Santa’s Grace…

Christmas Eve Night

The small mountain village was alive with holiday cheer. Homes twinkled with blue, green, red, and white lights, offering warmth against the cold night. Smiles and hopeful eyes filled the streets as people searched for gifts for their loved ones.

Snow blew sideways, covering the ground and trees in a thick layer of white. Towers of mountains with snow-covered peaks and jagged ridges loomed behind grey storm clouds. 

Henry opened the door, feeling upset because he couldn’t find a gift for his little brother. The snowstorm hit him with a sharp, freezing kiss, and the gusty wind whipped across his face, forcing him to wrap his wool scarf tighter. His tall, lanky frame found little comfort in his patched black wool coat, its worn fabric revealing its true age.

He squinted through the heavy snowfall, searching for the distant traffic light. Its faint red glow flickered about a football field away. Cautiously, he stepped forward, testing the sidewalk, unsure where ice or snow might be hiding.

As Henry approached the intersection, he admired the Christmas lights wrapped around the silver light poles. Green wreaths and red ribbons adorned them, creating a festive atmosphere.

Suddenly, a sharp sound pierced the cold air: “Boom, ba-dum, boom!” Across the street sat a man, legs crossed in the snow, bundled in a red puffy jacket and a Santa hat. His face was hidden, but his tough hands drummed a rhythm that cut through the winter storm.

Henry paused to press the cold steel crosswalk button, jolting his fingertips. He quickly stuffed his hands into his pockets and focused on the drumming. “Rat-a-tat, thrum.” The vibrations hummed under his feet, alive amidst the howling wind.

But the light never changed. The blinking red signal swung in the wind, mocking him. He glanced around; the road lay silent and empty, void of headlights or tire tracks.

The drums continued.

With cautious steps, Henry crossed the snow-packed street. The moment his feet touched the pavement, the drumming stopped. Silence enveloped him, and the ground no longer vibrated.

The man with the drum had disappeared. The spot where he had been was empty as if he had never existed. A powerful gust of wind roared around Henry, who stopped in the middle of the road, his breath forming clouds.

Confusion crossed his face as he yelled, “Anyone out there?” His voice was carried away by the wind, echoing back to him. He strained to see shadows moving in the corners of his vision—branches swaying, but nothing human, nothing alive. 

He walked towards the sidewalk, searching for footprints, but the snow had erased all traces. His mind replayed the rhythm of the drumming: "Boom, ba-dum, boom." He had seen him, heard him, felt him.

“Hadn’t he?” he wondered, stepping toward the spot where the red jacket and Santa hat had been. “Where did you go?” No answer came, only the howl of the storm and the falling snow.

The sound rolled in from the dense forest to the north, vibrating through the ground as the drums beat out their rhythm. Henry snapped his head to the left, his narrowed gaze focused on the swirling white mist. Suddenly, his legs began to move forward, drawn by the intoxicating pulse of the music.

"Rat-a-tat, thrum."

His footsteps fell in time with the drumbeat, quickly transforming his hesitant shuffle into a determined trot. His breathing quickened, and warmth spread through his limbs, dispelling the cold. He noticed the crunching snow beneath his feet, yet the drumbeats faded away as he regained control.

Henry halted, engulfed in silence. His heart raced, and the cold air stung his lungs. He looked up at the towering trees surrounding him like ancient guardians, their shadows blocking the stormy sky. The snow glowed faintly beneath his boots, casting a soft light on the untouched ground.

Standing still, he scanned the forest, breathing steadily and absorbing its energy. Above, the weight of the snow made branches creak, releasing their burden with muffled thuds. Then, in the distance, something caught his attention.

“Crunch, crack, snap, crunch, crack, snap.”

A sound came from his left, and Henry froze, his instincts kicking in like a wolf caught mid-graze. He scanned the dense underbrush, remaining silent and straining to see in the darkness.

Then he heard four soft “FWIP” sounds, followed by a muted whistle. Suddenly, “SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, SNAP” echoed as sharp pinches struck him—two in his left arm and two in his chest. He stumbled backward, his eyes widening as he glanced at the spots of pain.

His trembling right hand reached up, but numbness spread through his left arm, making it difficult to move as he struggled to regain control.

Henry discovers candy cane arrows protruding from his left arm and chest. All four arrows broke through his wool coat. Their shafts are painted in a spiral of red and white. He yanked the first one out, wincing as the barbed point tore free. 

The arrow sharp, to a needlepoint. Between the arrowhead and shaft, a golden rope tied in a square knot. Henry’s breath clouded in front of him as he inspected the craftsmanship. The tail feathers, red and white, bundled together with yet another gold knot.

