carnage**  

Exactly what you’ve heard. Stomach growling like a chained dog. Brain projecting 4K fantasies of pepperoni pizza, ribeyes, diet coke, ice cream straight from the tub. My mouth literally watered at memories of foods I don’t even like that much. Hunger doesn’t negotiate; it screams, threatens, bargains, sulks, then screams again. It’s astonishing how creative the mind gets when you tell it “no” for the 50th time in a row.

**Hour 60–108: The Script Flipped**  

Then, without ceremony, the noise just… stopped. Not diminished; stopped. The body finally accepted the new management and shut the alarm off. The last two days were eerily peaceful. Energy stable, mood level, mind sharp. I wasn’t “fighting” anything anymore because there was nothing left to fight.

In that vacuum, something else moved in.

I didn’t go hunting for divine response; it walked through the door the moment the toddler tantrum wore itself out. A deeper signal—quiet, steady, unmistakably alive—rose to the surface. The same nervous system that had been hijacked by cravings suddenly had more spiritual bandwidth. It tuned to a frequency I usually drown out with snacks, scrolling, and background noise.

When you forcibly dethrone the hunger for food, another hunger wakes up— It’s subtle, but once you feel it, it’s unmistakable. The air tastes sweeter. Colors look richer. Prayer feels less like talking to the ceiling and more like talking to Someone who’s been waiting in the next room. 

I now have added firsthand proof that the loudest tyrants in life—food cravings, impulse buys, doomscrolling, fill-in-the-blank—are paper tigers. They only rule because I keep taking their calls. Say “no” firmly, consistently, long enough, and they go quiet. And when they do, there’s room for a Voice that was always there, waiting for the stage to clear.

The fridge is full again. My appetites pacing at the door, whining to be let back in. But the Guest who showed up on day four hasn’t left. And I’ve decided I like His company a lot more.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved