A little after 7 on Christmas morning, the children found their stockings and, soon after, the living room floor was spread with miniature candy, coloring books and stickers, dolls and action figures, and anything else that could be crammed into them. An hour later, the first wrapping paper came undone from boxes labeled specifically for each child and in what in real time must have been no more than an hourm, the first floor of our home was littered with torn wrapping paper almost as though the children hadn’t used their fingers to unwrap but instead concentrated and well-placed explosive blasts.

I don’t remember seeing wrapping paper being shot directly into the air, but it’s possible we missed it in our early morning stupors. We’d just started our first cups of coffee when the kids began setting off the presents. By mid-morning, more than half of the surprises that belonged to the colorful holiday display had been revealed. Maimed paper and frayed ribbon lay helplessly on what could be seen of the carpet. The rest of the space was taken by empty present boxes or those belonging to children’s playthings.

With the boxes half gone, there was plenty of room for the kids to stand in the tree light and cradle new dolls and love on toys. Play sets had to be removed immediately from intricate packaging – a process sometimes involving scissors, a screwdriver and significant pulling. Batteries were rounded up from obscure drawers in the kitchen and inserted into anything that needed them. Clothing was given a short once-over by the children then was tossed away.

The effort, though, in arranging such a beautiful display was so much more than how long it lasted. From my place on the couch, I observed all the ripping and tearing, the surprises that were appreciated and the ones that were not. I’d have to say – and this opinion is based nothing more than on feeling – the faces that lit up as warmly as the tree’s softest bulbs were worth every second of preparation.

Each child was given a large cardboard box to place their presents in to keep some order, to protect the small bits of toys from being lost or a sibling from taking something that had been carelessly left on the floor. They did help with organization, but they left something to be wanted in the area of aesthetics. Mere cardboard boxes are a drastic step down from the lovely arrangement and expectation of Christmas.

The younger children do not yet understand the manger scene or its significance to some. They look forward to passing it on the way to and from nightly errands – usually last-minute present purchases – simply because it’s a bright spectacle. They do not know the story yet, only that baby Jesus’s birth was significant and that a much differerent and older version of him watches down on them from Heaven.

He must be a confusing figure to them, literally thrown at them among a mix of characters each December, with Santa and Rudolph and Frosty, all new to them, all who make their homes in cold weather and receive similar placement in lawn displays visible from rural routes and highways.

By chance this year, they have visited three Santas, sat on his lap and had photos taken three times a piece, and yet each time he has looked different, sounded different, and either worn natural or blatant fake beards with differing costumes. They have been told year-round that Santa is watching them, particularly when they are naughty, and that he delivers presents to houses around the world in a single night (though the tree is almost surrounded by boxes three days before the big day.)

They know the story of the Nutracker. The oldest has seen the ballet. I have no doubt that with the level of imagination they posses, at least one of the three has gone to bed this winter imagining themselves as Clara and the living room transforming into a secret battlefield.

Buried in the Christmas packages, the bows and wrapping ornaments, they see the Nutcracker and mice armies marching in colonial battle lines toward each other. In the 500 twinkling tree lights, all smudged around the edges playing tricks on the eye, whichever child that dreams and the house pets would be the only witnesses to the war waged. The two cats wrapped on the arm chair, the kitten playfully pawing at the other. The old wise dog on the couch, himself not as dead as he as looks but rather weighted in sleep. The lights on the tree blinking almost imperceptibly, giving the impression of light snowfall. The slick-coated bags mirroring the yellow glow.

The tree is the most glorious light in the house and it is visible from the street, tucked back in a far corner by the stairs. Only drivers coming to a halt at the intersection or passers by on foot can see its trimmings.

By contrast, the upstairs is sufficiently dark. Orchestral music plays on the oldest girl’s bedside CD player all night long, set to repeat. In the winter, it plays Christmas songs with soft, gentle renditions so delicate that they could be played in a nursery to put a newborn clueless about the holiday and miracle births to sleep.

Their world at Christmas time is complex and confusing, is shadows and lights, and yet it encourages them to dream and believe, no matter what they come to expect or to see later. For awhile, they believe, and their father hopes that it doesn’t wear off as it does for adults when the lights and wood carvings are taken down in frigid February.

In late December, with the wind moving unbroken across the prairie and temperatures beginning to dip toward arctic lows, it seemed as though it took nearly five minutes for a small family to pick their way along the familiar but treacherous path. The bigger bodies helped the smaller ones step around ice channels spread across the sidewalk and avoid slipping on slick snow frozen to the sod.