Henry’s heart raced as he heard two more “FWIP, FWIP” sounds through the cold snowfall. Suddenly, two arrows struck his left arm, causing his legs to give way beneath him. Panic surged as he tried to brace for the fall, but his arm was useless. 

With a “SMACK” and a “THUD,” he hit the snow-packed ground. The cold bit into his face, but he barely felt it. Darkness began to creep into his vision; he felt weightless, suspended in the storm, and then everything faded to black.

Deep in the darkness, his heart continued to beat, steady and unfazed. His lungs drew in the air with a slow, almost mechanical rhythm. He could still hear and his sense of smell remained intact, but his vision and motor functions no longer worked.

Footsteps approached, making a “crunch, crunch, crunch” sound in the snow. Suddenly, a shadow emerged from the snowstorm. The man Henry was following wore a bright red Christmas jacket and a Santa hat. He carried a drum, about the size of a three-gallon water bottle, slung over his shoulder. A golden rope, resembling the one wrapped around a candy cane, was strapped around his torso. At the end of the rope was a broom-sized blow dart, equipped with a silver bow.

The man paused beside Henry’s motionless body, towering over him. Snow blew sideways, swirling in the gusts of wind. He bent down and lifted Henry, draping him over his shoulder like a ragged doll. Then, he turned around, and his boots, black with golden buckles, kicked up snow from the ground as he headed north through the forest. The snowfall quickly covered his footprints, leaving no trace behind.

Inside Santa’s Workshop

Henry’s eyes slowly opened, and the fluorescent lights above him shined down, temporarily blinding him with spots of white flashing across his vision as he tried to regain his bearings. The tingling on the left side of his body had faded, and as he lifted his left arm and leg, he discovered he had regained full motor control.

He threw off the blanket and sat up, realizing he was wearing red pajamas with white trim and a pair of black slippers to keep his toes warm. After putting on the slippers, he took in his surroundings. A large window revealed a snow-covered mountain range, illuminated by a brilliant display of stars against the black night sky.

The warmth and comfort of the room enveloped him, filled with the inviting scents of spiced cider and pine. The walls, crafted from rich, honey-colored wood, glowed softly in the flickering light of the stone fireplace, which crackled cheerfully at the far end of the room. Stockings of various sizes hung on the wall, each embroidered with names in golden thread: Santa, Mama Claus, Jingle-Berry, Snowball, Gingersnap, and Wiggle-Whisk.

At the center of the room stood a towering Christmas tree, its branches adorned with sparkling ornaments, candy canes, and colorful glowing lights that twinkled in time with the crackling fire. At the base of the tree rested presents wrapped in shiny paper, reflecting the flickering light from the fireplace. It finally dawned on Henry that he was inside Santa’s home—or rather, his workshop.

Henry noticed a work table and bench tucked away in the corner, cluttered with half-finished toys and vibrant rolls of ribbon. As he took in the atmosphere, he began to sense the magic in the room and realized that this wasn’t just Santa’s home; it was his workshop, alive with the spirit of creation.

“Thud, thud, thud, thud.” The sound of footsteps rattled the walls, pulling Henry out of the magical energy of the workshop. The wooden door creaked open, and through it stepped Santa—tall and slender, with an athletic build, nothing like the jolly old figure with a round belly that most people picture.

Santa was dressed in overalls and a deep, rich crimson long-sleeve shirt, trimmed with snow-white puffy edges that met his black boots, featuring a golden buckle at the top. His beard was a mix of white and gray, matching the patch of hair on his head, with a small bald spot at the center of the back.

“Henry,” Santa said, his voice deep, “you’ve been brought here for a reason—to show you something.” Henry’s mouth dropped in shock as he struggled to find his words but remained silent.

A few moments later, the door creaked open again. Another man stepped in, dressed in crimson overalls that seemed to merge with the shadows, akin to Santa’s outfit. Silver embroidery on his coat read “Ardrik.” At his hip hung the drum that had put Henry into a trance, and strapped to his torso was a golden rope tied to a blow dart, along with a silver bow used to shoot candy cane arrows.

“This is Ardrik the Elf,” Santa said softly, turning to him and inviting him into the conversation. Henry was still in shock, trying to comprehend what was happening. In his panic, he buried himself deeper into the corner of the room but accidentally knocked over a bucket of hot cocoa.

Santa's eyes met Henry’s. “Do you know what this place is, Henry?” Henry shook his head, swallowing hard.

