There Is No Santa Claus?!

(The following story is not my creation.  I just came across it and had to share it because it was so sweet and fitting at this Christmas season.  The author is unknown)

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I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on Christmas Eve to visit her.  My big sister had just 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 you 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 its 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 at recess during the cold weather.  

His mother always wrote a note telling the teacher that he had a bad cough, but we kids knew Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, he didn't have a good 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, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat.

I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma clipped the little tag off the coat, and tucked it in her bible.  She helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it.

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 silently 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 door 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.

I still remember his confusion when he found no one standing there, how he scanned back and forth before his eyes settled on the gift.  

He tentatively picked it up and read the tag.  It was then that his eyes lit up and a smile spread clear across his face.  He hugged the present to his chest and stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.

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.

Bobby proudly wore that coat to school the following Monday.  

Every time he slipped his arms into the sleeves he would break into a wide smile and I would bite my lip to hide my matching grin.  I don’t know who got more joy from that gift – Bobby or me.

I still have Grandma’s Bible, with the coat tag carefully tucked inside:

$19.95.

*May you always have love to share, health to spare and friends that care.

And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!*

*Give back - what you can, where you can, whenever you can.*