A German au pair brings an old-world custom to an American family

by Angela York Crane

Sankt Nikolaus by Tesi, Germany St Nicholas Center Collection

As a child, my family's Christmas was never about Santa Claus. The season was about the Advent wreath at our Catholic church, the empty crib on our carved wooden coffee table, slowly becoming full by the straw placed by our small hands as we looked for caring deeds to bestow on others in our family, and it was about what my mother called “the spirit of giving” represented by the symbol of Santa Claus whom we saw everywhere that time of year.

When my sons were small, St Nicholas came to us, brought across the waters by our German au pair and her gracious loving family. Early in December, when my sons were 2, 4, and 6, a large box arrived postmarked from Germany. Later that day, the phone rang and the mother of the daughter, who was helping to care for our sons, asked this mother a simple question—"Did you get the box of chocolate? And will you read the letter from St Nicholas to my daughter?"

"Yes, yes," I answered and then my questions started: "When is St. Nicholas Day? How do you celebrate? Can the boys be included?" And I learned the story of a kindly and tough ancient bishop, who gave gifts and much love to those around him. I learned how each year a letter from St. Nicholas comes, with many, many praises for all the wonderful attributes of each child, and then how the letter ends with a 'however.' And in that however, St Nicholas lets the child know what change can be worked on for the next year—the child’s gift back to St. Nicholas. And then, in a whirlwind of chocolate and saving the child from Krampus, who will surely take the bad children, St Nicholas carries on his message that there is an abundance of good in each child.

In our house, L reads the St Nicholas letter. And we deliver three bars of good dark chocolate and one or two books. But it is not the presents, or the anticipation of them, that causes even the older 15-year-old to squirm, that causes the eyes to light up and the face to flush when the pages are pulled out and the gift bags make their way to our living room. It is the words of blessing, and the request for change that causes time to slow, and hearts to join as we start the season of learning to give ourselves to the Light of the World. The Babe who was born into humanity.

This year, the house was a mess, the tree was stuck in a frozen bucket of water outside, and the boxes of ornaments and their treasures and wrappings were spilling themselves all over the floor and the sofa. Nevertheless, St Nicholas knew where to find us, and when L pulled out the pages, the 15, 13 and 11-year-old men/boys sat at attention to see what the wise old man would say this year. With their permission, I give you our very simple St Nicholas letter.

To the 15-year-old:

To the 13-year-old:

And finally the 11-year-old:

And although I would like to say that we remembered to light the Advent wreath candles for this ceremony, and that it took place in a clean, beautifully decorated setting, and that afterwards we adjourned to a lavishly set table, with a feast of abundance for a fine dinner, I cannot tell that lie, or I know what my St Nicholas letter would state next year.

But in the midst of the chaos of unfinished decorating, and with the unlit Advent wreath cheering us on, we enjoyed a simple meal of homemade clam chowder, and, as has become the tradition for our St Nic feast day dinner, we read around the table, enjoying the novels which St Nicholas had gifted us.

Traditions give us the ability to be intentional about what we gift ourselves and our children. For me, I am grateful that my parents Christmas tradition was to frame this season as a time of giving and waiting. I am grateful that we shared a special year with a German au pair, who gifted us a tradition like St Nicholas Day; every year as we celebrate I remember that 19-year-old and her gift of love that she brought to us. And I am grateful for lovers and givers, may we all learn how to be both.

By Angela York Crane, from Living on Both Ends—an exploration of best and worst Used by permission.