I’m not much of a
shopper, so today as I ran a few errands I did my best to avoid the crowds. But
as I stopped to grab a bite to eat I heard a “discussion” of a mother and child
over a candy cane – the mom wanted the candy cane until after dinner, and the
child pleadingly explained, “But SANTA gave me this Candy Cane!”
That’s when I realized
that I haven’t seen a Santa Claus yet this year. I’ve avoided the malls,
refused to do Black Friday at all, and ditched-out at the end of the Ward
Christmas Party last night to go to the David Lanz concert. So, so far, no Santa.
Now, don’t get me wrong,
I’m much more into the Christ-centered Christmas than Santa and Rudolph. And I
started a bit of Christmas decorating today, but although the tree is up it is
starkly bare. The Nativity, because it’s ceramic and delicate is still in the
Storage Room – and is usually one of the last pieces that I do (so it doesn’t
get bumped). But this year I’m struggling a bit with getting excited about
Christmas, and I wonder how much of that is because I haven’t done some of the
standard Christmassy-type things – including seeing Santa.
Not that I plan to go sit
on his lap, and heaven knows I don’t need another candy cane – but there a
special association between Santa and Christmas for me. Maybe not some “creepy
fat guy with poor fashion choices breaking-and-entering” as my vision of Santa
– but certainly a kindly gentle person that gives selflessly and without
judgment, now that’s the type of Christmas Tradition that I can get behind.
So this weekend as I
finish decorating at my house, you’ll see a few Santa’s placed around – maybe
even near the Nativity. Because as today’s story demonstrates, Santa and Christ
can both be examples of how we should live our lives.
A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE -- anonymous
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 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, and 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 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
helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked
it in her Bible) 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 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 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.
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 coat tag tucked inside it of $19.95.
