“I’m not ready to stop believing in Santa Claus,” my 75-year-old father declared from his ICU hospital bed.

“Daddy, I think you are confused. You’re JEWISH!” I giggled while texting a message to my husband reminding him to pick up the kids from school.

This was life for my father toward the end, random comments like this were not uncommon. I would nonchalantly point out the muddled memory or thought, and we would both laugh about it. Humor has always been the go-to response to everything in our family, and no one appreciated a good chuckle more than my dad. But, I soon learned that he was not joking, nor were his thoughts cloudy or jumbled that day.

“What the world needs is for us all to believe in Santa Claus, and yes I am a Jewish man saying that. Don’t scrunch your nose up like that, Sharon. Listen to me, open your heart. Santa is not a religion. Santa represents HOPE for what can be and for what the future has in store for us. I am not ready to stop believing in Santa Claus. Do you understand what I mean by this, Sharon?”

I honestly thought I did understand what he meant, but he shook his head as if he knew better, which he did.

“You do not believe in Santa! GRINCH!” And with that, he laughed, grabbed my hand and brought it to his lips and ever so gently kissed it as he whispered, “But you will one day!”  

My father passed away a few weeks after this conversation. Before they shut his coffin, I slipped in a picture of Santa Claus with the words, “I believe!” that I had written inside it.

I tried hard to believe and to keep hopeful … but his death hit me hard. For my kids’ sake, I pasted on a smile and kept going, but inside I felt numb, lost, without hope.

About two months after my father’s leaving this physical world, I had a dream. I was about six or seven, filled with hopes, but even more so, filled with fears. In this dream, my older sister and brother had persuaded my mother to allow them to ride their bikes to our grandparents’ condo. I begged to go along, but they convinced my mother that I was too young and would not be able to keep up.

“Her legs are too short and, besides, she still has training wheels on her bike. She’s still a baby!” they shouted in protest.

“I am not!” I yelled back, then started to cry.

“Look at the baby cry. Do you need a bottle, baby? Is your diaper wet?” They teased in a way that only siblings can.

My mother, most likely just tired of their nonsense, shooed them away. I continued to cry as I watched them ride off, leaving me all alone. That is when my father appeared in my dream.

“Let’s take off these training wheels so that the next time you can join them,” he told me.

As he unscrewed the bolts that held onto my security (or perhaps insecurities), he talked on and on about how proud he was of me and how he knew I could do this.

“Just think of the adventures you will have, Sharon. You can ride off into the sunset if you want,” he said, trying to sell me on the idea of riding my bike without the training wheels.

“I don’t want to ride off into the sunset,” I argued with him.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked.

“I’m afraid of falling, of getting hurt, of not being able to do it,” I admitted to him.

My father pulled me toward him, looked directly into my eyes, and said to my dream self, “Do you trust me?”

“Do you promise to not let go?” I asked half-heartedly, almost afraid to hear the answer. He shook his head yes, and with that, I climbed onto my bike.

With one hand, he held on to my seat with a tight grip, the other softly resting on the small of my back as if he were holding me up, keeping me steady, gently guiding me on. As I pedaled slowly, he walked with me, never leaving my side. With every wobble, he reminded me that he had me. When my balance wavered, he told me he would not let me fall.

Then, just when I got used to having him there, he let go. I watched my child-self whiz around in a circle, free and happy, until I finally realized that my father was no longer with me. I looked back at my father with a sense of fear on my face, which then turned to anger, as he had promised to not let me go. But the anger faded when I saw his face. He stood smiling at me proudly, waving, and cheering me on.

“You are doing it. Don’t look back, look ahead. Look where you are going, keep your eyes open, concentrate! You got this, baby! Keep going.”

I woke up after that and felt a sense of peace I had not felt since my father had passed. Suddenly, I understood what my Jewish father really meant when he told me, “What the world needs is for us all to believe in Santa Claus.” By keeping the belief of Santa alive, I am also keeping the spirit of my father and HOPE alive. My father doesn’t want me to look back and grieve; he wants me to look forward, eyes open, keep pedaling and to never give up HOPE.