I was afraid of Santa Claus.

Don't get me wrong. I was very much appreciative of the toys he faithfully

left for me year after year. But you see, I never met the man. For probably

a host of reasons, my folks never got me to the spot where Santa was making

personal appearances.

One such time I was a young

lad of four or five years. It seems that the family was making a drive

into the metropolis of Columbus, Georgia, for the annual Christmas Parade

which would be climaxed with Santa's float. We made a stop to filler

up with gas (two dollars worth that is) and had headed into the inner

city - when all of a sudden my Daddy thought he could run a signal

light and get us there all the quicker. Our car hit another car and caused

the right front headlight to look right out into the woods.

Daddy exchanged some information

with the man and we headed home. Did we have auto insurance? Nope! It

was years later that I understood what my Mama meant when she said as

we drove home, "Well, that was our Santa Claus." I didn't

remembering seeing "no" Santa Claus. I do remember that man

in the other car. He came to our house faithfully for several months picking

up a monthly amount from my Daddy. With the help of sledge hammers (to

which our present day cars would not stand a chance), the right fender

was pushed back into some semblance of shape and the headlight shined

out front once again.

Later when I was in the third

grade, we had a blooming intellectual on the street, Rusty Walters. He

told Wayne Payne and me that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I

vehemently defended a faith in Santa. After all I had known from personal

experience he had left me some pretty neat stuff for the last several

years. I also contended that just because you can't see him when

he does his work, doesn't mean he isn't real.

It was a year or two later

when I had my own bedroom. Mind you, we were not well off and when there

are five children in the house, you have to make certain concessions.

Of course, I didn't know I was making a concession. It was just the

way it was. It was Christmas Eve. My parents had already stopped believing

in Santa Claus. But I was in my room, all alone, on Christmas Eve. I couldn't

get to sleep. I was thinking to myself, "What am I going to do if

Santa makes his way into our house through my room." My room had

an outside door. My heart was pounding and it continued to pound as I

went to sleep. Whatever happened that night, I wasn't disturbed and

Christmas Day was a wonderful day.

So I grew up and became a man

would be really cool if Santa Claus could come to our Children's

Night at Christmas. He agreed to come and was more than happy to read

the real Christmas Story from Luke 2 albeit the bright spotlight focused

on him caused his eyes to read the story as it had never been heard before

or since. I suppose you could say that was the first time I really met

Santa. And, what would you know, he was in church.

A couple of years later I discovered

one of the greatest joys one could have. I borrowed a Santa outfit from

the church's wardrobe and dressed up like Santa Claus myself. Imagine

that, I was finally Santa Claus. Rather, I looked like Santa Claus. We

invited a single parent mother and her three children to celebrate Christmas

Day. It was on that day that no doubt ever remained about the existence

of a Santa Claus.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa

Claus because I know him personally. And I no longer was afraid.

John Hatcher is pastor of Outreach

International Center, 1091 South Jeff Davis Drive, Fayetteville, Georgia

30215. 770-719-0303

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