to Maintain His Optimism
Santa had never seen God so upset.
Though he had brought himself to a new height, nearly to the ceiling, and really quite beyond it, he also seemed to have wrapped himself up, nursing his rage like an infant whose thirst would not be quenched.
So Santa Claus turned away as well—pondering, wracking his brains, trying to think there must be some other way, some way to bring triumph out of trial.
A partial fix was out of the question.
All parts of this had to work together.
But what did he mean by that? They’d had the best heavenly minds working on this and they’d all foundered against the rock, the blunt thoughtless boulder of Trump’s stubborn will.
No trick would do it. No sleight-of-hand. It had to be something quite magnificent, the main attraction in the center ring at the greatest circus ever to raise its tent.
Santa looked over at Trump who was now frozen, outside of magic time. The moment he’d been frozen made him look strangely like the little boy Santa had seen on Christmas Eves long ago.
Being on Santa’s naughty list did not mean he never looked in upon boys and girls who’d earned that dishonor. He loved to visit even the naughty children, although he left no gifts to augment the ones their parents left. He sorrowed over them as they slept, praying for a change of heart.
Ninety percent of the time, his prayers went unanswered.
So many of them lived in surroundings choked with material goods, but impoverished in terms of human connection and the nourishment of human kindness.
What was that quote from Abraham Lincoln about better angels? Could it possibly be that Trump had none of those inside him? Might there be a way to revive and strengthen them?
One possible avenue.
How had they done this before? How had they responded when the Tooth Fairy sabotaged their efforts? With Aphrodite. Ah, yes, Aphrodite. Might she be brought into the picture?
He looked back at God.
Storms inside storms inside storms surrounded God Almighty.
There was no hope of breaking through all of that to even think about presenting new ideas. Not in his current state. It was impossible he’d even entertain such an idea.
And what idea did the jolly old elf think he was talking about? Vague notions, swimming about in desperation.
That’s all he had.
I’ll just go talk to her, he thought. No need to tell God where I’m going. He doesn’t even notice I’m here.
I’ll call Hephaestus over, take him along.
He signaled the workman, murmured his plans in his ear, and together they vanished.
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