It took the death of Santa Claus for me to believe.

Even into my teenage years, my every waking moment in December was spent thinking of Christmas. At school I daydreamed about the presents waiting under the tree. It was our family’s favorite time of year.

Even before Thanksgiving Day, my mother planned how she would fill the house with candles, ornaments and holiday cheer.

It was the best time of year, especially for a child.

So you can imagine our distress when my mother threw open the French doors one holiday and, in one quick move, heaved the Christmas tree into the back yard, exclaiming, “Santa Claus is dead!”

That year my father was in charge of finding the family Christmas tree. Living in a small town, we could walk several hundred yards outside our house and find any number of ideal trees for decorating.

Unfortunately, my Dad had the knack for not seeing them. He could pick out some real “Charlie Brown” looking trees.

To make matters worse, he was leaving town for an unexpected business trip and had only one Sunday afternoon to cut down a tree and string up the lights. My mother would then come behind and add the garlands and ornaments.

When my father came back with the tree, you could see the look of disapproval in my mother’s eyes. The scraggly tree my father chose had several gaping holes and wide gashes throughout.

Convinced that he had made a good choice, my dad assured us that he could fill in the gaps with branches fastened with wire. And the slight lean could be corrected by tying the tree to the family room wall.

We went to bed with my father working against the odds to transform that sad looking tree.

We awoke that morning amazed to see the tree standing covered in lights. I left for school thinking the tree would be fully decorated when I returned.

Instead it imploded.

I remember us arriving home with my mother, opening the kitchen door, tossing homework on the counter, and seeing a pile of twisted limbs and broken bulbs in the family room. Seeing pieces of heirloom ornaments scattered across the floor, my mother angrily threw open the doors, tossed the tree and made her infamous announcement. My 10-year-old sister and my 8-year-old brother immediately burst into tears and wailed. I walked into my bedroom and shut the door.

It was a dark holiday that year. We did finally get a tree — one my mother cut down and decorated by herself. We would open presents. But the idea that Santa Claus was dead struck gloom into our holiday.

Then, two days before Christmas, something incredible happened.

Each holiday our church youth group bought gifts for a family in need. For a year, we would collect money and donations for this one event. We would give groceries, clothing and presents during an annual Christmas party. Perhaps because I was entering my teens or because I was looking for a bright spot in an otherwise dark holiday, that year I decided I wanted to be the Santa Claus of the party. I didn’t dress in red or wear a fuzzy white beard — I just handed out the gifts under the tree.

And if it wasn’t for the hug of a little 4-year-old child who wrapped her arms around my legs every time she received a plain pair of jeans or a simple plastic doll, I might have missed Santa Claus altogether.

He wasn’t that jolly old elf flying across the world to leave a pile of presents under my Christmas tree.

No, Santa that year looked like a child whose smile reflected back to me the joy of Christmas.

Ben Hillyer is the Web editor of The Natchez Democrat. He can be reached at 601-445-3540.