On this Christmas Day, Sandra Brown --- New York Times bestselling author of over seventy novels, including SMASH CUT, RICOCHET, and the newly released RAINWATER --- shares a deeply personal story that eloquently describes the beauty of the human spirit; one that will surely offer even the biggest skeptic something to believe in.


It’s difficult to write anything about Christmas without slipping into cliché. Discovering an unexpected gift beneath the tree. Welcoming carolers at the door. Sipping a toddy while toasting toes in front of the fireplace where stockings are hung. Feasting on holiday food. These are the scenes depicted on greeting cards and camera commercials. All are clichés.

That doesn’t bother me in the least. I would go so far as to shamelessly declare that I’m partial to clichés. I thrive on traditions, and the cornier the better. I want my Christmases redolent with banalities. I like observing the rites year after year. Traditions are what make it Christmas.

But if I were to open my Christmas memory box and peer inside, two would stand out from the rest. One would be the Christmas of my sixth year. Perhaps this is the first Christmas of memory and that’s why it distinguishes itself in my recollections. The other would be a Christmas much more recent. Only one of these Christmases was happy, as the dictionary defines the word. But in the other, I found a unique joy.

These two holidays were celebrated in different locations, with different family members. One was observed through the eyes of a child, while the other was experienced from the perspective of an adult. These Christmases were separated by decades. They actually had nothing in common except the date on the calendar and, for me, the debatable existence of Santa Claus.

I have a large family. I’m the oldest of five sisters. My mother came from a family of five children; my father was the youngest of eight children, so there was never a shortage of aunts, uncles, and cousins with whom to spend holidays.

But Christmas was no ordinary holiday. In our family it was an “event.” It was anticipated throughout the rest of the year. The celebration stretched over the entire month of December. It was the reference point for scheduling anything else in the fourth quarter of the year. Something as mundane as a dental appointment or as significant as a wedding was either “before Christmas” or “after Christmas” or “sometime during Christmas.”

This heightened anticipation originated with my mother. Year-round she maintained a holiday outlook on life which crested at Christmastime. She was a romantic for whom rose-colored glasses were invented. She liked laughter and gaiety, sparkle and glitter, fanfare and festivity. She loved people and sought excuses to host parties and get-togethers. Not surprisingly, she was in her element during the Christmas season. It was her thing.

That distinctive Christmas of my childhood was celebrated at the home of my maternal grandparents in the small town of Fayetteville, Texas. At that time, there were only four grandchildren in the family --- me, my next oldest sister, Melanie, my cousin, Gloria, who is my age, and her younger brother, Steve. We were the fearsome foursome.

Gloria and I, four years older and much more sophisticated than our younger siblings, were annoyed by their very existence. Playing with them was out of the question. We hid from them and threatened acts of violence against their persons should they come seeking us. Our secrets were too delicious, our time together too valuable, to be shared with them.

But on that Christmas Eve we put aside our loathing of Melanie and Steve, not wanting to fall into disfavor with Santa Claus on the one night of the year when it was imperative that one remain in his good graces. We were on our best behavior at the dinner table. Following the meal, we offered to help clear the table. Little angels, we were. Good behavior is never as good as when motivated by greed.

After dinner, it fell to my Uncle George to divert us kids for an hour or so. George was the baby of my mother’s family and had turned sixteen that year. He probably put up an argument against this babysitting duty. On second thought, since he had just obtained his drivers license, he might have welcomed any excuse to get behind the wheel. I don’t remember. I do remember him herding us into his jalopy. Going out with Uncle George promised to be an adventure, and our excitement could barely be contained. Gloria and I were even tolerant of Melanie and Steve tagging along.

Now, a word here about my Uncle George: He is a born liar.

Until I was old enough to tell him to shut up and leave me alone, he tormented me with elaborate tales about a dreadful toad named Froggy Boodle who ate children while they slept. Froggy Boodle had open sores that oozed blood and pus. His tongue was wickedly long and slimy and poisonous. He had large snapping lips from which there was no escape. To this day, I have my Uncle George to thank for a pathological fear of frogs, and he continues to weave what he swears are true ghost stories that cause me to shiver and check beneath my bed before going to sleep.

