The largest Christmas tree in the world isn’t at the White House. It’s at the North Pole. After all, every day is Christmas at Santa Claus’ headquarters, so it’s only fitting that the tallest, evergreenest tree stands in the center of his vast warehouse built out of ice and snow.
This isn’t just an ordinary pine tree we’re talking about. It’s a tree of lights.
On Santa’s tree, a light shines for every person in the world who believes in him. You can imagine the number of lights. Go ahead, imagine. That’s easier than trying to count them.
Of course, Santa doesn’t personally tend to his light tree. Being manager of a vast program that covers much of the North Pole, Santa delegates a lot of the day-to-day work. A crack team of elves is assigned to watch the tree. They are shepherds of Santa’s lights.
They water the tree daily. Replace any Christmas ornaments that have fallen off. Relace tinsel, a BIG job since tinsel has a mind of its own and likes to unravel itself and slip to the floor.
But the team’s most important job is to monitor the lights.
Any time a bulb flickers, the team jumps into action, hoping that all that’s needed is to tighten the bulb in its socket. There’s an element of sadness in their work whenever the flickering light becomes dark. It means that somewhere, someone has lost hope and faith and their belief in Santa and the spirit of Christmas. Without the virtues of hope and faith, there can be no Santa Claus in that person’s life.
One morning, shortly before the Big Day, a light was flickering near the top of the tree. The morning shift ran for the ladder, more alarmed than usual because the lights near the top of the tree belonged to those whose belief in Santa had lasted longest and strongest.
It was always harder when these particular lights went out. And not just because it meant climbing up a rickety ladder that was 223 years old.
The elves made such a fuss, moving the ladder this way and that to get it into position, that Santa came out of his office to check on the commotion.
“I was afraid of this.” Santa muttered, a frown creasing his whiskers as he stared up at the light, its brightness fading in and out. “He’s been alone all year now. He was a sourpuss last year. Now, she’s gone, and he’s lost what he had left.”
Santa watched, lost in thought, as the elves teetered and tottered on the ladder high above.
Suddenly, another light started to flicker. This light was down near the base of the tree.
A child.
The elves sighed.
Another child reaching know-it-all age, an age that was coming earlier and earlier these days. Another child losing faith in all the magical stuff that makes childhood such a special place to live. A child abandoning dreams.
“Wait!” Santa shouted, holding up a pudgy hand. He stroked his beard and called the supervising elf aside for a meeting. The elves on the ladder swayed while the elves at ground zero shifted from pointed toe to pointed toe, trying to keep them balanced.
“It’s never been done before Santa.” The supervisor responded to a question from the boss. “Besides, we have a noninterference policy these days… your memo of last July if you recall.”
“Yes, yes.” Santa huffed. “Let’s forget about memos and policies for a moment. The question is: Will it work?”
“Risky, sir. Last time we sent someone down, there was a big mix-up about shoes being made by magic instead of paying shoemaker union scale… Squeaky almost went to jail.”
“We’ll just send someone sneakier than Squeaky this time, won’t we? Ring for Bells!”
“Santa, sir.” The elf supervisor whispered, unhappy to be questioning the head man. “Bells is a klutz. Couldn’t you send Swifty or Hawkeye.”
Santa was a “big picture” kind of guy. He had gotten an idea made up in his mind. Anyone who has worked for him for six or seven hundred years learns that. Once the big guy sees that picture and it has Bells in it… the supervisor literally flew across the room and shouted into the intercom for Bells to report to the Tree Room.
Bells was less than nimble. He’d scorched his toes so many times during candlestick jumping practice that Jack, the instructor, designed just for him a special pair of pointed shoes that had retractable points whenever they were near heat. Then there was the reason for his name. Every time he entered a room, his toe, ankle, and wrist chimes announced his presence.
The supervisor suggested silencers, but Santa would have none of it. With that look he gets when he’s scanning a particularly big “big picture,” Santa insisted that Bells had to be just the way he was because that was “how it is meant to be.”
The supervisor rolled his eyes behind Santa’s back as he issued Bells his flight plan and other instructions.
Bells nearly tumbled into the tree on his way out the door. As it was, he jostled the ladder against the tree, sending ornaments flying, tinsel fluttering, and anxious elves holding on desperately, hoping to make it to coffee break.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa bellowed. “That’ll keep you boys busy.”
He laughed all the way to the barn where he had scheduled a luncheon meeting with the reindeer to go over the weather for Christmas Eve.
And so, Bells traveled down to the world. He’d never been to the world before, so he was nervous. Being nervous made him clumsier than usual.
His assignment sent him to a visit a particular house without the occupants of the house knowing he was there. For any other elf, such an assignment would be a snap. But Bells wasn’t any other elf.
When he finally found the house, Bells figured he would slip in the way Santa does it: Down the chimney. So, he hopped up to the roof and realized that the house had no chimney. Then he shrank down to ant size and crawled in through a tiny gap between the roof shingles.
