âď¸ November 8
47 Days Till Christmas
My darlings, itâs been a little while since weâve visited, hasnât it?
Life at the North Pole rarely slows, but thereâs a difference between being busy and being full. And lately, itâs felt like weâve been running on emptyâfull calendars, empty cups.
But early this morning, something happened that pressed me back into this chair, into this journal, and into this moment with you. Something that reminded me that Christmas canât be allowed to slip quietly past the wounded places of the world.
It was still dark when I woke up and found the bed beside me empty.
Santa was sitting by the hearth, hands wrapped around a cup of cocoa peppermint tea gone cold, staring into the dying embers.
I wrapped myself in my shawl and sat beside him, and after a long silence, he said:
âI had a dream tonight. A little boy stood in front of me and asked,
âWhy doesnât Christmas ever come to my house?ââ
“The little boy wasnât angry.
He wasnât even sad.
He just⌠seemed…emotionless .
Thatâs what shook Santa the mostânot the question, but the fact that the boy had stopped hoping for an answer.
He told me he tried to explain in the dream: Maybe we missed the house by accident. Maybe the chimney was too small. Maybe the letter got lost. But even as he spoke, he could feel the truth.
This wasnât about gifts or magic.
It was about absence. A kind of spiritual quiet that had settled over the boyâs home⌠and then his heart.
And thatâs when Santa said something Iâll never forget:
âI think Christmas wants to come to every house.
But sometimes the doorâs locked.
Or the lights are off.
Or the people inside have forgotten itâs even real.â
He looked at me then.
âBut the truth is⌠it came anyway. Didnât it?â
I couldnât hold back the tears, darlings. Because he was right. Christmas came. It came to a barn. To the forgotten edge of a weary world. It came not with ribbons, but in swaddling cloth. Not on sleigh runners, but on sandaled feet.
And itâs still coming.
To every single home where someoneâs heart whispers, âCome, Lord Jesus.â
The enemy has tried to cheapen Christmas. Turn it into noise. Plastic. Deadlines. Disappointment.
But Christmas was never ours to cheapen. It belongs to Christ. It came at great cost.
And He comes anyway.
He comes when hope is gone.
He comes when the lights are out.
He comes when Santa canât explain the ache, and even Mrs. Claus canât bake enough comfort into a sweet roll.
So to the child in Santaâs dreamâŚ
To the mother crying in the pantryâŚ
To the man who feels forgottenâŚ
To the soul whoâs stopped expecting joy to knock on their doorâ
Christmas is coming.
Not the glitter.
Not the gifts.
But the Glory.
The kind that shone over a manger and broke the night in two.
And if youâll open the doorâjust a crackâHe will enter. And He will stay.
Weâve got 45 days, darlings.
45 days to make room.
To trim the noise.
To fan the flame.
To remind the world that Christmas doesnât need magic to moveâit only needs one heart willing to say yes.
Iâll be writing each day from here on out, sharing the messy beauty of North Pole life, yesâbut more than that, sharing the heart of why we do any of this at all.
Letâs rekindle Christmas together.
With love and trembling hope,
âMrs. Claus