The toys were getting more complicated. He and his family used to make them in the shop. That’s one thing the old fella always enjoyed through the years. He liked to work with his hands. There was something satisfying about it—an intangible quality that he knew no replacement for. That kind of magic made itself if you committed to it.
The old elf eyed the block of wood sitting in front of him. It would be a good passion project, like in the old days. The children rarely asked for things like this anymore. They seemed to only want things that could be found in a catalog or by staring blankly into the soft glow of one of the hundreds of screens that made up their day.
He took a deep breath. No point in fighting it. Things were changing and he would too. He had no choice. The children were the same. The toys were different. He felt this way every year since he began.
But this particular request gave him a warm feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
The little girl wanted a rocking elephant. He chuckled to himself thinking about it. He took a pencil in his hand and marked the first piece of wood where he would cut it. He had a piece of an old tree that he would carve out the body and head of the animal. Then he would mount it on rockers.
He began sawing the top of the wood. The children all worried about whether he would catch them being naughty. This was a relative term. The world made them naughty. They were inherently good.
All of them.
Not one child ever started off with hate. Ever watched a group of children playing? Even before they can speak, they love. They may be curious about their differences, but never hateful. They can be cruel when something is different, but this usually comes later when they mirror the adults, airing their ignorance and fear under the guise of sweet words. They reflected what they learned from those already harmed.
Ever heard a parent say sweetly, “Well, we just don’t play with those people sweetie?”
The child asks, “Why? We were pretending to be cowboys, or married, or playing house, or pretending to be space ranger ballerinas”(or anything at all and this is the beauty of children).
The parent replies, “Because that’s how it is, honey. We just don’t believe the same things.”
They pick up their child, their little package of joy, and carry them away unaware (and sometimes acutely aware) of the fact that they have placed a seed that will grow. The child is now aware that something is different in a bad way rather than a beautiful way. The hour of joy wrought by the innocent love between small hands is forever tainted.
And that is the fault of the grown-ups, who were once children.
Sweat formed on his brow as he made another cut. He remembered all the children. Some children grew to be good. Some grew to be naughty. But inside, he remembered the good at the start.
He did not linger in his mind on the adults that were naughty. Still, he was hopeful as ever that they would mend their ways. He recalled the beautiful innocence that they once were when they were small. But this was not in his hands. His world was the world of the children. And it was absolutely essential.
A child was potential. A child could change the world. The best way he knew how to make a good grown-up was to make them feel loved as a child. The toys were not the point—they were just a symbol. He realized material things sent a mixed message and that a child would play with a stick if they had nothing else. The disparity was alarming between those who had and those who had not, but children were children regardless of the hand they were dealt. A child’s imagination is boundless.
There were so many children in the world now, too. When he first started, the list was much shorter. The children continued to believe, though, and as a result, his magic grew stronger. Time was relative for him. That one night got longer each year, and he would reach every child who believed. He was fueled by magic, to be sure. But the misconception was that the magic came from him.
Children make the magic. Consider how they can make a parent’s heart grow. When the child arrives their heart expands and makes more room than they thought was possible. So too, did the toymaker’s heart.
And it will continue to grow, and therefore, his magic, enabling him to get around the world and deliver his toys as a reminder of this goodwill on earth.
Some people say that we are worse off than ever. The old elf disagrees. There is less disease, poverty, and hate than ever before. The thing that is different now is that fewer people can keep on blinders to the hate and poverty, and disease that remains. New technology makes the extreme people louder and forces to the surface all the ill that used to simmer quietly, swept under a rug. It makes it seem like things are getting worse. In reality, this is progress. Finally, other grownups can see what he sees constantly.
He will build this rocking-elephant toy the old way, though. No need for magic here. He thinks, only for a moment about the children who are hurting, that he cannot get to for whatever reason, and is saddened by it. He thinks of those little ones who are sick and ones who are hungry or have no homes. These things bring a tear to his eye as he chisels the block of wood. It weighs on his mind often. It makes him strive to do better, to try and fix more, and help more.
The world is not fair. He has been here longer than most. Even with his big heart and all the magic at his disposal, he is not under some delusion that the world is fair. If it were, the little girl who gets this elephant would be able to ride it for more than 6 months after she receives it. But this is not to be. Her Christmas tree is in a hospital.
He knows that when she rides it, it will bring joy to her heart for a moment in a life that has been most painful. But she still gets up each morning and only wants to be loved. You wouldn’t know that anything was wrong with her at all if you judged by her smile. Who knows what she could have been?
He sands off the edges of the elephant. He is quite satisfied with the end look and laughs with joy at the thing he has made. It does feel good, “HO HO HO!” he bellows, unable to contain it.
He will find some gray paint and a pink bow.
He considers the state of things again.
People are getting older and staying young, he thought. He remembered his youth long ago. Soon everyone would experience close to the length of life that he has endured. Science could be magic. One day in the future, he hoped, he would no longer have to say goodbye in his heart to little girls in hospitals. One day, they would have fixes for these things.
He remembered polio and smallpox and how these things were mostly fixed. He remembered all the things that came before it. It was getting better, he thought. It had to get better or else he was doing this for naught.
One day people would live as long as he had. Soon they would have to learn to deal better with seeing everything in the world as he did. They would learn. He learned, and it took a long time. When that time comes he would be done. All the children would be seen to. All the children would be loved. They would grow into grown-ups that in turn lived long and saw all as well.
Once people saw what it was like to live as long as he and could see as much as he, they would realize there was no point in doing anything less and all the hate was for nothing. Then they would all fulfill his request.
In the future, we would all be Santa Claus.