It was dark in the house. He resumed his normal size and immediately found himself in trouble in the dark as he loudly bumped into some things, stumbled over some stuff, and generally created a racket.
“These people certainly have an awful clutter in their house.” He complained, his bells clanging with each misstep.
The approaching footsteps came as no surprise to the hapless elf. Suddenly, a tiny bulb flicked on overhead. Bells then understood that he had gotten himself trapped in an attic. He quickly hopped behind a big box, hoping not to be spotted.
Too late! Normally, an elf can easily avoid the eyes of a grownup, who are usually so self-absorbed and pre-occupied with their own thoughts that they don’t bother looking at what’s happening around them. But an elf can never hide from a child who believes.
Even a child whose belief is flickering with doubt.
Bells found himself face to face with just such a child. Her name was Becky.
“I thought I heard something up here.” The child said. Then she crossed her arms peevishly and scowled. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re one of Santa’s elves.”
Bells recognized that tone of voice from listening to the secret tapes that usually accompanied Santa’s naughty/nice list. This is the kid he was sent to see. As if on cue, the light bulb in the attic flickered. Bells disentangled himself from an avalanche of boxes and stumbled out toward the child. His shoes jingled furiously.
Becky laughed.
“Let me guess. Your name is Bells, right?”
The elf nodded. More jingling. From his cap this time.
“This is too much. Who put you up to this, Mom or Dad?”
Bells had never personally encountered disbelief before. He offered a puzzled frown and reached into his pocket for the letter Santa had given him. Not sure what else to do, he handed it to the child.
Holding the letter, Becky immediately felt icy cold snow, the special kind found only at the North Pole. It poured from the paper as she unfolded the page, filling the attic. Becky then looked at the elf, who blushed so much that he temporarily vanished.
She started to read the letter. From Santa Claus. To her. That was a switch.
Suddenly, Becky could see the huge tree at the North Pole covered with lights and there at the bottom, her light. Fading. She understood why it was fading, in an instant. And she knew what she had to do.
Next thing, Becky was sitting in her bed, certain it had been a dream. Then she pinched herself and knew too that, dream or no, Santa Claus wanted her to do him a special favor.
Not far from where the kid sat in bed chuckling about a flat-footed elf, an old man sat in a chair in the darkest corner of a dark room. He had only to part the thick drapes covering his windows to enjoy the beautiful lights and colors of another sunset behind the bay.
All around him, the room was filled with canvasses and easels, sketch pads, paints, and brushes.
The man had been a famous painter, once upon a time. Known throughout the world for his heart-warming watercolors and oils. Especially loved were his Christmas scenes. When he was younger, his work appeared in galleries, in magazines and books, on greeting cards and billboards. Even on television. He had been famous and wealthy.
Now, his fame had faded. His wealth was largely gone. And he was sad. Not because of the passing of his fame or the loss of his wealth.
He was sad because he was alone. His children had grown up and gone off to live their own lives. Just recently, his wife of so many years had left him after a long illness. Inseparable for all those years, sharing the good times and the not so good. Now, instead of creating art, the man sat and brooded. Trying to conceal himself from life. Enshroud himself in the past.
Christmas had always been a special time and he had long believed in its special magic. Well, like everything else, it would have to go on without him. But the loss of his belief left a void, almost as large as the loss of his beloved.
The man didn’t care anymore, intent to survive on self-pity.
Meanwhile, Becky was following the instructions in the letter Bells had brought from the North Pole. She worked on her secret Christmas project at night in the attic. Bells sat with her, offering pointers from his 612 years’ experience in the Christmas biz.
Becky’s parents stayed out of the attic. No adults were allowed upstairs, Becky had told them. They supposed she was busy making a surprise gift for them, so they good-naturedly went along with her command.
The effort was time-consuming. She didn’t have time to do her own Christmas shopping or, she chuckled playfully, write her customary letter to Santa. The work was also difficult, and she often thought about giving up.
“I’ll never get this right.” She whined to Bells. “It’s not working. I’m not an artist.”
“You don’t know who you are or what you can be until you give your dreams a try.” Bells encouraged, trying to sound wise like Santa. “You’re a child. You can do anything if you use your imagination and really believe it can happen.”
Becky groaned. It sounded like her parents talking, not some noisy elf from the North Pole. But she got back to work.
“Try a tad more red on the tipof his nose.” Bell suggested. “You have to get the light just so, like the aurora borealis on a really clear night. You know.”
Becky knew. Becky knew that Bells knew her secret desire, the one that had caused her light to flicker. She wanted to be an artist.
But it was so hard, and she didn’t have the talent. Her parents tried to encourage her but since she wasn’t a “little kid” anymore, she’d really have to work at it if she wanted to be an artist, they’d tell her.
