The Santa Connection

If you know me, you know I decorate for Christmas early. Really early. By the first week of November, my house is fully done inside and out — not a surface left untouched. I’ve always loved it. My mom did too. That was something we shared long before I realized it was becoming a tradition. Every year I tell myself I’m going to scale back my Christmas decorations, and every year I fail spectacularly. There’s always room for one more.

At the center of it all is my Santa collection.

My mom started it when I first got married. Every year she found a new Santa to give me, usually a Possible Dreams Santa because she adored them, and she almost always bought one for herself too. Over time, our collections grew side by side, like two parallel stories with the same heartbeat. They became something we admired together, fussed over together, and honestly took way too seriously together—which was part of the fun.

Some of my most cherished memories with her live in Waynesville. Each fall we would go searching for the most unique, hand-crafted Santas, the ones with the sweetest faces, the ones that felt like they held a bit of quiet magic. And of course, we never went just once. We returned again and again throughout the season, because you never knew when a new Santa might appear and insist on coming home with you. After each hunt, we’d sit down to lunch and talk through what we found, what we left behind, and the ones we were definitely going back for. It was simple, ordinary, and perfect.

Santas were always the heart of our Christmas decorating. We each had a Santa-only tree. Now some of her ornaments hang on my tree and on my sister’s tree, and pieces of her collection live with our children. Her joy lives in our homes, in our traditions, and in our memories.

I still love decorating for Christmas. It makes me happy, and now it brings a kind of bittersweetness too. This is my third Christmas without my mom, and when I unwrap the Santas—hers tucked in among mine—she feels close in that quiet, familiar way grief and love often meet. I find myself pausing to take in the whole collection, remembering the ones we found together in Waynesville and the ones she chose for me. Each Santa holds a piece of our story, and in those moments, I’m reminded why this tradition matters so much to me.

My love for Santa is just another way of loving my mom. Both are warm, generous, joyful, a little whimsical, and impossible to miss. Both filled my life with wonder. Both made ordinary days feel special. Both made our home feel like home.

I hope my children feel that someday too. I hope that years from now, when they open the boxes and unwrap these Santas—perhaps rolling their eyes a bit, because the tradition is a lot—they feel that same rush of joy and comfort. I hope they remember the stories and the laughter and the house that was always decorated a little too early and a little too completely.

As I look around my home this season—at the Santas, the lights, and the memories woven through it all—I feel my mom’s presence in such a steady, familiar way. It reminds me how love carries forward through the traditions we keep and the people who share them with us. I hope your holidays are filled with that same sense of warmth, meaning, and connection.

Merry Christmas!

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