Her letter changed him … and all of us
By Stephan Drew
Frank was a drunk … a really bad one. He hadn’t always been a heavy drinker but, almost a year earlier, his wife and child had died of typhoid. Even before their deaths, he hadn’t been a “nice” man. He was a born skeptic. Cynical of religion, politics and government, he made his living from reporting his grim viewpoint on a wide array of subjects. See, Frank was a newspaperman. Years ago, he and his brother, William, had started a couple of publications – The Army and Navy Journal and Galaxy magazine (which later merged with Atlantic Monthly). But his brother had started a new paper, the New York Sun, and Frank was the lead editorial writer. He covered a lot of the action during the Civil War and had been all over the world. Reporting from Chile, Panama and many other South American countries in the last quarter century of his life, he was very well known for his insightful articles, all with a pessimistic slant. Now, at 58, Frank gave up all hope. He had lost the two things most precious in the world – his wife and child, and felt as if his life was over. So he began drinking, heavily. It helped him forget his pain, at least for a while. You see, Frank felt guilty. Although he loved his family dearly, he had never spent one birthday, holiday or Christmas dinner at home. Always in some faraway country, covering important, world-shattering events, he had neglected them for years and, now, they were gone. So he sank into a deep depression. A mild cynic before, he became even more so now. Everything was corrupt. In his opinion, there was absolutely no good to be found in the world anymore. Not being able to get through the day without a drink, Frank started keeping a bottle in his desk drawer at work. One day, he finally had enough with his life and contemplated ending it. He stood up, opened the drawer, took out his bottle and put it in his coat pocket. He only lived a few blocks away and started walking home. His boss, sensing that something wasn’t right, followed closely behind him. Frank didn’t want company and explained that he had business to take care of. But his boss stopped him and presented him with an envelope. “Frank,” he said, “I have a very important assignment for you.” Frank wondered what it was. “You’ll see,” his boss said. “Take this home and read it. Think about your answer and do an article on it by tomorrow.” Frank looked at the envelope. Someone from here in New York had written it, but they were obviously poor. He could see dirt and fingerprints on the envelope. How urgent could this assignment be? No one of any importance would send a letter in this condition. He carelessly put it in his pocket and hurried on home. When he got there, he opened the letter, paying close attention to the childlike handwriting. There were only a few lines on the paper. Who would write this crooked? And why was it so important that he answer this letter? How significant could this really be? He began reading. “Dear Editor, I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ‘If you see it in THE SUN, it’s so.’ Please, tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus? — Virginia O’Hanlon, 115 West 95th St., NY.” Frank Pharsellus Church read the letter again. He looked at the envelope and the postmark and then he read the letter again. How could this be? To be sure, his publisher didn’t think this was something a renowned journalist like himself should bother with? What was up? In his present state of mind, after all that had happened to him, how could he possibly answer this little girl’s question? How could he, who had lost everything that mattered, inspire this little ignorant child? What could he, a diehard critic, say that would give hope to this innocent youngster? There had to be something amiss. Evidently, his boss had given him the wrong letter. So he took a walk to Central Park. It was cold and he saw mothers bundling up their children and kissing them on the forehead, people ice-skating and young couples out for a stroll, beaming with love. He heard laughter and the sound of crowds having fun. And, for the first time in over a year, he had some emotion, strong feelings tugging at his heartstrings. He felt a sudden chill and, reaching into his pocket, he found the letter. He read it once more and knew what he had to do. Frank P. Church had made a career out of thumbing his nose in skepticism at the world’s stupidity and foolishness. He built his reputation from being cynical about the silliness and sentimentality of mankind. But, as he studied the letter, he knew what his answer must be. He hurried home, sat down at his desk, took a deep breath, and began writing his reply: “Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except that they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. “ALL minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole truth and knowledge. “Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. “It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. “Not believe in Santa Claus?! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your Papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? “Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. “Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not! But that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. “You may tear apart a baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside but there is a veil covering the unseen world, which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, and romance can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. “Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all the world there is nothing else more real and abiding. “No Santa Claus? Thank God he lives! And he lives forever! A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.” Frank Church thought he didn’t have an answer. He thought it was a “waste of time” and “foolish.” He didn’t think there was any way a man as bitter and introverted as him could reach out and touch this little girl’s emotions. But in replying to Virginia O’Hanlon’s question, Frank had been forced to open his own wounded heart. To feel what he didn’t think he could feel. And he began to revive and live once more. He realized that, sometimes, helping someone else does more for US than it does for THEM. No, his boss hadn’t played a joke on him. He had known exactly what Frank really needed to bring him out of his depression. That letter, the assignment Frank P. Church DID NOT want, and didn’t think he could properly answer, has lived with us through time. No one remembers his historic reporting on the Civil War, Spanish-American War and his many exploits in other parts of the globe. But, we all remember his reply to that one little girl. And it is just as meaningful and important today as it was almost 130 years ago. Let us all remember the message that he left. The message of Christmas cannot be displayed in a store window or on a television program. It can’t be captured in a poem. The true meaning of Christmas can only be felt by the heart. And, as he said so long ago, “Thank God, it lives!”… even today.