Sometimes her artwork looked so childish. She thought she’d never improve, never become a real artist. She got so frustrated trying that she just wanted to give up. Those moments were the toughest and that’s when her light would flicker when she doubted herself.
There was no time for doubt now. Time flew and dragged, the way it always does before Christmas. Not enough time to get done with everything that needed doing. Too much time waiting for the big day to arrive.
On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, as the sun started to dip behind the houses lining the bayside of town, Becky stepped back from her work and Bells took one last look. He closed his eyes real hard trying to use Santa’s “future glance” magic.
“It’s finished.” He pronounced, smiling. “Let’s go. I’ll ride in your pocket.”
Becky carefully wrapped the package and strapped it to the carriage tray on her bike. Then she rode back to the bayside, finally stopping at the address Santa had written in his letter. Enclosing a slip of paper with her name and address, she placed the parcel by the front doorstep behind a holly tree that was exactly where Santa said it would be.
“How did he know that would be there?” she asked Bells.
“Billions of kids in the world and he knows which ones have been naughty and who gets the video game and which house has the best cookies and you’re worried about a holly tree?”
Becky waited for a moment, watching the package. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. A bit of magic perhaps? Nothing happened.
The sun finished going down and it was Christmas Eve. Becky rode home at full speed. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Nothing had happened at home while she was out, either.
“Some magical elf you turned out to be.” She huffed. “I don’t think anyone even lives in that old house.”
“That’s the problem. No one is living there. Let’s just wait and see.”
Becky grumbled about wasting her time and all the elf could do was shrug. Finally, Bells had to return to the North Pole to help Santa get ready for his big ride.
“Sometimes, you just have to believe.” The elf’s bells had jingled as he squeezed out onto the roof.
“Tonight, try the door. Don’t worry. My parents will be so busy trying to be sneaky with my presents they won’t see a thing.”
“You’d be surprised. They’re sharper than you think. They’re both still believers, I’ll have you know. They’re trying to help you get going where you want to go in this life.”
The elf vanished.
“Yeah, I know. Work at what you love, and that love will fill your life. Blah, blah, blah.”
Christmas Day was a blur. It always is. The tree looked splendid, and everyone pronounced themselves amazed at how Santa manages to do it all in one night. There were plenty of gifts, including the traditional socks.
The entire family came for dinner, filling the house with laughter and the fellowship of the season. Becky wished that she could somehow capture some of that feeling and spread it out through the rest of the year.
She forgot about Bells the elf and her secret project.
She remembered it the following day when there was a knock on the door.
Her mother answered and, with a puzzled look, ushered in a little old man. The man’s eyes darted about the room as he stood uncomfortably, hat in hand.
As soon as he saw Becky, he spoke to her, holding up a package that Becky recognized.
“How did you know?” he blurted out.
Seeing the old man shaking, Becky’s mom asked him to sit while she made some tea. Becky sat with him, watching as he fumbled with the package, bringing out not only the canvas Becky had painted but a second, larger canvas.
“I did this when I was young.” He explained. “It was a Christmas gift for my wife when we were just starting out.”
He paused and looked at something far away, then a light came to his eyes, and he smiled.
“We didn’t have any money. Didn’t need it. We had one another. This painting hung in our living room every Christmas for the 50 years we were married.”
The paintings were identical although the styles differed. Becky gulped self-consciously at how good his painting was compared to hers.
“Yours is very good, you know.” He smiled shyly, reading her thoughts.
The paintings showed an enormous Christmas tree, covered with more lights than there are stars in the sky. Standing beneath the tree is Santa, smiling with arms open to embrace the entire world. Elves ran about under the tree. And there at the top, polishing a bright white light, was Bells. Becky looked at the man in amazement. He returned the look with a wink and a grin. Their secret.
“I always told my wife that the light Bells is polishing is our light.” He explained.
“I told her we would always be together, and that light would never go out. Her spirit had a way of comforting me until the end. But I was forgetting, and the light was going out, wasn’t it?”
“Your painting reminded me of that. It has saved my life. I thank you for that.”
The man stayed long that afternoon, drinking tea and talking about art. He’d filled his car with paints and brushes and canvases and frames, enough art supplies for an entire school. Having sensed that the child had artistic inclinations, he brought them as a gift.
He also offered to work with Becky if she was really interested and willing to work hard at being an artist. Becky looked at her mother for an answer, but her mom didn’t let on what she was thinking. When Becky agreed, her mother let out a loud cheer.
“Art is what you enjoy. You’re always happiest when you’re painting… you just need to give yourself a chance.”
“I’d like that.” Becky said.
Just then, a light at the top of the tree flickered.
“Allow me.” The man said, nimbly climbing onto a chair. He adjusted the bulb so that the light shone out bright and sure, right beside the star at the top of the tree.
“We must never let that light go out.”
Becky and the man both smiled because just then, they both heard the faint tinkling of Bells.
-The End–
Rebmann writes from Dennis Township.
