Warm, Golden Glow

I believed in Santa Claus for an inappropriately long time.

In the parking lot of a PetSmart, I asked my mom a question that would change my life and experience of Christmas forever. 

“Santa isn’t real, is he?” I wrung my hands in my lap and blinked away tears welling in my eyes. 

Her answer was conciliatory. Santa was a real person—St. Nicholas, an early Christian bishop with a habit of secret gift-giving—but now he’s more of a spirit, something people embody this time of year to add a bit of magic to the season.

Though disappointed and disillusioned, I continued to enjoy Christmas. I’d still listen for the clatter of reindeer hooves on the roof. Dad still took bites out of the cookies and drained the glass of milk I left in the living room. Part of me still believed Tim Allen would shimmy down the chimney and leave gifts on the hearth. 

But the warm, golden glow that shrouded my early Christmases dissipated that day in the pet store parking lot, and I’ve been trying to rebuild it ever since.

There were other factors that contributed to the warm, golden glow—the Low County Singing Christmas Tree for one. Our church put on a spectacular Christmas musical every year centered around the titular Christmas tree, a 35-foot choir riser built in the likeness of a fraisier fir. They brought in a full orchestra, and it included a variety of holiday vignettes, including a modern Christmas story (think Hallmark but Christian) and the nativity.

My family was involved in this production for over a decade of my life. At just six weeks old, I portrayed baby Jesus in the nativity portion of the show and filled a variety of roles throughout the years—all with the goal of becoming an angel.

During the scene in the nativity story when the angels share the good news of Jesus’ birth with the shepherds, a dozen girls clad in flowy white dresses danced down the red-carpeted aisles, pirouetting to the tune of Gloria (Angels We Have Heard on High). 

Landing a spot in the chorus of angels was the ultimate role for teenage girls at my church. I waited for years to finally be old enough to audition, but my family moved shortly before I could try out. My dreams of prancing across the stage with gauzy wings and enough hairspray (and glitter) in my ballerina bun to ignite beneath the stage lights came to an abrupt end.

Not long after we moved from the Lowcountry to the Upstate of South Carolina, the church stopped putting on the Low County Singing Christmas Tree. Nothing compares to that production, though we did start building some new traditions after the move that have continued until today. 

About ten years ago, my mom heard an interview with a local musician on Christian radio and decided that we needed to go to his concert. One December night when I was in college, we drove to Fletcher, North Carolina, to see a guy named Jacob Johnson pluck at his guitar in an old feed and seed store.

This year, on Christmas Eve Eve, we saw him again for the umpteenth time. We’ve followed him to arts centers in the mountains of North Carolina, outdoor stages in downtown Greenville, and music venues throughout Upstate, South Carolina.

He plays a combination of classic, modern, and original acoustic Christmas music on his guitar and often brings in friends and his wife to accompany him. I don’t know much about music, but I do know that I’ve never seen anyone play like him. He’s energetic, charismatic, and original. His guitar is less an instrument than an extension of his body. 

Jacob Johnson’s Christmas concerts have become a new tradition for us, and establishing things like this to look forward to each year have slowly but surely started to rebuild the warm, golden glow. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reclaim the same magic of Christmas I experienced in my early years, and I don’t think I want to. Some things are meant to live in our memories so we can make room for new experiences and traditions. 

Merry Christmas — I hope it’s filled with joy and nothing less.