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Sent to me by a dear friend. It's so sweet...

The meaning of Santa Claus

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 bel ieve 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 th ought 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 for recess during the winter. His
mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough,
but all us kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, and he
didn't have a 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," 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 (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in
her Bible) 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 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 stoo d 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.

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He who has no Christmas in his heart will never find Christmas under
a tree.
God Bless.

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