The Keepers of Christmas
Inside the Wondrous Work of Valley Santas
Writer Joseph J. Airdo
The baby shouldn’t have been comfortable. He was only months old, surrounded by strangers at the Phoenix Zoo’s ZooLights display, the evening air alive with voices and laughter. His mother had warned that he probably wouldn’t want anything to do with Santa Claus. But the moment she placed him in those arms, the child melted into the white fur and closed his eyes, burrowing deeper when she tried to take him back. Something in that embrace — the warmth, the gentleness, the inexplicable rightness of it — told him he was exactly where he belonged.
Andy McKee felt tears spring to his eyes. In that instant, he understood what he had been called to do.
“The smiles on the kids’ faces when they see Santa truly warm your heart,” McKee says. “Seeing their joy and knowing that, for some of these children, this might be all they get for Christmas, makes the experience even more meaningful.”
McKee didn’t seek out this calling. It found him after he married into what he calls “the Santa family” — a community devoted to keeping Christmas alive in the hearts of Valley children. His in-laws had portrayed elves for years, and through them he met veteran Santas who would become his mentors. At first, he wasn’t sure it was for him. Then came Helping Hands for Freedom, the Phoenix Zoo’s annual Christmas celebration for families of fallen, wounded or deployed veterans.
“That experience showed me what it really meant to bring joy to others,” he says.
Brian Hendrickson’s awakening came differently, but with equal clarity. In 2005, he and his wife Tracey dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus for a toy run through Yuma, riding their Harley-Davidson to collect gifts for children in need.
Hendrickson had decorated his motorcycle with garland and miniature wrapped presents along the windshield. It was their first granddaughter’s first Christmas, and as he rode through town — drivers honking, children jumping and waving from sidewalks — Hendrickson felt something shift. The joy wasn’t just in the children watching; it was in being part of something that transcended the ordinary rhythms of life.
Years later, after retiring from the California Highway Patrol, he found himself with time and a naturally white beard. When a friend suggested he might make a wonderful Santa Claus, Hendrickson realized the call had been there all along, waiting for him to answer.
“The reason I keep returning is probably similar to the generosity and kindness of the original St. Nicholas,” Hendrickson says. “I truly feel uplifted and happy when I can bring a moment of kindness to someone’s busy day. It usually results in a smile, a giggle, and more often than not, a genuine hug or a meaningful handshake.”
Both men are part of a dedicated community serving families throughout the Valley, carrying forward a tradition that stretches back not just decades but centuries — to St. Nicholas himself, the fourth century bishop whose legendary generosity became the foundation for the figure children around the world wait for each December.
The work requires more than most people imagine. There are monthly gatherings where those who’ve answered this calling share wisdom and stories. There’s the careful attention to every detail — the shine of boots, the ring of bells, the props that help parents keep the magic alive long after the visit ends. There’s the profound responsibility of holding children’s deepest wishes, their most earnest hopes.
The greeting matters. “There you are! I’ve been waiting all night to see you” — this is how McKee welcomes each child, borrowed from mentors who understood that every child should feel singular, seen, chosen. The voice must stay warm, like a loving grandfather, never rushed. And a child should never be pressured. “Would you like to come sit with Santa so Mommy and Daddy can get a picture?” McKee asks gently, letting them decide.
Hendrickson has learned that presence speaks as loudly as words. A knowing glance, a gentle gesture, the patience to truly listen — these create the photographs families will treasure, the moments that become family lore.
“We all strive for that million-dollar photo that captures emotions like love, imagination, shyness, laughter or pure goofiness,” Hendrickson explains.
The magic they help create manifests in moments that defy explanation. At ZooLights, a teenager with autism entered Hendrickson’s area, reserved and uncertain. With his brother’s encouragement, the young man eventually presented his handwritten Christmas wish list. By the end of their conversation, the transformation was visible — the teenager’s face lit with happiness. Later, his father returned, tears in his eyes.
“He gave me a giant bear hug, thanked me again, and told me I was the best Santa he had ever met,” Hendrickson recalls.
Last December at the Arizona Diamondbacks’ Winter Classic, an annual event where the team turns Chase Field into a winter wonderland for more than 500 students from Title I schools, Hendrickson experienced a moment that was similarly unforgettable. After the event, the team’s CEO approached him, moved by what he’d just seen: a 9-year-old girl dancing on the field behind second base, waving her photograph in the air. She’d just met Santa Claus for the very first time in her life.
“It was a truly humbling experience for me,” Hendrickson says.
The calling also brings them face-to-face with the weight of the world children carry. At Helping Hands for Freedom, McKee asked a little girl what she wanted for Christmas. “A new house,” she replied. He thought she meant a dollhouse, starting to ask the usual questions, until her brother gently corrected him: “No, Santa — a real house.”
“All I could say in that moment was, ‘Santa will see what he can do,’” McKee recalls. “I followed up by asking what else they’d like, and she said a scooter while her brother asked for a baseball and glove. Helping Hands for Freedom was able to provide those gifts. But as Santa, you have to keep being jolly — even when, deep down, your heart is breaking for these little ones.”
Hendrickson once met a 12-year-old girl at a church event the night after she’d lost her mother. Her wish was achingly simple: to give her mom one last kiss, a hug, and tell her she loved her.
