When Good Girls make the Naughty List...

                                                                                                                 
                                                                                                   (photo courtesy of msbatman.com)


I blame Santa Claus for my sometimes skewed understanding of God.

We are wooed early on to believe in the magic of Christmas.
We are coaxed into believing in ridiculous things like flying reindeer, tiny elves and talking snowmen.

Sleep is impossible as we lay in bed, anticipating the arrival of the giant jolly fat man who will be delivering toys world wide to every girl and boy.

Every GOOD boy or girl anyway.
Because, you see, we are also taught that the awesomeness of Christmas morning cheer is totally behavior based.

Smart parents start working it around September..."You better be good....." and blah, blah, blah.

Over squeezy grandparents who smell like a mixture of Werther's originals and Bengay jokingly ask, "Well, were you naughty or nice this year?"

Mall Santa's always ask, "And were you a good little girl?", almost accusing, like they already got the lowdown from the snitchy looking, pointy shoed midget at the front of the line.

Don't even even bother checking my list twice.
I can tell you straight up.
I was both.

And I probably just now should have said "little person."
I'm sorry.

And just how good is good enough to make the "Nice" list anyway?
I wonder if Santa grades on a curve?

I remember laying there in bed and wondering if helping the little old lady with her groceries would cancel out hitting my brother with his yellow, metal, Tonka truck?

Almost obsessively, I ran the various possible "Good List Busters" through my head, my heart pounding with each and every new rememberance.

I called my mom a bad name in my head.
But I set the table every night for a month....without even being asked.
That should surely even things up...right?

I laughed with my friends at recess, because they were joking about the underarm fat of one of our teachers, and how they had to duck when she waved them around in class, apparently unaware that they could knock your block off with one flapping swoop.

But I felt bad for that and helped her empty the trash cans and pass out papers all week.
I even silently prayed that they would stop making fun of her.

Because I felt bad.
And I really wanted a Holly Hobby Sewing Machine.

I got coal in my stocking that year.
1978 I think it was.
Coal! In my stocking!!!
Seriously, I did.
I was like the best kid on the whole block but I still got coal.

While everyone else in the family was gawking at their presents under and around the tree, guilty me, was sitting on the edge of our brown and white couch wondering which offense got me the always threatened, but never actually received until now, coal.

I'm pretty sure I know what it was, but I have some discretion and won't mention it here.

One by one, the presents were opened while I silently sat suffering through my hardcore self-examination. One by one, the presents revealed the kind of year I'd had...socks, underwear, clothes....

I sadly opened the last of my gifts, sure that this Christmas would be Etch-a-Sketched in my mind as the Worst Christmas Ever.
And there it was.
The BB gun for girls.

The Holly Hobby Sewing Machine.
Shining black, beauty with the cute little blue sticker on the front.
"I will make dresses and curtains and clothes, and, and....flags like Betsty Ross!" I thought to myself.

My heart still pounds and I get tears in my eyes as I type this because I really wanted one so badly.
And I didn't deserve it.

I'd already decided it had been a pretty crappy year and I did not make the "nice" list.

So, in a nutshell.....I blame Santa Claus and the whole stupid good/bad, naughty/nice philosophy for my jacked up understanding of Jesus.

I always thought that, just like Jolly Old Saint Nick, he based his love for me on my behavior.
And my behavior would surely never win his approval.

But he sent Jesus...as a most amazing gift.
Better than any BB gun, or Holly Hobby Sewing Machine or the latest version of Black Opps....

The true Christmas miracle.
Jesus.

He is the, "Reason for the Season" which I really hate to say because it's so ridiculously cliche'.
But, when said with an old Chinese proverb kind of voice, it's funny.

Try it with me.
"Aaaghhh. Jesus is reason for season."

LOL!
I don't even have to wonder which list I'm going on this year.
I've crossed the line and mocked my saviour. ;)

But I feel pretty confident that I'm still going on the "Nice" list.
And I'm not hanging stockings this year anyway.