I'm sure that most stories like this one aren't
true... never happened! Even knowing that, I still get a warm and
fuzzy feeling when I read them. I've decided that the authenticity
of a story is not what is important. What happens after reading the
story is
most important- the ensuing thought process.
For most the thoughts and emotions will be positive, but maybe not for
some. I know that a common comment to the ills in the world is "You
can't help everyone in need." Hey, what's wrong with helping just
one? Usually helping one actually benefits at least two, the helpee
and the helper. Think about that. So it stories like
this one that encourages me and confirms my belief that... it is OK to
believe.
GRANDMA KNOWS
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma.
I was just a kid.
I remember tearing across town on my bike to
visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa
Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had
been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight
with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the
truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her
"world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because
Grandma said so. It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm.
Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No Santa Claus?" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it.
That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain
mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked.
I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store,
the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything.
As we walked through it's doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That
was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy
something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car."
Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often
gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all
by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling
to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood
there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy,
and who on earth to buy it for.
I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my
friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.
I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker.
He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me
in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew
that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother
always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we
kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he had no coat.
I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy
Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood
to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?"
the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's
for Bobby."
The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't
get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat
in Christmas paper and ribbons and write, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus"
on it (a little tag had fallen out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in
her Bible). Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy.
Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that
I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's
house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front
walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus,"
she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front
door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew
back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.
Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness
for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.
Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering,
beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized
that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they
were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.
I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked
inside: $19.95. |