The rain pelts us sideways as we stand under a flimsy Ikea umbrella, not meant to withstand North-Pole-in-the-Piedmont winds — or a light breeze, for that matter. I huddle in closely to Chris as our youngest, 5-year-old Wilder, nestles against our legs. Wilder’s rosy cheeks match his cherry-red Nikes and the Santa-suits on his gray fleece pajama pants, which are sopping wet. My own red-and-white, buffalo-check flannel bottoms are also drenched. Chris is high and dry above the waist, thanks to a red raincoat, but he clearly didn’t embrace the Polar Express spirit as Wilder and I did by donning holiday sleepwear. Instead, he wears the fabric of our city — denim. Never a great choice in a rainstorm, but when we’d left the house an hour ago, only a soft drizzle was falling.

A couple of months earlier when I’d booked the Polar Express train ride at the N.C. Transportation Museum in Spencer, it had seemed like a great idea. With two jaded teenagers in the house who snicker at Santa, it’s getting harder and harder for me to conjure up holiday magic each year, even for the little one. In the days leading up to our North Pole excursion, we’d repeatedly read Chris Van Allsburg’s book. Now, “Seeing is believing” keeps echoing in my mind, reminding me why I am here. But standing amid strangers in the mud and muck as we await the arrival of our train, what I’m seeing is anything but magical. And then I remember the rest of the passage: “Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

“Choooo-choooooo . . . ” the train pulls up to our platform, disrupting my thoughts. The shivering crowd of families, matching pajama sets clinging damply to their bodies, erupts into cheers. Wilder’s face, along with those of the other young children surrounding us, finally begins to glow with excitement. Meanwhile, parents, grandparents and adults alike are thinking how magical a warm and dry passenger car is going to be.

“All aboard!” A behatted conductor yells as a boy dressed in jammies joins him on the platform to act out the late-night boarding scene from the book. Meanwhile the adults in the crowd of cold, wet excursionists await entrance. I hear mutters of what I’m thinking: “Just let us on the train!”

Finally, the gates open. A collective sigh of relief echoes through the cabin as we all find our seats. Along each side of the interior, garlands of popcorn and beads, red mug ornaments and greenery glisten against strings of lights. On each seat sits a golden ticket. Wide-eyed, Wilder holds his up: “A real golden ticket!”

Soon, an attendant asks for our tickets. I reflexively pull my iPhone from my pocket to show our three Etix vouchers. Big, fat, nonbelieving adult mistake. Wilder slaps his forehead. “Mom, not those!” The smiling agent rescues me and repeats: “May I see your tickets,” she says, enunciating that last word as it clicks into place. Wilder, to the rescue, proudly hands it to her.

She goes to town with a paper punch, handing our tickets back, each one featuring the letter “B” cut into it. I lean into Wilder and whisper, “For ‘believe.’” He peers at me through the holes of his ticket, his blue eyes sparkling with wonder.

The train roars to life, chug-chugging along the track. Through its speakers, “Hot Chocolate” begins to sound — Hot! Hot! Ooh, we got it! — as the train’s chefs and attendants perform a lively dance in the aisle, dispensing chunky, chocolate-chip cookies and cups of steaming hot cocoa.

While Wilder nibbles, breaking off bits with the biggest hunks of chocolate first, the gentle voice of a grandfatherly narrator begins reading the book that inspired this ride. A few attendants, holding the largest copies I’ve ever seen, walk up and down the aisle so that everyone can see the illustrations. Though he’s seen the pages a million times, Wilder cranes his neck for a good look, savoring every moment of his personal Polar Express ride.

As the train eases to a crawl into “The North Pole,” Wilder plasters his face to the window. I stop myself from ruining the magic by scolding him for fingerprints on the glass. His gaze is  locked on an oversized Santa, whose downy beard billows in the wind. And then Santa raises his hand into the air. In it, a sleigh bell. “The first gift of Christmas!” he proclaims before handing it to the pajamaed boy we saw earlier on the platform.

With a basket full of sleigh bells, Santa boards our train car and makes his way down the aisle, handing one to every passenger as the jingling slowly sweeps from front of the car to the rear. Seated in the very back, Wilder’s anticipation mirrors the chiming crescendo. With a white-gloved hand, Santa gently places the very last sleigh bell in my little boy’s clammy palm with a “Merry Christmas.” Words escape Wilder, who, for the next minute, just stares in wonder at the treasure in his grasp.

“Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe,” the book concludes. And as our ride ends and we prepare to face the bitter rain, I put my bell in my pocket and take Wilder’s hand in mine. While I came here on a mission to give Wilder something to believe in, I am leaving with more than that. I’m carrying the knowledge that Santa’s spirit and magic are alive and well in this world. Dare I say, I believe.