White Horse Santa Jim

Day: December 24, 2025

  • What Santa Thinks of the Yule Trolls

    What Santa Thinks of the Yule Trolls

    I have been traveling winter roads for a very long time, long enough to know that not every place welcomes the season in the same way. Some winters are loud, while others are quiet. Some people lean into rules and warnings, while others lean into warmth and watching.

    I first noticed the Yule Troll family the way one notices neighbors across a snowy field. Not because they announced themselves, but because their lights stayed on late and the house always felt alive. Laughter carried through the dark, footsteps crossed the floor, a chair scraped, and a door opened and closed again.

    They stay busy in a way that feels familiar, and like most people, they are good at heart even when they make a mess of things.

    Grýla watches the season carefully, and she keeps an eye on children as well, not to scare them, but to understand them. She notices how rules get tested, how someone goes a little too far, and how learning happens when it is time to stop.

    Leppalúði pays attention to what breaks after the noise has passed, whether it is a hinge, a handle, or a temper. He fixes what needs fixing and stays close while the day settles again, letting the lesson take its time instead of pushing it along.

    The Yule Lads do what children everywhere do. They push boundaries, peek where they should not, and reach for whatever smells good or sounds interesting. They make a mess of things, then pause to see what has changed because of it. If you have ever tried something simply to see what would happen, then you already understand the Yule Lads.

    What interests me most is what does not happen.

    No one chases them or threatens them, and no one warns that winter will turn against them if they get it wrong. Instead, the world around them adjusts. Doors close a little more carefully, food moves farther back, and shoes appear in windows. Some mornings bring a gift. Other mornings bring a potato.

    The message stays quiet, but it remains clear. You are part of this season. Your choices matter. You are still welcome here.

    That feels familiar to me.

    My own work has always focused less on watching for mistakes and more on noticing effort. Children learn best when they are allowed to take part, when they feel trusted enough to try, and when the season invites them in rather than standing over them.

    Winter lasts a long time in Iceland, and darkness lingers. That makes care important. Stories need to hold people together, not press them apart. They should feel like a fire you can sit near, not a door that closes.

    The Yule Trolls seem to understand this, which is why their mischief stays close to the hearth and their corrections stay close to home. No one gets sent away.

    These stories did not soften by accident. People chose that path.

    They grew the way families grow, by listening, by choosing what to carry forward, and by deciding that fear was not necessary to keep a tradition alive.

    When I watch Icelandic children place their shoes in the window, I do not see obedience. I see anticipation, curiosity, and trust that morning will bring something worth finding.

    Children do not need to become someone else to belong to winter. They belong while they are learning.

    That feels like good winter work to me.

    So when people ask what I think of the Yule Trolls, I tell them this. They are doing what winter stories are meant to do. They keep the dark from feeling empty, remind children that they belong, and leave room for mistakes, for laughter, and for learning.

    They leave the door open.

    And in a season like this, that is more than enough.

    Next time, I would like to tell you why stories like these matter most when the nights are longest.

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends

  • How Icelandic Children Celebrate with the Yule Lads

    How Icelandic Children Celebrate with the Yule Lads

    By the time the Yule Lads have finished filling their family’s mountain home, something else has already been happening across Iceland.

    Shoes have been appearing in windows.

    Not all at once, but one here and another there. Small shoes and worn boots. Slippers that have clearly been cleaned more carefully than usual. They line windowsills in apartments, farmhouses, and towns along the coast, waiting quietly through the night.

    The children check them each morning. Some mornings bring a small gift. Potatoes appear on other mornings. Both things make those children laugh, and a potato never feels like a punishment. It’s not a warning, but a piece of the game itself. A shared understanding that the Yule Lads are watching, noticing, and still learning alongside the children who wait for them.

    I have watched children explain this to one another many times. They speak with ease and excitement. They sound proud, as if they are taking part in something important.

    In Iceland today, the Yule Lads are not used to frighten children into behaving. They are an invitation into the season. Their stories are told in classrooms, shared in drawings, acted out in winter plays, and laughed over at kitchen tables. Children know their names. They know their habits. They recognize themselves in them, especially when they would rather grab than wait, or peek instead of ask.

    What strikes me most is how comfortably these stories live in everyday life. Children talk about which Yule Lad arrived last night the same way they talk about snowfall or daylight returning. It is part of the rhythm of December. Parents listen without correcting too much. Teachers smile and let the conversations wander. Nobody rushes to explain the lesson, because the story already knows how to do its work.

    The Yule Lads are mischievous, but they are not cruel. They are curious, but they are not careless. They test boundaries, and then they learn what happens when a house grows full and people notice one another more closely. Icelandic children understand this instinctively. They do not need the stories spelled out. They live them.

    I have seen children draw the Yule Lads with crooked hats and long noses, laughing as they argue about which brother would be the loudest or the hungriest. I have heard them debate which Yule Lad they would rather meet first. These are not fearful conversations. They are affectionate ones.

    What the children seem to know, and what the adults quietly protect, is that winter already carries enough darkness. Stories do not need to add more. Instead, they add warmth. They add recognition. They add a sense that everyone is learning together, even the ones who sometimes make a mess of things.

    That is what I admire most about how families in Iceland tell these stories now.

    The Yule Lads still arrive one by one. Shoes still wait in windows. Potatoes still appear now and then. But the heart of the tradition has shifted toward kindness, humor, and shared anticipation. The season becomes something children take part in, not something that happens to them.

    From where I stand, that feels wise, and it feels familiar in a way I recognize right away.

    When I listen to Icelandic children talk about the Yule Lads, I hear something familiar from my own work in winter. People believe that sharing wonder works best. That mischief is part of learning. And that the most important thing a holiday figure can do is help families gather closer, not pull them apart.

    In the next post, I will speak more directly about that recognition, and about my own thoughts on this lively troll family who has learned how to walk gently alongside children in the darkest weeks of the year.

    I have a great deal of affection for them.

    And I think you will understand why.

    More from Iceland’s Christmas Legends