In our times of need, it is crucial to have a reason to keep going that is larger than life. There will come a point where tangible joys and the touch of your loved ones will not be enough, and during such times, we must be able to confide in unfathomable forces to move us forward. For some people, this looks like living on a prayer, for others, it is asking the universe for a sign; something, anything. A faith in something greater is essential to nurturing the faith in oneself.
I spent much of my upbringing searching for something greater, but no matter how desperately I hailed my Marys, I never quite found salvation with the ideal lord and savior. To put it simply, Jesus was just not my jam.
But that is not to say that I did not keep trying. In my search for a higher power, I consulted the Catholics, meandered with the Mormons, and even took a jab at Judaism. Standing in the corner and losing my religion, I started to lose hope.
One harrowing December morning, drunk with dry lips and no future, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing left for me on this so-called God’s green earth. Thus, there was only one thing left to do.
In a drug-filled haze, I started to make a list and even checked it twice. I scrambled to craft goodbye letters to my many loved ones. I made sure to kindly advise them that when they found me, they better not cry, and that they better not shout. I assured them that I would continue to watch them from the heavens, and that I would see them when they are sleeping, and that I would know when they are awake. I would know when they had been bad or good, so to be good for goodness’ sake.
As I entered what I thought would be my final moments, I saw the light; the stairway to heaven. It was colder and far more blinding than I had thought it would be. Nonetheless, I felt ready.
Upon reaching the top, I stretched my hands out, looking to feel God’s touch in return. I pleaded, “Father, stretch my hands.” Then I felt it. I felt my insides fill with his spirit.
When I looked up, I was surprised to see that my heavenly father did not look quite as I thought he would. His beard was not brown; it was a frosty white. His body was not slim or slender; rather, his belly was bulgingly rotund. Then I realized, this was not Jesus, it was not Mary, and it certainly was not Joseph. It was Santa.
What I thought was the stairway to heaven was actually the road to the North Pole, and that spirit I felt inside of me was not the Holy Father. It was the Christmas spirit.
Frozen in my awe, I watched Santa reach for his sack and pull out a gift. The gift was addressed to me by name, Melissa. Nobody had called me that in ages.
I did not know what to make of it all, for what could this merry man have for me? Surely, it could not be the pony I had been begging for since my youth. Neigh, it was far greater. The gift he gave me was the gift of life.
Santa saved my life.
Back in my room, I sat in disbelief. It took almost losing my life to find the faith that I spent so much of it looking for. I know now what it means to be saved, and I know where my devotion truly lies. Today, I harbor an unshakeable faith that not even the greenest of Grinches could steal.
Whether it is communion wine and crackers you feast on, or if it is milk and cookies, know that it does not matter how or who you worship. In dark times, do not hesitate to turn to even the most unconventional figures for guidance. Otherworldly powers do not follow worldly order. Still, it is okay if Jesus saved your life; Santa saved mine.
If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, help is available. Call or text 988 or visit 988lifeline.org. If you are a Drexel University student, help is also available at the Drexel Counseling Center. Call Drexel’s crisis line at (215) 416-3337.