“Knock, knock!”
“Who’s there?”
“Old Father Christmas.”
“You jokester.”
“It’s no joke! I’m Father Christmas, and I’ve come to visit you. Open up, it’s freezing out here.”
“Come on in then, but I have to say, I hardly expected to see you this year. Why didn’t you come down the chimney like you usually do?”
Christmas is the hardest time of the year for postmen, who must carry all those greetings cards and letters to families, friends and acquaintances. But more than that, they must deliver all the letters sent to Father Christmas. Most of their canvas bags contain letters addressed to Lapland. In Finland, it was a tradition for the postal service to answer every letter that bore the following address: “To Santa Claus, Lapland.” The tradition was still alive and well.
One fateful day, in the time of the Crusades, a knight from the city of Bari rode into a cavern astride his horse. At first he could see nothing, so he lit a torch and moved at a trot, searching and observing, but the knight could not find the grave he was searching for. He looked closely at each of the tombs. He saw stones covered with moss and graves in ruin, but nothing that spoke of the eternal. Nothing that could have belonged to Christ, absolutely nothing. There was nothing for it but to open each tomb. The knight began his gruesome task, wasting no time. It would take as long as it took. He found bones, spiders’ webs, dust, nothing but emptiness, nothing but unbelievers. How would he find the body of Saint Nicholas? Finally, one of the graves caught his eye. It bore no inscription, no clue, no date of birth or death, no name, and was perfectly intact. His heart began to beat faster. The faithful knight made a sign of the cross and opened the tomb. He plunged his hand into the darkness and felt a body beneath his fingers. He swept away the dust and spider’s webs. He moved his torch closer, holding his breath. What would he find? The candle illuminated the body’s ceremonial garb: a bishop’s cross and a mitre. The dead man wore a long white beard, shimmering as if peppered with starlight. His eyes were open; they seemed almost alive, still bearing a powerful gaze. The knight trembled. He had just uncovered the eternal remains of Saint Nicholas. He was sure of it.
The body was repatriated to Bari, Italy in 1087. There had been a grand ceremony to welcome the body of Saint Nicholas. What could be more precious to the inhabitants of the city than to have a protector of his stature? His remains, intact and alive, were stored under lock and key, safe from Italian merchants who might want to sell them.
Father Christmas is real to every child. The postman closed the final bag. They would have to deliver all these letters and reply to every dreamer, every believer. He was a legend, and legends could not be allowed to die. The postman was tired, but the hardest part was done. He’d had to sort every letter and load them on the train, not forgetting a single one. Finally he could return home, knowing the letters would get to their destinations. He hopped on his bicycle and headed into the blizzard. It was so cold! He pedalled as fast as he could, eager to warm himself in front of the fire with his children by his side and a hot chocolate in his hands. He dreamed of it as he pedalled, crossing the city blanketed in white.
“Dear child, I received your letter and it warmed my heart, even though it is very cold here in Lapland. The elves are getting your presents ready. You shall have them on Christmas Day if you are well-behaved! Merry Christmas!” came the reply from Father Christmas.
It almost makes you want to believe it yourself…
Alan Alfredo Geday