But never was his talent for prevarication exercised so convincingly than on that December night when he had me, Melanie, Gloria and Steve claiming that we spotted Santa Claus and his sleigh streaking across the south Texas sky.

At that time, Fayetteville was a hamlet with a population of maybe a thousand people. There were no city lights to dilute the brilliance of the stars. It was a cold, clear night. Uncle George had driven us to the outskirts of town, when he suddenly stomped on the brake pedal and, to the accompaniment of squealing tires, shouted, “There he is! By golly, it’s Santa Claus!”

We four craned our necks to look out the car’s rear window which quickly grew foggy with our warm breath. Uncle George got out and gazed heavenward. We scrambled from the back seat after him.

“See! There!”

We eagerly followed the direction of his pointing finger. Each of us in turn shouted, “I see him!” We hopped up and down. We squealed. We clapped our hands.

Uncle George told us to be quiet. “Listen. If you listen, you can hear the sleigh bells.”

We listened; we heard.

“I can see Rudolph’s red nose,” he said. “See it?”

We would have sworn on the heads of our yet-to-be-born children that we saw Rudolph’s glowing nose pointing the way for the other reindeer.

“There he goes,” Uncle George said wistfully as Santa disappeared beneath the far horizon. “Strange, he didn’t stop here in Fayetteville. I guess there are no good little children in this town on Christmas Eve.”

Have I mentioned Uncle George’s mean streak? I’d like to tell you that he outgrew it, but, alas....

However, we need not have worried about Santa’s failure to stop in Fayetteville. When we returned to our grandparents’ house, he had been there! Beneath the Christmas tree that dominated the living room were packages and unwrapped presents. Among them were matching twirling batons for Gloria and me. Steve claimed the train set. Melanie cuddled the lifelike baby doll that had been left for her.

In a hushed and reverential voice, my mother told us that all the grownups had been in the kitchen eating mincemeat pie and playing cards. She said that when she first heard the tinkling of bells, she thought her ears were playing tricks on her. “I thought it was our silverware clinking against Grandma’s china.”

But, no, unmistakably the jingling of bells was coming from the direction of the living room. Breathlessly she continued the story for her rapt audience. “So I tiptoed down the hall and peered around the corner, and barely caught a glimpse of Santa’s red coat tail as he disappeared through the front door!”

She shared Uncle George’s penchant for detailed elaborations.

“We saw him, too, Mommy!” I declared with passionate conviction.

“In his sleigh,” added Steve. “Flying.” With a whooshing sound and a wild gesture of his right arm that nearly knocked a bowl of oranges and unshelled walnuts off the table and onto the floor, he demonstrated the arcing path of Santa’s sleigh across sky.

Gloria shot Uncle George a dirty look, saying, “He must’ve been on his way here when we saw him.”

Melanie remained speechlessly in awe of her new doll. Besides, she was a bit young to appreciate the significance of seeing a fat man in a fur-trimmed red suit who could pilot a flying sleigh pulled by nine reindeer around the world over the course of one night and stop at every house in Christendom along the way to deliver precisely the gift most fervently desired by the boy or girl who lived there.

Later, I lay snuggled under a pile of handmade quilts in a bed shared with Gloria. My mother came in to kiss me good night. She sat down on the edge of the bed, stroked my hair, and asked if I liked all the presents Santa Claus had brought me.

At some point between the Santa sighting and this moment of quiet reflection, I had analyzed the chain of magical events and had deduced that they were too remarkable to be fully believed.

“Mommy, is there really a Santa Claus?” I spoke in a whisper. I didn’t want to awaken Gloria and, most certainly, didn’t want my cousin to learn of my doubt. It felt heretical --- although it would be years later before I knew the word for my wavering belief.

My mother replied, “Of course there’s a Santa Claus.”
"Honest and truthfully? He’s a real person?”

“He’s as real as you make him.” She touched my narrow chest. “He lives in here, in your heart.”

“Like God?” I asked.

