"Santa comes to our houses when we are asleep, and that's why we don't see him," I replied.
"Why does he come at night when we are asleep?" she asked.
I took a moment and then said, "Santa is too busy to come during the day. He has lots and lots of deliveries to make on Christmas Eve. He has to take presents all over, and if he came during the day, we would want to talk to him. We would give him a big hug and tell him how much we loved him and how excited we were to get the present he was giving us, and he would never get everything done. So he comes at night, when we are asleep, so he doesn't have to talk to us and can make all his deliveries."
"Oh," she said, thoughtful look on her face. "Okay."
She was satisfied, and I was not. I had just told a bald-faced lie, right there in church, during sacrament meeting. I continue to perpetuate this story, letting my children continue to believe in Santa Claus. When I confessed to Kent last night in bed, he didn't seem too concerned. The untruth spoken was not meant to deceive for harm or to get ahead, but to nurture a wonderful childhood experience. The anticipation of Santa is so magical, his kindness so great, and his teaching of giving being more important than receiving is all valuable, so I can continue to tell it crooked until one or the other of the kids demands the straight story.
When, at the tender age of eight, I finally asked my mom for the real truth, I was devastated emotionally. I believed. She was so tender, however, and reminded me that the Santa spirit can be part of our lives whatever our age and circumstances, and throughout the year. We can give and serve and love, and the magic of Santa can be in our hearts always. I still believe in that, and that's no lie.
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