“This,” Santa continued, spreading his arms wide, “is where the magic of Christmas begins. Every toy, every laugh, every moment of joy — it all starts here. But magic like this doesn’t sustain itself. It needs belief. It needs gratitude.”

Ardrik stepped forward to stand next to Santa. Henry locked his eyes on Ardrik and said, “And when someone threatens that magic, when they take it for granted, that’s where I come in.” Henry shook his head again, struggling to process everything.

Santa patted Ardrik on the shoulder. “This is Ardrik, my secret mission operator. He ensures that Christmas magic flows smoothly beyond the workshop. Sometimes that means delivering joy to places no sleigh can reach. Sometimes...” Santa paused, lowering his voice, “it means protecting the magic from those who would harm it.”

Henry finally found the words. He looked at Santa, who was crossing his arms with an intense gaze. “Are you saying that you believe I will harm that magic?” 

Santa uncrossed his arms and knelt to meet Henry at his eye level. “Didn’t you leave the toy store upset because they didn’t have the toy you wanted for your little brother?” Ardrik twirled one of the candy cane arrows between his fingers, then slid it back into his quiver at the center of his overalls.

Henry stood frozen, caught between Santa’s gaze and Ardrik’s steady eyes. The weight of their words pressed on him, heavier than any toy sack Santa could carry. Henry finally spoke, “But... I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. I was just upset. The toy store worker didn’t give me what I wanted.”

Ardrik suddenly slapped his drum, making a loud “Thwap!” and interrupting Henry. “Wanted? Is that all Christmas means to you? Just a list of demands?”

Santa raised his hand in an attempt to ease the tension and placed it on Henry’s shoulder. “Henry, do you know why you’re here?”

Henry hesitated before replying, “No.” Santa then walked him over to the window. Henry looked out at the mountain range illuminated by the starlit sky.

“You’ve forgotten the heart of Christmas,” Santa said. “It isn’t about what you receive from someone or what you give to them. It’s about gratitude.”

Ardrik chimed in as they gathered at the large window, “It is the glue that holds this magic together. Without it, the joy of Christmas would fade away, just like the sparkle in the eyes of a child who no longer believes in Santa.”

Henry looked around the room once more, feeling the warmth of the fireplace and appreciating the care put into every ornament and toy. Even the quiet hum of the bells reminded him that everything in this place existed because of love and gratitude. “I never thought about it that way,” he admitted.

Ardrik put his arm around Henry and said, “Few people do.” His voice was lower now. He took a breath and looked up at the stars. “Gratitude isn’t loud; it is action. It doesn’t demand attention. But it’s the most powerful force there is. It keeps families together and makes ordinary moments extraordinary.”

Santa stepped closer to the window and pointed at a star twinkling in the sky. “When you’re grateful, Henry, you see the world differently. You notice the kindness of a stranger, the beauty of a snowfall, the smallest of stars, and the joy of being grateful. That’s the real magic of Christmas.”

Henry felt a tightness in his chest as he remembered the toy store worker and his weary smile, the patience he displayed even when Henry had been rude. “I… I’ve been selfish,” he whispered. “I didn’t even say thank you. Not to the worker, not to my parents, not to anyone.”

Ardrik's expression softened as he pulled Henry in closer. "You've been given a chance to see things differently," he said. "Gratitude isn't just a feeling, Henry. It's a choice, and it's never too late to make that choice." 

Henry looked down at his small but capable hands. "What can I do?" he asked. 

Ardrik pulled Henry even closer, and he could smell the cinnamon scent radiating from him. Looking down at Henry, he said, “Begin by being grateful for being alive. Start with something small, like a kind word, a thank you, or a moment of appreciation. Let it grow from there. Gratitude spreads, Henry; it’s contagious.”

Santa turned around, knelt, and locked eyes with Henry. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “When you return home, bring the spirit of Christmas with you. Live it, share it. That’s how you keep the magic alive.” 

As the workshop’s golden light began to dim, Henry felt something shift within him — a quiet determination to be better, to do better. 

When he woke up the next morning, back in his bed, he was no longer the boy who had stomped out of the toy store. He had become a boy who understood that the greatest gifts couldn’t be bought or wrapped.

Henry made his way downstairs, where his parents were sipping coffee. He stopped in the doorway, a lump in his throat. “Mom, Dad… thank you. For everything.” 

His parents exchanged surprised glances and then smiled. 

From that day forward, Henry wasn’t just a boy who celebrated Christmas; he became someone who lived it, shared it, and kept the magic alive by embracing the spirit of the season.