When I had children of my own, I came to appreciate how difficult it could be to answer their questions. But my mother addressed my perplexity with calmness and insight. “No, he’s not God. God is real. But Santa Claus sort of shows us the kind of person God would like us to be. He’s jolly and kind and generous. He’s always smiling. He loves every little boy and girl everywhere. He brings happiness to people. That’s why I choose to believe in Santa.”

I was too young to grasp the nuances and subtext of her explanation. It only served to validate my skepticism which expanded into resolve: There was no Santa Claus.


May 10th of 1997 marked two momentous events in my life --- my son graduated from university and my mother was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. For four years I had looked forward to my son’s completion of his studies and his official induction into adulthood. Conversely, I could never have prepared myself for the shocking news of my mother’s affliction, and I received it with the fearful weeping of a child.

Between May and December of that year, she underwent two surgeries in an attempt to prolong her life. Saving it was impossible. The doctors told us that at the outset. But with her characteristic courage and enthusiasm for life, she elected to buy as many days as possible.

That September, because her system was so weakened by chemotherapy and radiation treatments, she contracted pneumonia and was hospitalized for three weeks. When she was at her lowest point, she told me that if she lived until Christmas, she wanted to do something special for other cancer patients.

“Like what?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’m thinking about it.”

By November, the tumor had severely limited her ability to speak. She could utter only one or two words at a time, and often the word she spoke wasn’t the word she sought. This was a woman who had gone to China to teach English to Chinese students, who had traveled to Mexico and sung an entire concert in Spanish, but she no longer had command of her native language. Unable to walk, she was confined to a wheelchair. But by mid-November she had made her plans for Christmas.

With the help of her nurse, her grandchildren, my sisters and me, and anyone else she could enlist to help, she assembled dozens of gift bags stuffed with Christmas candies, ornaments, novelties, and other goodies. The bags were tied with bright bows and stored where they wouldn’t be damaged. The project occupied her for a month.

On a sunny day one week before Christmas, I dressed her in the dress of her choice and carefully applied her makeup. On her hairless head she wore a bright red Santa Claus hat. The white fur pom-pom bobbed against her shoulder. For this occasion, she was willing to look a little goofy.

I never remember her looking more beautiful.

When she was ready, off we went to the cancer center, where for months she had been receiving treatments. A Christmas tree stood in the center of the lobby. Tinsel and colored lights had been strung around the doorways. Christmas music was piped through the sound system. The staff had made an admirable attempt to create a holiday mood, but the gaiety was as false as the faux snow that had been sprayed on the window panes. The seasonal decorations couldn’t disguise that this was a facility for people who might not experience another Christmas.

I knew that my mother was one of those who wouldn’t recover, and that in all probability this would be her last Christmas. She knew it, too. Secretly, my heart was breaking. But I assumed a smile for her sake. This was a big day for her. She had lived long enough to fulfill her promise. Incredibly, she was very happy.

I propelled her wheelchair through each reception room and treatment area on every floor of the building. She carried in her lap a large basket heaped high with the gift bags she had painstakingly assembled. Each patient in the center that day received one, as did their loved ones, whose despair was often more visible than that of the patients.

My mother had a smile and a comforting touch for all of them. As people always had done, they gravitated to her. For the most part, they were strangers, yet she communicated to them an understanding that can only be reached through similar suffering.

Though she couldn’t speak, her eyes conveyed her grace, her joie de vivre for however long it might last, and her indomitable spirit. Upon seeing her in her silly hat, bleak faces formed smiles. Eyes staring dully into an uncertain future became alight with optimism. People too weak to sit up unassisted, found the strength to squeeze my mother’s hand with gratitude.

Cancer is ugly. But the expressions on the faces of those patients that day were beautiful. For a short time, their misery gave way to gladness. Their hope was renewed. They experienced the essence of Christmas. They saw Santa Claus.

And I believed.

-- Sandra Brown


And with this extraordinary story of hope, the second annual Bookreporter.com Holiday Author Blog series draws to a close. Many thanks to the 62 authors who have contributed heartfelt, funny and profound pieces, and to all of you who have read along with us daily --- sometimes twice --- and enjoyed these wonderful memories with us. Best wishes from all of us at Bookreporter.com for a happy and safe holiday. See you next year!

Labels: holiday-blogs-2009, Rainwater, Sandra Brown