This year, I decided it was time to break the news to my daughter—Santa isn’t real. I ditched the whole “Elf on the Shelf” routine and became a human megaphone, repeating like a broken record that Santa does not exist. Case closed, right? Wrong.

A few days before Christmas, we went shopping to tackle her wish-list. Two items didn’t make the cut, but we wrapped the rest and tucked them under the tree. On Christmas Eve, we went to a friend’s house for dinner, but my daughter was fidgety—like a puppy with fleas. Finally, I asked, “What’s going on?” Her response nearly peeled the skin off me: “Mom, I need to go home and put out cookies and milk for Santa!”

In disbelief, I said, “What? Didn’t I tell you Santa doesn’t exist?” She ignored me completely and begged me to leave. Tired and ready to avoid a scene, I took her home. The second we walked in, she bolted to the kitchen, prepping cookies and milk like she was hosting a gourmet-tasting event. I, on the other hand, went straight to bed.

The next morning, as I headed downstairs, I saw her masterpiece: cookies plated like fine dining, milk topped with whipped cream, an Amazon gift card, and—wait for it—a heartfelt letter to Santa. Realizing she wouldn’t give up her belief this year, I played along. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and scribbled a reply from Santa:

Dear Princess,

You’ve been such a good girl this year! I see all the gifts under the tree—your mom and dad must love you very much. Your mom promised me she’ll get you the headphones from your wish-list later this year since you already have so many gifts.

This year, I’m giving gifts to kids in Israel and Palestine because there’s so much war, and they need love too. Please pray for them.

Love,

Santa

At 6:30 a.m., my daughter came down the stairs, her face a mix of hope and suspicion. Spotting the empty plate and letter, she gasped, “Santa ate my cookies and left nothing!” I pointed to the letter, and she reluctantly read it. By the end, her disappointment turned to understanding. “That’s okay, Santa,” she said and trotted back upstairs, announcing she’d return at 7:30 to open gifts.

As I watched her, it hit me: What if we believed in God the way my daughter believes in Santa? What if no one could talk us out of who God is or what He can do?

There’s so much noise about when Jesus was born or whether December 25th is accurate. But the date isn’t the point—what matters is that Jesus was born, died for our sins, and rose again so we could have eternal life.

This Christmas, let’s not let distractions or doubts steal our faith. Be resolute in your belief in God and the true meaning of Christmas. If my daughter’s faith in Santa is unshakable, let our faith in God be even stronger—anchored in His promises and the hope He brings.