I was sitting alone in our den on Christmas Eve years ago. The twinkling bulbs on the Christmas tree provided the only light in the room. The last frenzied rush of wrapping presents was finished, and the tree was half-buried with a pile of presents that threatened to obscure the true meaning of Christmas.  

My faithful pup Boomer snored softly at my feet - refusing to retire for the night until he was confident all the humans in the house were safely tucked away in bed. 

On the coffee table in front of the couch, the kids had carefully placed a glass of milk and a plate of sugar cookies liberally coated by our three-year-old with small mounds of red and green sprinkles. Next to Santa’s cookies were four thank-you notes. The handwriting on the notes was difficult to make out, but the sincerity and appreciation evident in every crayon mark and comical attempt to draw a reindeer. I loved that they still believed.

Next to the notes and the cookies and milk were the old alphabet blocks from my childhood. The kids had worked together - turning each block to find the correct letter - and spelled out “Love You Santa” with the worn painted letters.

The simple, quiet Christmas tableau made me smile. I reveled in a feeling of exhaustion and completion. I’ve never been a big fan of commercial Christmas and reaching the finish line on Christmas Eve was always a relief. On Christmas mornings, while the kids shrieked with joy and wrapping paper flew around the room in an explosion of ribbons and bows, I sipped my coffee and silently celebrated the next 11 months without the excesses of Christmas. Sweet relief.

For now, however, the house was silent and the last embers in the fireplace glowed orange. The large armchair in which I was sitting tempted me to close my eyes and doze for a moment in its cozy embrace. Just then, the tree lights flickered for a moment, went out, and then came back on - slightly brighter. I saw something moving out of the corner of my eye.

And there he was.

Santa Claus was placing more gifts under the tree. He tucked a gift with a bright red bow between the tree and our hearth and then turned to look at me. “Oh, hello. I thought you were asleep.” He flashed a toothy grin through his long white beard.

My mind raced through the possible scenarios to explain what I was seeing. A burglar dressed as Santa Claus was stealing our gifts. Or our neighbor Tripp was playing one of his elaborate pranks. Perhaps one glass too many of Christmas eggnog? 

I blinked hard. But the apparition standing before me just grinned and chuckled.

“I know. I know,” he laughed. “Adults really have a hard time believing. One of the problems with getting older. Too bad. The world could use more belief and less doubt.”  He pulled another gift out of a red velvet sack and slipped it under the tree.

I wanted to agree, but I could not get the words out of my mouth. Santa glanced at the wooden blocks and smiled. “You have good kids. And I love that they are still using your grandfather’s wooden blocks to leave me messages.”

Grandfather’s blocks?  I always remembered them as being my blocks.

Santa seemed to know what I was thinking. “Oh no,” he chortled, “I gave those blocks to your grandfather Jack when he was just a wee boy. They were a big hit back in the day. I have to admit, I still prefer them to video games but I don’t get many requests for blocks anymore.”

I recalled my Grandpa Jack. I remembered a giant man with a smile that seemed to swallow his face. He would scoop me up in his muscular arms and bellow, “Well, hello there Kiddo! Give your grandpa a hug.” 

I’ll never forget that feeling of being swept off my feet and into his arms. It was an intoxicating mix of apprehension and excitement - a moment of exhilaration that I can still feel to this day.

That particular memory of Grandpa was one of the few I had because he died when I was still just a child. When he passed, I was too young to feel the sense of loss the adults experienced, but I never forgot his grand entrances and his booming voice. He was always the very essence of being a grandpa for me.

Looking back at Santa, I tried to speak but words still eluded me.  Santa started to shimmer and slowly fade away. “Merry Christmas!”, he exclaimed, “Never forget the importance of believing.” With those words, he winked out of view.

I awoke with a start.

Boomer remained at his post next to my chair. The tree was twinkling, and the clock in the den softly chimed the late hour. It was officially Christmas Day.

What a dream, I thought. I don’t often remember my dreams, but this one was extraordinarily vivid and left me with a feeling of peace and contentment. Christmas cheer, perhaps? Whatever it was, I liked the feeling.

As was our tradition, I gave Boomer a few of Santa’s cookies. He happily gobbled them down as I poured half of the glass of milk into his bowl. He washed down the cookies with loud slurps. If the kids only knew. Boomer was the real Santa in our household - and extra gassy on Christmas mornings because of the clandestine treats.

As I reached to pull the plug on the Christmas tree lights, I noticed the blocks again. That was strange. Someone had turned the blocks to rearrange the letters. They now read, “Love You Kiddo.”

I sat down slowly and stared at the message. Before the dream, I’d honestly forgotten that Grandpa used to call me Kiddo. So how would anyone else know?

I picked up one of the blocks and felt the rough edges on my fingertips. I imagined my grandfather as a small boy playing with the same wooden cube and felt close to him again. A magical and mysterious Christmas gift.

I never found out who changed the message on the blocks. To be honest, I never tried. I appreciated the joy it brought and, for the first time in a long time, I simply chose to believe.