And now that James was 9 years old, he began to put the clues together. He knew they meant something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. So he did what any good 13-year-old boy would do. He grabbed a notepad, three sharpened pencils, two baseball caps, a magnifying glass, and a plastic pipe that blew bubbles instead of tobacco smoke.

Pulling one cap down tight, he put the other on facing the opposite direction and took inventory of what he knew so far. At the top of the page, he wrote, “What It All Means” in a fast-and-furious 9-year-old scribble. Once he wrote down all he knew about the strange things that surrounded Christmas, he read and reread the list. It wasn’t coming to him, so he sprinted to the kitchen.

“Mom, I need some hot chocolate,” James said abruptly.

She looked dotingly at her growing son and smiled.

“I’d love to help, but I’m just a bit busy,” she said as she wiped flour from her hands. “Maybe when I’m done with dinner?”

“It’ll be too late,” James insisted. “I’ll get it myself.”

James filled up a mug shaped like Santa Claus’s face with water and put it in the microwave. Minutes later, James was sipping on a cup of lukewarm hot chocolate topped with marshmallows in the initial stages of melting.

Wearing a chocolate moustache, James got back to work. Santa suit…black boots…white beard…

“Sammy, it’s me, James. Yeah. The one next door. Who else would it be? Can you come over? Got something I need some help with. See you then.”

When Sammy reached for the door, it opened before he could knock.

“Thought you’d never get here,” James said.

“It took like 12 seconds!”

“Whatever,” James replied. “Follow me.”

Inside the confines of James’s room lay the tools of the detective trade. At the center, on his bed covered with a Star Wars blanket, rested the list of clues James was trying to make sense of.

“So let me get this right,” Sammy said. “You think there’s some great mystery you’re trying to solve, but really it’s just a bunch of random events that have happened during Christmas time every year?” Sammy looked skeptical. “Sounds like you’re trying to make something out of nothing.”

James looked up angry.

“You gonna help me with this or just be a smarty pants?”

“Okay, okay. Let’s figure it out.”

For the next 45 minutes, the two hunkered down over their notes, pouring their entire beings into their studies. When dinnertime rolled around, the two broke for 15 minutes each, explaining to their parents that something urgent had to be tended to and besides, it was Christmas break, and all boys stay out late on Christmas break—especially boys who are 9 years old.

Another 15 minutes of discussion, a minute or two of silence. One more hour of debate, going over the facts, scribbling down new thoughts and connections. And then more silence. A minute passed and then another and another.

“James?”

Sammy looked at his friend in disbelief, his eyes growing wide.

“James?” he repeated.

“Yeah, I heard you, Sammy. I’m just…thinking…”

“James? Me, too. And I think…”

James Godfrey, age 9 and counting, had a knowing look on his face. The innocence of childhood was swept away in an instant. In its place, the wisdom of the ages.

“It’s my dad,” James started. “It’s him. He’s…he’s…”

“Santa Claus.”

The name fell silently from Sammy’s lips, as James mouthed the words in unison. At only 9 years of age, James had unraveled one of the greatest mysteries of all time. He’d been living with Santa Claus his entire life, but he didn’t call him Santa. He called him Dad.

As the knowledge sunk in, James found he wasn’t too surprised. After all, his dad was already his hero, a man who brought a smile to his face with his mere presence. Why couldn’t he don a Santa suit once a year and make every child in every corner of the world just as happy with his presents?