Kleeschensdag arrives quietly every year, long before the rush of Christmas. People who don’t know the tradition often think it’s another version of Santa Claus, but it isn’t. St. Nicholas has nothing to do with Santa. He is older, gentler, more rooted in our history. He was a real bishop, the patron of children, which is why he wears a mitre and carries a staff. He doesn’t fly across the sky or land on rooftops. He comes with a donkey that helps him carry his gifts, and he is rarely alone. In Luxembourg, Houseker walks beside him… the darker figure from old stories, the strict counterweight in the tale.
Santa Claus may be larger and louder, but St. Nic holds his own soft corner of early December. For children, that difference is everything.
Kleeschensdag is the night of plates laid out on the table. It is songs sung together… the ones they learned at school and the ones we remember from when we were small. It is the quiet belief that someone kind might visit in the night and leave a small surprise.
And this is exactly why the tradition matters. Not because we want to lie, but because we want to protect a little wonder for as long as it naturally lasts. Children find the truth slowly, gently. And when they do, the story doesn’t die. It simply becomes theirs in a new way.
In my house, St. Nic still comes every year. My children are 15, 17, and 20. They know the truth, of course. But the magic is still there when they walk into the living room on the morning of the 6th and find their plate of sweets waiting. We still put our plates out the night before, each in its place. We still sing… usually. Tonight was the first time in over fifteen years that we didn’t. And it reminded me how quietly moments end. How a tradition can happen for the last time without us noticing. (In some households boots or shoes are polished and put next to the doors and filled with sweets – it depends where you are from, I guess.)
Last year, my youngest daughter looked at me and asked how we do it. How we manage to fill the plates without them hearing or seeing anything. I simply said, “It’s not us. It’s St. Nic.” She knew I was teasing… but she also didn’t know the real answer. And that, too, is a kind of magic. That even at this age, we can still surprise them. That they still wonder how we do it.
Maybe this is what Kleeschensdag really teaches us.
To keep these small rituals alive while we can.
To let belief stay as long as it wants to.
And to hold on to the warmth we create together, even as the years keep moving us forward.
Everything happens for a first and a last time.
*sigh* I wonder if I was a good girl this year and St.Nic will come and fill my plate tonight. I will have to sleep early and see for myself in the morning.
reflections of an unquiet mind 