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Dear Mr. Kringle, there is a young woman out there who needs a 34th Street.



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You will think I am crazy only because I have never met her. And that is why I need you in this very moment.

I probably will never meet her or know she is the one who received this message, but that doesn’t matter. You and I both know that I will never sit down next to her and hold the basin for her tears. It doesn’t change anything though. It shouldn’t, right? Not the fact that her name doesn’t tiptoe along my recent calls list. Not the fact that no coffee date in the near future will find me sitting right in front of her. She can still have it. You hear me? I want her to have it.

Let her know that I have been there, that I have felt it too. That I was once waiting in the same long line that she is in right now, standing in front of the world asking for it to love me. Asking the world to open up its arms and allow me to slip in. Asking it to Cradle Me like a Child. Teach me to Walk. After Crawling. Teach me to Run.  After Walking. Teach Me to Conjure Up Dreams only to set them free, spinning wildly out into the night sky and hitching themselves to stars for other little girls like her to pluck and wish upon. A Long Line Of Little Ones. Plucking, Dreaming & Wishing. Connected by the Constellations. Perhaps We are Already Connected in the Crook of Cassiopeia’s Crown. Who knows.

Regardless, tell her that I eventually got tired of asking. That it stopped being worth it. That all the ideas of Perfection & Happiness & Popularity & Security turned out to be not so true. She might not listen but tell her anyway. Remember to mention that having ten thousand friends can still make a girl terribly lonely. Tell her that winning the hearts of too many boys won’t guarantee a safe resting spot for her own heart. There is a good chance she will just turn away, go on continuing to struggle with the zipper of that dreadful dress-up costume called “insecurity.” I did that once.

Tell her to stop asking for love, requesting it timidly as if it were a slice of pizza or a side salad. Tell her to stop showing up ready to barter, ready to list off a resume of reasons as to why a person should love her, Pay Attention to Her, or Spend Time with Her. Show her what a marvel she is, instill that in her for me. It’s a very big wish, I know, but could you do that?

Maybe then she will seek out the ones who never needed a reason to love her in the first place. They will love her for every reason. They will love her for no reason at all.

Maybe then she will begin to find the ones who begin at the very beginning, the ones who can hardly wait for Tomorrow and the prospect to begin Loving her All Over Again. They are out there, everywhere, but she won’t ever find them if she never stops looking to gain the Things That will Never Make Her Happy. She needs to know that it is ok to put down all that fills her arms. She can place some baggage down to rest. She has better to pick up. Better to pick up.

Tell her that it is perfectly fine to feel like a Little Drummer Boy in this world. To feel like she has no gifts to bring to anyone, no music to add to an already Loud Soundtrack. To feel small and meek. Tell her to admit to her smallness and then Listen. Admit to her meekness and then Listen. Stay quiet and listen, not for sleigh bells or reindeer hooves, but for a little voice inside of her. One that Sings Sweetly: You are o.k. You are brilliant. You are beautiful. You are right where you need to be. Now dance, Child. Dance.

Remind her that she serves the world perfectly as herself and no one else. There are days where it is tempting to imitate, to be someone else, but if she is lucky there will be a day where the falsity falls away. And she can do no more. Do no more than be herself. And she will smile for that blessing.

I realize I am crazy to even be writing this, to think that you are a regular visitor to, but Santa, I don’t need a wish this Christmas. I don’t need much of anything. But she does. And because of her I am stitching together fibers of childhood left inside of me to believe for just a moment that you are real, and that you really do reply to a World that Labors You with Letters & Wishes All Year Long. I figured you and I might have a thing or two in common. You read the letters and requests of this world, of kids from ages one to ninety-two, and I am merely a Little Dreamer Seeking to Deliver a message to someone else. A message that she is good enough. That she always has been. She has enough. She does enough. She is enough.

You will know her when you find her, of this I am sure. And when you reach into your big velvet bag, full of twelve months’ worth of wishes,  and you go to give her something to rest her head upon at night, please let it be my wish. Let it Be My Wish.


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Hi, I'm Hannah

I love writing about all things faith, mental health, discipline + and motherhood. Let's be penpals!


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