One evening in early December after putting our oldest, 3 year-old son to bed, Markus and I sat on the couch and had the dreaded “Santa” discussion. “To do Santa or not to do Santa, that is the question.” We needed to decide which side of the “Santa line” we stood on. As we talked, we swapped stories and memories of growing up with the big red fella.

In the lunch cafeteria one December a fellow first grader, Cyndie Clyde, proudly exclaimed, “Santa is not real!” I ran home in tears and begged my mom for the truth. To which she responded, “What do you think?” I didn’t know, but knew I wanted to believe.

That Christmas, we traveled to my grandparents’ house in Monticello, Arkansas. On Christmas Eve guess who showed up at their front door? Yep, Santa. He came inside and sat down on the couch next to me. I was so excited, I thought I just might pee my pants.  He held Rudolph’s sleigh bells in his white, fur-trimmed gloves. And with a thick, Arkansan accent said, “Rudolph has run off with some girl reindeer. Have you seen em’ Lisa?”—he knew my name!  I shook my head, “no”, still in disbelief I sat next to the man of my dreams. He didn’t stay long. Said he had to, “git back to findin’ Rudolph.” But now I knew. I knew Santa was real. And Cyndie Clyde could kiss my happy-little 6-year-old tush.

But when I was 8-years-old, my family was driving home after eating dinner at a restaurant. From the back seat of our mini-van I yelled up to the front row, “If I ever find out Santa’s not real I’ll be so mad at you guys.” So when we arrived home, my mom called me into the living room of our apartment, sat me down on the couch, and told me the awful-heart-ripping truth, “Lisa, Santa is not real.”

I remember thinking, “Why was I so stupid to believe in Santa for so long? And why did my parents let me believe all this time?” I felt like a total idiot.

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that Christmases from now on would be so different and so sad. And I grieved and cried and wept in my bedroom that night and much into the next day—over someone who never existed.

After sharing stories, Markus and I talked about specific character traits we wanted to impress on our kids. “Lloyd’s don’t lie” was one of them.  And we realized we couldn’t impress the importance of “Lloyd’s don’t lie” to our kids if we insisted on telling them one of the biggest lies of all and encouraging them to believe it.

And to top it off, I knew if we “did” Santa, Elf on the Shelf, even the Easter Bunny, my focus would shift to those magical things, and off of Jesus. Now of course I would acknowledge Jesus and even do some worshipful things during the season—like lighting the advent wreath throughout the month and singing “Happy Birthday Jesus” on Christmas morning. But I knew me. And knew I would be more excited on December 25 to see the looks on their faces coming down the stairs with the expectant hope of what Santa brought them, than I would be to worship the whole reason for my existence and celebrate Him with my family. And because my focus was off, my kids focus would be off too.  And our family’s generational tradition of Jesus being second would continue.

So Markus and I made the hard decision that night the Lloyd’s won’t “do Santa”.

We decided we would continue to traditions of the Christmas tree, lights, decorations, carols and presents. But as Lisa Whelchel suggests in her book, “The ADVENTure of Christmas” we look for Jesus in the center of the celebration. We find Jesus when putting up the tree, talking about the ornaments, gift-giving (photo blanket is the perfect one to give to others) and gift-getting, reading about St. Nick, baking, lighting candles, all of it.

So regardless of what side of the “Santa line” you stand on, may we all find Jesus in every part of our Christmas traditions. And let’s not just look to the cradle, but to the cross, which is the reason Jesus was born in the first place—to die and give us life forever. Amen and amen.

Happy Birthday Jesus.