I used to believe that the greatest risk to a good Christmas was the possibility of Santa being shot down by anti-aircraft fire over some godless communist country.
In a dank Moscow cell, Santa would be tortured into revealing the secret location of his workshop. The elves would be rounded up and shot, and the reindeer sent to labor camps.
That’s what the Old Man told me every Christmas Eve, when I wouldn’t stop asking him where Santa’s sleigh might be at any given moment.
Later, I came to understand that Christmas was about Jesus, who brought the best presents of all.