He spoke to her with gentle honesty. Her mother would always be with her, forever in her heart. He asked if she talked to her dolls while playing. When she nodded, he offered her a way to stay connected — to speak to her mother as if she were right there beside her, the way she does when she plays.
“That was a moment I’ll never forget,” Hendrickson says quietly.
When perceptive children ask the inevitable question — “Are you the real Santa?” — both men have learned to answer with truth that deepens rather than diminishes wonder. McKee engages them playfully: “Can you see me? Is my beard real? Are we sitting here having a conversation?” The questions invite them to trust what their hearts already know.
For the especially curious, Hendrickson offers something deeper: “I tell them, sincerely, that I am a proud descendant of the original St. Nicholas, and I honor my ancestor by carrying on his tradition of generosity and kindness.”
He’s also learned to help skeptics of any age understand what Santa Claus truly represents. He tells them a story about a father explaining to his son that Santa isn’t just a person but an idea — the spirit of giving for the joy of giving itself, without expecting thanks or recognition. When you help someone anonymously, when you bring joy to a stranger, when you act with pure generosity, you’re embodying that same spirit.
“Now that you know, you’re part of it,” the father tells his son in Hendrickson’s story. “You have to be Santa Claus too.”
For families wanting to nurture that spirit at home, both men offer wisdom gleaned from years of watching what kindles lasting magic. McKee emphasizes the power of simple rituals: decorating together as a family, watching beloved Christmas movies with hot cocoa, cutting paper snowflakes.
Hendrickson concurs, suggesting additional traditions that bring families together: wearing matching pajamas for photographs, making a family time capsule filled with memories from the year, or his favorite — a ritual involving ribbons and wishes. During December, each family member ties a colored ribbon bow on the Christmas tree while making a wish of goodwill for someone going through difficulty. On Christmas morning, they untie the bows together, sending those wishes out into the world.
The Arizona desert presents its own unique relationship with Christmas tradition. Children sometimes wonder how Santa manages without snow, without chimneys. McKee has an answer ready: “I always tell kids this is where I can defrost a little after traveling through the cold night. Plus, Rudolph and the other reindeer get to graze on ground that isn’t frozen.”
In 2023, Hendrickson arrived at a family’s first Santa celebration to find the energy subdued. Several families had canceled, and the host seemed discouraged. Hendrickson looked at him and asked a simple question: “Do you believe?”
When the man seemed puzzled, he asked again: “Do you believe in Christmas?”
The host said yes.
“Then let’s get in there and have a great family event.”
Inside, Hendrickson tuned his ukulele and led everyone in singing “Jingle Bells.” He shared Christmas trivia, spent time with three delighted toddlers and watched the evening transform.
“The owner followed me out, thanking me for helping save the event — and, with a smile, he said, ‘I believe,’” Hendrickson notes.
That transformation — from doubt to belief, from routine to wonder — is what McKee and Hendrickson have devoted themselves to fostering. As such, Hendrickson gently warns against using the season as a tool for behavior management.
“The spirit of Christmas should never be used to intimidate a child,” he says. “That’s not the true meaning of the season.”
For example, a 10-year-old boy once asked Hendrickson a question weighted with worry: “Am I on the naughty list?” Hendrickson could see the child wasn’t happy with himself, that he’d already passed judgment.
“I didn’t ask why he felt that way,” Hendrickson says. “Instead, I told him that everyone has bad days, but it’s up to each of us to do and be better than we were yesterday. I asked if he could do that going forward.”
The boy nodded, gave him a hug and rejoined his group. Before Hendrickson left, the child’s mother approached to thank him for reinforcing exactly what she’d been trying to tell her son.
This is the work: holding space for children’s hopes and fears, offering gentle wisdom, creating moments where families connect with something larger than the distractions and pressures of modern life. It’s about preserving not just a tradition, but the capacity for wonder itself.
“Christmas can be a stressful time, but even a little kindness can go a long way in making the season brighter for everyone,” McKee says.
Hendrickson’s message echoes the same truth.
“Take a moment to breathe, bow your head, and step back from the holiday hustle and bustle,” he advises. “Use this time to continue cherished family traditions, create new ones, reach out to an old friend you haven’t seen in a while, or speak a kind word to someone who might need it.”
In the end, what these keepers of Christmas offer the North Valley isn’t just a photo opportunity or a seasonal entertainment. They offer something more essential: a reminder that wonder still exists, that generosity creates its own kind of magic, that the spirit of Christmas lives not in a single figure but in every act of kindness we extend to one another.
When a child asks if Santa is real, when they search those eyes for truth, what they’re really asking is whether goodness exists, whether magic is possible, whether someone sees them and cares about their deepest wishes. And in the embrace of these men who’ve devoted themselves to answering that question with their whole hearts, children find the answer they need.
That’s the magic McKee, Hendrickson and countless others keep alive through presence, patience, and an unwavering commitment to honoring every child’s belief in wonder. As the season approaches each year, these men prepare once again to answer their calling. They do it for the baby who burrows into the fur. For the teenager who finally smiles. For the girl experiencing her first Christmas magic. For the boy who needs to know tomorrow can be better than today.
They do it because somewhere, centuries ago, a generous bishop began a tradition of secret kindness that refused to die. Because that tradition needs keepers. Because children need wonder. Because all of us, no matter our age, need to believe that goodness is real, that generosity matters, that magic — the truest kind — still exists in the world.