A/N: This is just a little one-shot for Christmas. I was inspired to write this by a series of sermons preached by my youth paster called "Notice the Nativity." I hope it inspires you to think about the true meaning of Christmas.

2nd A/N: This one-shot has been revised. I will be sending it to a short-story contest in March; if I win, this story will be published in Anthology of Short Stories by Young Americans. Cross your fingers:D

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I nudged my daughter’s small arm with my elbow to see if she was awake. “Can I sleep here, Mommy?” she asked in her child-like bell of a voice and yawned. “I want to be here when Santa Clause comes down the chimney.” I nodded, watching her brown eyes close sleepily. I cracked a small smile and gently stroked her sandy curls. I picked up her small toddler form and carried her to the raggedy-old loveseat, wrapping her in her special Santa Clause quilt her grandmother had made for her. I turned off all the lights, but lit an oil lamp and set it on a wooden end table next to the loveseat. I sat down in the goldenrod armchair on the other side of the loveseat and sighed.

My daughter Esther and I lived in a small one-room apartment in Lawrence, Kansas. It was all I could afford after Esther’s father kicked us out; Esther was much too young at the time to remember the whole mess. I would much rather not remember it either, but the memory just kept coming back to haunt me. Sometimes, I even catch myself wishing that he would walk through my door, begging for me to come back to him, especially on this night of nights—Christmas Eve. We had only had one Christmas together, just after Esther was born. It was a pleasant one, but not good enough for him. Everything went downhill from there, and I ended up a young single mom in a one room apartment with hardly any money to my name.

I couldn’t even afford to decently decorate the apartment for Christmas. We had no Christmas lights, no mistletoe, no tinsel, or even a real fireplace. I had managed to salvage a used refrigerator box, however, and paint it to resemble a fireplace; Esther was so proud of me. She immediately grabbed a pair of socks and pinned them to our cardboard fireplace. Now it leaned against the wall directly opposite the loveseat.

Fortunately, I had also found a small tree that barely reached my knee. Esther and I had made little gingerbread ornaments, and made garland by threading popcorn and dried berries on fishing line. For the finishing touch, Esther had cut out a lopsided star out of yellow cardstock, glued a snapshot of us together, and set it as close to the top of the tree as was possible without any fastening. I glanced at the tree. It stood with quiet pride by the wall opposite me.

Those pleasant memories brought a light smile to my face, but it faded as soon as my eyes rested on the nativity scene displayed in front of the lamp on the end table. It was an old ceramic set, chipped and discolored in several places. Mary’s nose was gone, Joseph’s hair was chipped, and the donkey had lost an ear. Baby Jesus was also missing; he must have gotten lost during the move. I did not care much; I was not a religious person anyway. Esther, on the other hand, went to church every Sunday with a nice family from the floor below, but I took no interest. I was even hesitant to display the nativity at first, but Esther begged and I gave in. She had a way with those puppy-dog eyes of hers.

Speaking of eyes, mine started getting heavy, crying out for rest. I rubbed them and lay my head on the back of the armchair. The glow from the lamp flickered, casting strange shadows over the nativity. I closed my eyes for a few moments, reveling in the comfortable silence, but snapped them open again when a quiet but jolly laugh filled my ears.

What I saw shocked me out of my wits. An old man stood in the middle of my living room, dressed in a long velvet red robe trimmed in white fur. The robe was secured to his body by a wide black belt with a large golden buckle. He wore black boots that covered his calves and large feet. His face was round and very pink with flushed cheeks and a snow-white beard that cascaded over his chest.

I realized that Santa Clause was in my apartment, but how? I was much too tired to argue with myself over the question, so I just sat there and watched. The jolly old man pulled a few beautifully wrapped gifts from his red velvet bag and set them next to my tree; he did not seem to notice that I was watching him.

He stood up and abruptly turned to me. “I love what you’ve done with the fireplace.” He chuckled deep within his belly. His cheeks flushed a deeper red as he laughed, and his bulbous nose twitched inconspicuously.

I just blinked, not fully aware that he had addressed me. He merely chuckled again and let his twinkling eyes wander around the room. “You seem to have forgotten my milk and cookies, Susan.”

“How do you know my name?” I asked, quite startled.

“I’m Santa Clause,” he replied with a wide grin. “It’s my job to know.” He stroked his snowy beard thoughtfully. “And Esther talked much about you in her letters to me.” He tilted his head toward Esther’s sleeping form.

“You actually read those letters?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Why wouldn’t I?”

I did not know how to answer that.

“No matter about the cookies, Susan,” he continued, a slight frown forming on his round face. “You have seemed to forgotten something much more important.” He gestured toward the nativity on the end table.

I merely shrugged.

“Baby Jesus is missing,” he pointed out.

“So?”

“So?” he echoed. “You’ve forgotten the whole meaning of Christmas.”

I rolled my eyes. ‘I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation!’ I thought glumly. “That is such a cliché, Mr. Clause.”

“Please, call me Nicholas,” Santa bowed slightly.

“Fine, Nicholas,” I replied sarcastically. “Like I said, no one cares about the whole ‘meaning of Christmas’ thing.”

“And you’re talking from experience?” he asked, a hint of a smirk in his eyes.

I furrowed my brow and looked at him quizzically. “I—I guess—I don’t know.” I hung my head in shame.

“You know,” Santa said quietly. “Esther cares very much about the meaning of Christmas. People have died for it. I was even imprisoned and tortured for my faith in it. Do you think they didn’t care? Do you think I don’t care?”

I did not answer.

“Well, I do care, Susan,” he continued and shouldered his bulging gift sack. “I care about the happiness of every child, but there is one who cares about you and Esther more than you or I could ever fathom.” His eyes twinkled brighter. “He, Jesus Christ, is the meaning of Christmas. He was born on Earth so that He could die, taking all the sins and burdens of the world with Him. He then rose from the grave to show that He had defeated sin and death forever.”

I had heard it all before, but something in Santa’s voice made it seem—different—overwhelming in a way. “How do you know so much about this?” I asked quietly.

“I was a preacher once,” he replied, smiling in his reverie. “And I can tell you from my own experience that Jesus is the best thing that will ever happen to you.” He looked over as Esther; her hand rested under her cheek, and her breathing was deep and peaceful. “Ask Esther,” he said. “She can tell you.” He turned back to me and winked. “Merry Christmas and God bless,” he said and was gone.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

I awoke with a start; there was a crook in my neck from lying against the armchair. The morning light poured into the apartment through a small window near the kitchenette. ‘So it was all just a dream,’ I thought, somewhat relieved. Esther grabbed my hand and pulled me to the tree. “Look, Mommy!” she picked up a blue present with a large white bow on top. “Santa was here!”

I examined the gifts by the tree with a critical eye. If it was all just a dream, how did these get here? I turned my gaze to the nativity, remembering what Santa had said about it. My heart almost broke at what I saw. I got up and knelt in front of the end table.

“Mommy?” Esther knelt down beside me, her eyes following my gaze. Little Baby Jesus was there in the nativity, lying in His manger with a wide smile across His peaceful face. “Mommy, why are you crying?” Esther wrapped her little arms around my waist to comfort me. I wrapped an arm around her and held her close.

Tears flowed unchecked down my cheeks as I caressed the little figurine. “Esther, sweetie,” I said in a shaky voice. “Will you tell me about Jesus?”