Two years ago, this ground was empty pasture divided by tree lines that had been planted a century back. The land was sold to developers by a farmer who’d raised cattle. Houses that now stand on cul-de-sacs and meandering streets were just drawings on a developer’s map and the clay-thick soil was still waiting to be paved and made over with beige, two-story houses and lawn sod poisoned green. Mr. Beauhop’s sons owned the plans to the development and they saved the last, most extraordinary house on their plan sheet for their parents, people of retirement age.

I have seen Mr. Beauhop in the yard during warmer times but never spoken to him. He’s a big man with white hair that refracts the summer sun as sharply as broken bottle glass. I’d seen him driving a CAT through the neighborhood while picking up sod or other materials needed to finish him home and carrying them back to his own house.

The summer after we moved in, the land-clearing equipment came in and smoothed the land into rich mud. The streets went in as did sewer lines and immense cement drains that were dropped into the ground where consturction had already caused groundwater to collect. Some trees were taken down angering a few neighbors and some modest-sized homes were constructed. Every morning that summer, before the sun was up, the sounds of hammering and pressurized nail guns would come shooting through the trees as clearly and as dependable as birdsong.

For months, paint vans lined the new neighborhood streets. The first of the finished houses were sold and traffic picked up. Construction then began on the Beauhop’s place – an expansive, ranch-style house that over time came to look nothing like the others in the neighborhood. The front yard was marked by a circle drive, the walls were stucco, there was turret and wind vein that characterized the roofline, the front and back opened up with expansive windows, and the plot was larger than any of the houses nearby.

Until this house had gone up, ours had gathered the most attention among our neighbors – not because of its size or cost, but beause of its quaint charm. But the small grudge I kept to myself about the new neighbors behind us had nothing to do with envy. I’d not respected the work they’d done to demolish the field behind us and, along with it, part of our privacy and what we loved of the house. But that was always a silly notion. I’d already purchased a house less than 10 years old built among the pasures and corn fields. My home’s construction had already ruined someone else’s notion of this town.

The Beauhop’s opened their doors to us on Friday night. Their dining room table was set with sausages and other finger foods, breads, candy and dessert. Two iron pots warmed on the stove full with cider and hot chocolate. Coffee was brewed and ready in thermos on the kitchen bar. And, the house was wonderfully decorated in charming holiday decor.

We balanced plates on folded legs and chatted with couples from surrouding houses we’d never met. Mrs. Beauhop told us that she volunteers at a chariable organization that helps find food and clothing for plighted urban families. And, we discovered that before he entered the construction business, Mr. Beauhop toured the world as a professional singer for 30 years. He played a small part of a Christmas recording he’d made long ago with the London Philharmonic and I can say, I’d never heard such a natural and soaring voice.

As we talked, the distance between our houses seemed to dissolve, which made for a shorter walk home. In this arctic weather, it’s strange how a warm cup of cocoa with neighbors can melt away cool bitterness.

Behind Santa’s high-backed chair was a wall of potted evergreens that contributed to the scene’s winterness. The treeline also partially blocked the view from passing shoppers, though the economy had done its own this season in reducing traffic. If this were the only such place to see the man himself and this was the response he’d gotten, the spirit of Christmas would be seriously threatened.

Standing in the entryway to the workshop were two helpers – older women in green sweatshirts whose essential duties were to handle the camera and help the parents choose photo packages. These women instantly became animated upon seeing the last family of the evening weaving through the empty crowd dividers toward Santa’s chair.

For children, a meeting with Santa can be considered a success if they are brave enough to sit on his lap and tell him without freezing up or being overcome with fear what it is that they want for Christmas. For parents, the experience is judged by a few other criteria. Their children’s behavior is tops on the list, followed by how well the photos turn out and the quality of Santa himself for the impression that a poor Santa leaves on a child could be a great enough let down to ruin future Christmases.

The mother in this last family of the day had already inspected the Santa on a previous walk by. The father had placed his faith in his wife’s assessment. On the moment of approach and after handing over his children, the father closely watched over the man in costume to render his own judgement. These were his impressions:

Santa was a thin man and much frailer than the traditional icon would ever be thought to be. His beard was long and white – gray in modest places close to his cheeks – and his skin pink as though it had been brushed by cold wind. His nose wasn’t pug, but it was a lighter color separate amd distinctive from his other facial features, fastened between his eyes in a foreign way – the way that a button might be.

