🎄 The Santa He Carved (and the Story Behind It)
A simple tradition, a familiar face, and a quiet moment before the sleigh bells ring.
The countdown continues here at the North Pole, and the pace has officially tipped into what I call “juggle-and-hope” mode. Elves are walking briskly, cocoa mugs are half-drunk and forgotten, and there’s an occasional good-natured shout coming from the Wrapping Hall. It’s that time of year.
And while I keep things moving in the kitchen and the pantry (and sometimes on the elf radio station—long story), Santa finds his own way to center himself when the season gets heavy. Over the many years, he’s picked up several ways to let the weight of hurried days roll away. And depending on the year, his frame of mind, and the current mood, each way becomes his favorite.
Sometimes it’s a long walk with the dogs. Sometimes it’s organizing the sleigh harnesses. Sometimes it’s poetry—which, as many of you know, is not a seasonal thing for him, but a deeply personal, prayerful practice. It’s his way of talking to the Lord when there’s too much in his heart for conversation alone.
But this year? He’s carving.
Santa loves to carve. He says it calms his thoughts and steadies his hands. And though he’d never say it too loudly, he does sometimes feel a little self-conscious because… well… his favorite thing to carve is himself.
Now before you jump to conclusions—it’s not vanity. Not really. He says he just loves how differently people envision him—how their stories and hearts shape the lines of his coat, the length of his beard, the twinkle in his eye. So carving, for him, isn’t about ego—it’s about remembering how deeply he’s connected to the people he serves.
This year, he said he felt young and thin. (I just sipped my cocoa quietly when he said that.)
So he decided to make a folk art style Santa—long and slender, with a thoughtful expression and a coat like you’d see in one of those little wooden villages from decades past.
He asked what I thought, and I told him it was the spitting image of him… from years past.
I was thankful he didn’t ask how many years past.
He set it on the sideboard next to our Christmas dishes. There’s something about it—something gentle. He walks by it now and again, and every time, I notice his shoulders drop just a bit. Like it reminds him who he is, without all the noise.
I asked if I could share it with you all. He said yes—but only if I made sure to tell you that he was feeling particularly trim when he made it. So now you know.
Here he is, our Santa, in his latest form—hand-carved, heart-softened, and quietly preparing for another Christmas night.
And if you’re wondering how I’m holding up? I’ll save that for another post, but I will say this: I’m keeping the cookie tin full and the glue out of Roger the Elf’s reach. So far, so good.
With warmth,
Mrs. Claus
