My 3-year-old asks me to tell her the story one more time. Possibly the 800th time since we watched the movie.
“Dad, what happened?”
Every time she asks, I remember the magic I felt as a child, its possibilities. So I tell her: A kid wakes up the night before Christmas to a train on his doorstep; he boards the train as the conductor screams—All Aboard!; Hot cocoa is served as new friends meet; the train climbs a tall mountain and goes off the rails, nearly sinks into a frozen lake before getting back on track thanks to the expert engineers; soon, the Polar Express arrives at the North Pole to much elven fanfare, and Santa is there, too, passing out the coveted first gift of Christmas.
My daughter interrupts to check—again—that Santa does in fact live at the North Pole.
“He does.”
Then I finish: the boy asks Santa for a silver bell; the boy loses the silver bell through a hole in his pajama pocket but rediscovers the bell gift-wrapped under the tree Christmas morning.
“Again. Again, Dad,” she says, as soon as I finish. Again and again.
“A kid wakes up to a train on his doorstep…” I say.
Sometimes she asks me to skip the part where the ice almost breaks—it’s too scary. Sometimes she wants me to repeat the part where they’ve come to the mountain peak, approaching the steepest downgrade in all the world with no brakes. She laughs as I mimic the chugga-chugga-choos, eeerrrttts, and screeches of the train. These moments, though repetitive, are precious reminders of how simply joy appears in our lives.
Every time I tell it, she’s raptured. Taken up. Like a blank-eyed prophet caught in some vision. All those images flashing before her—child sleeping, big train, hot cocoa, friends, mountains, snow, cracking ice, elves, reindeer, Santa, trees, presents. And when it ends, she wants the experience again, as if I were tossing her high in the air and catching her or flying her like an airplane in a wicker basket.
“Again. Again!” Again and again.
Like most parents, part of me wants it to end for my sanity. But, part of me doesn’t want it to end. That’s my baby. And, she’s caught up in some fast-fading magic. When will the dream of the movie be forgotten? The myth of Santa unveiled like all the other mini apocalypses she will experience throughout her life? And will these wonders be replaced with more and more?
Again and again?
Myth and innocence mingle like the intertwined fingers of two lovers to form these fleeting moments of joy and wonder. In these moments, we are invited to see that these are not just stories; they are threads weaving memories that will soon be called ‘childhood’ that one day she will look back upon, hopefully, and remember again and again. Memories she will cherish. Stand upon as she grows into this ever shifting world. They are the firmament of her life. And ours.
And so, in the coming year: may you remember the wonders that formed you; may you embrace the magic of myth and innocence; and, may you find stories you can’t help but tell—or listen to—over and over whether in some new story or in some tired myth others have used up and left behind.
Garrett Mostowski is a pastor and writer in Detroit, Michigan