Each child took a turn on Santa’s lap. The oldest one, a girl of six, kept her feet on the ground and barely balanced on the red-suited man’s knee. She stared straight ahead, smiled once or twice and turned slightly toward him but never made eye contact while describing the doll babies and princesses on her Christmas list.

The middle child, the blonde-headed boy, followed. He was much more comfortable. He laughed at Santa’s jokes and spoke boldly about specific toys he’d eyed, but he too looked mostly away from the bearded Claus.

The youngest child, a three year-old girl, went last and she never let her father go. She cried when he tried to put her down and dug her heels and fingers into him tightly so he wouldn’t release her to the stranger. So, at Santa’s encouraging, the entire family sat in the man’s big chair while he knelt behind them and raised his hand to his lips to denote a quiet sign.

When the last photo was snapped, Santa and the father chatted while the children waited for a parting toy and the photos were translated from camera to paper.

“So, has it been busy?” asked the man who brought his family. The answer to the question is obvious, but he’d offered it only to make small talk. He worried that the older man might consider it condescending, not harmless as he intended.

“Steady … steady,” Santa said, crumping his eyes and waving his gently in either direction. “”We’ve been busy on the weekends. The management showed me the numbers. I’ve looked at them and it’s supposed to pick up tomorrow.”

The next day was a Friday, two weekends before Christmas.

“That’s how it went last year,” Santa said. “The lines were long and they stretched down the hall.”

While Santa was talking, the father realized that this was not some imposter Santa that dreads the hours, the children and thinks only of his payday. This was an entirely different sort – the legitmate kind – who wanted to bring joy to children, who fancied himself the real and only Santa as far as the children he saw were concerned.

This is a man who said, “Have a merry Christmas,” a few thousand times a day in costume and meant each one genuinely. He was a man who wore his beard through the summer and wasn’t angered by children that called him Santa at the grocery store or at church. He’s the type of man who could be overcome with misty eyes when talking about the meaning of Christmas or his face flushed with red if he needed to be stern in correcting a child.

But there was also a tiny bit of disillusionment. The mall where he’d held children and listened to their Christmas wishes season after season was crumbling down around him. In fact, on the way out, the family whose season he made a little brighter crossed paths with a group of policemen leading a shop-lifter into an office in handcuffs. Santa’s greatest magic isn’t his ability to deliver toys to every country in the world in a single night. It might be his rigid optimism in the face of non-belief.

Caroline, our youngest daughter, is given to two kinds of moments – those of sweetness, but more often those of stubborness and misbehavior in which her spirit appears to be as an unbreakable as anyone’s could possibly be. She yields to few commands on the first request, seldom – if ever – on the second, but more commonly on the third or fourth. She is as precious as a porcelain doll and her skin the same color and maybe just as delicate if only she’d hold still long enough to touch.

So it was with my own wonderment that I found this little girl slowly spinning in the lowest boughs of the tree, singing to herself a song played by an ornament. The decoration is a music box, of sorts, bought before she was born, a little more than three years ago.

The front is made to appear as though it were a stage with the curtains parted. In the center is Daddy Warbucks holding up his once-orphaned-and-now-adopted daughter, Annie, as high as she can be held. Behind them is a Christmas tree with a few bulbs that light and flash when a button is pushed and the last few bars of Tomorrow are sung by the recording inside.

This is what Caroline was singing to while my wife and I were struggling to put coats on our children in the doorway one night before running an errand. For the first time in her life, Caroline was the first entirely dressed and ready and had a few moments to herself there amid the odd collection of Christmas balls and hanging regalia. She pushed the button and started her dance, quietly singing the lyrics to herself, and watching the tree with the enchantment that seems to spread to little children from late November to the end of glorious, snow-covered December.

I wondered at this sight what the mystery of Christmas was for her and other children like her. And, of course, I couldn’t quite place it. While I still consider myself a young man, I am far too old to solve that riddle – that feeling that only the young can truly sense. I thought about her and though Christmas is upon us all, aside from Christmas Day, no one but her parents and grandparents are going to be especially kind to her this year in any obvious way.

Certainly all the lights on the houses and the Christmas tunes playing on the kitchen radio create a brightness that is noticeable to her, but there has to be something more than that – something untraceable for a child of her difficulty to be tamed at once into such an adorable little girl. Her height and where she reaches in comparison to the tree is no better a measurement of her age than her sweetness is an unraveling of the mystery of Christmas magic.