Finding the Box

I’m not the first Santa, and I certainly won’t be the last. Many Santas have come before me, each one doing things a little differently. The elves, of course, play a significant role in breaking in the new guy—me, in this case.

On my first trip to the North Pole… Charlie Elf brought me here after visiting my home on Black Friday. He immediately launched into the full tour. Imagine this: reindeer, elf schedules, toy blueprints, and thousands of kids’ names… everything being thrown at you at once. Overwhelming is an understatement. The elves of course, had all year to prepare, but I had just one month to get ready for Christmas Eve.  It was like taking the bar exam after a one-month crash course with zero experience.

After the whirlwind tour, Charlie led me to my new home away from home. "This is where the big guy stays," he said, gesturing to an ornate room fit for a king. The central bed was huge, draped in rich red curtains, surrounded by mementos from past Santas. It was beautiful, but at that moment, all I wanted was sleep. Charlie, sensing my exhaustion, left me to rest. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning after you’ve had ample rest,” he said. “We’ll bring your wife and children within a few days.”

So, there I was alone for the first time in weeks, lying in bed with a million thoughts racing through my head. Self-doubt crept in. What had I gotten myself into? Was I really prepared to be Santa Claus? That’s an insane amount of responsibility.

Sleep eluded me. I got up, too restless to stay in bed, and started nosing around. I discovered a full Santa wardrobe—everything from boots to belts, all perfectly tailored. But what really caught my eye was a very, very deep closet—about eight feet wide but nearly 20 feet deep. I flipped the light switch, and a warm, dim glow lit up the far end. Behind the rows of red suits was a tiny desk and an old filing cabinet—a sort of secret office, though nothing particularly grand.

In the far corner, a dusty, forgotten box caught my eye.

I almost walked away from it. Fear, doubt, and the heavy weight of “what if” held me back. But something—a tiny flicker in the light—made me open the lid.

Inside the box was something indescribable. A rush of compassion overloaded my senses. There were old letters, storybooks, diaries, photos from the 1960s, 1940s, and 1930s—stories that had been tucked away by past Santas, waiting to be found again. At first, I read a few stories...and they hit me like déjà vu. It felt as if I had once written these notes, lived these stories, and had Santa memories from decades ago. I had never felt this sensation before. It was a feeling of relief, as if my burden was lifted, as if I was actually meant for this job.

Life up to that point had felt cluttered with responsibilities. The creativity from my childhood seemed like a luxury, something I had forgotten along the way, something for other people.

I sat down at the desk in that deep closet, with a blank leather notebook that had already been there when I arrived. The blank pages mocked me, daring me to write, to create, to try. But as I started, something shifted. The words, clumsy at first, began to flow. Stories tumbled out, each one a step closer to rediscovering that forgotten part of myself. These stories were about kids—good kids—kids on the Nice List. Some from this year, some from last year, some from decades ago. I was learning that each child had a special gift, one that needed to be nurtured and rewarded. Scott kicking butt in Tae Kwon Do, Shannon learning to ride her bike, and Emily, who would give her whole Christmas away for a friend in need.

Writing became my secret weapon. Each word, each sentence, was like a sword cutting through self-doubt. It was a declaration: I am here. I have a voice. This Santa can be a little different from the last one. I can share these stories to better the world.

Storytelling became my compass, guiding me back to myself. Through these tales, I rediscovered the joy of exploration and the thrill of the unknown. I gave myself permission to be vulnerable, to embrace imperfection. Through these stories, I confronted my fears, celebrated my triumphs, and found meaning in shared experiences.

I realized that our stories, however flawed or messy, have the power to connect us. They remind us that we are not alone in our struggles. They offer hope, inspiration, and a sense of belonging. And in sharing them, we find our voice, our purpose.

And so, my hope is simple—to build a community. A place where hearts connect through shared stories. A space for vulnerability and authenticity. I want to inspire others to find their own voice, to open their own box of stories, and share them with the world.

That’s what we’re here for.