There was once a man who didn't believe in God, and he didn't hesitate to let others know how he felt about religion and religious holidays, like Christmas. His wife, however, did believe, and she raised their children to also have faith in God and Jesus, despite his disparaging comments.
One snowy Christmas Eve, his wife was taking their children to a Christmas Eve service in the farm community in which they lived. She asked him to come, but he refused.
"That story is nonsense!" he said. "Why would God lower Himself to come to Earth as a man? That's ridiculous!"
So she and the children left, and he stayed home.
A while later, the winds grew stronger and the snow turned into a blizzard. As the man looked out the window, all he saw was a blinding snowstorm. He sat down to relax before the fire for the evening.
Then he heard a loud thump. Something had hit the window. Then another thump. He looked out, but couldn't see more than a few feet. When the snow let up a little, he ventured outside to see what could have been beating on his window. In the field near his house he saw a flock of wild geese.
Apparently they had been flying south for the winter when they got caught in the snowstorm and couldn't go on. They were lost and stranded on his farm, with no food or shelter. They just flapped their wings and flew around the field in low circles, blindly and aimlessly. A couple of them had flown into his window, it seemed.
The man felt sorry for the geese and wanted to help them. The barn would be a great place for them to stay, he thought. It's warm and safe; surely they could spend the night and wait out the storm. So he walked over to the barn and opened the doors wide, then watched and waited, hoping they would notice the open barn and go inside. But the geese just fluttered around aimlessly and didn't seem to notice the barn or realize what it could mean for them.
The man tried to get their attention, but that just seemed to scare them and they moved further away.
He went into the house and came with some bread, broke it up, and made a breadcrumb trail leading to the barn. They still didn't catch on.
Now he was getting frustrated. He got behind them and tried to shoo them toward the barn, but they only got more scared and scattered in every direction except toward the barn. Nothing he did could get them to go into the barn where they would be warm and safe. Why don't they follow me?!" he exclaimed. "Can't they see this is the only place where they can survive the storm?"
He thought for a moment and realized that they just wouldn't follow a human. "If only I were a goose, then I could save them," he said out loud.
Then he had an idea. He went into barn, got one of his own geese, and carried it in his arms as he circled around behind the flock of wild geese. He then released it. His goose flew through the flock and straight into the barn--and one by one the other geese followed it to safety.
He stood silently for a moment as the words he had spoken a few minutes earlier replayed in his mind: "If only I were a goose, then I could save them!" Then he thought about what he had said to his wife earlier. "Why would God want to be like us? That's ridiculous!"
Suddenly it all made sense. That is what God had done. We were like the geese--blind, lost, perishing. God had His Son become like us so He could show us the way and save us. That was the meaning of Christmas, he realized.
As the winds and blinding snow died down, his soul became quiet and pondered this wonderful thought. Suddenly he understood what Christmas was all about, why Christ had come.
Years of doubt and disbelief vanished like the passing storm. He fell to his knees in the snow, and prayed his first prayer: "Thank You, God, for coming in human form to get me out of the storm!"
In September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just 75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone.
The boys ranged from three months to seven years; their sister was two. Their Dad had never been much more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard his tires crunch on the gravel driveway they would scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage to leave $15 a week to buy groceries.
Now that he had decided to leave, there would be no more beatings, but no food either. If there was a welfare system in effect in southern Indiana at that time, I certainly knew nothing about it.
I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand new and then put on my best homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old 51 Chevy and drove off to find a job.
The seven of us went to every factory, store and restaurant in our small town. No luck. The kids stayed, crammed into the car and tried to be quiet while I tried to convince whomever would listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still no luck. The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old Root Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truck stop. It was called The Big Wheel. An old lady named Granny owned the place and she peeked out of the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65 cents an hour and I could start that night. I raced home and called the teenager down the street that baby-sat for people. I bargained with her to come and sleep on my sofa for a dollar a night. She could arrive with her pajamas on and the kids would already be asleep. This seemed like a good arrangement to her, so we made a deal.
That night when the little ones and I knelt to say our prayers we all thanked God for finding Mommy a job.
And so I started at The Big Wheel. When I got home in the mornings I woke the baby-sitter up and sent her home with one dollar of my tip money -- fully half of what I averaged every night.
As the weeks went by, heating bills added another strain to my meager wage. The tires on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and began to leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every morning before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself to the car to go home and found four tires in the back seat. New tires! There was no note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up residence in Indiana? I wondered. I made a deal with the owner of the local service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tires, I would clean up his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his floor than it did for him to do the tires.
I was now working six nights instead of five and it still wasn't enough. Christmas was coming and I knew there would be no money for toys for the kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing patches on top of patches on the boys pants and soon they would be too far gone to repair.
On Christmas Eve the usual customers were drinking coffee in The Big Wheel. These were the truckers, Les, Frank, and Jim, and a state trooper named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion and were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get home before the sun came up.
When it was time for me to go home at seven o'clock on Christmas morning I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids wouldn't wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from the basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar tree by the side of the road down by the dump.) It was still dark and I couldn't see much, but there appeared to be some dark shadows in the car or was that just a trick of the night? Something certainly looked different, but it was hard to tell what. When I reached the car I peered warily into one of the side windows.
Then my jaw dropped in amazement. My old battered Chevy was filled full to the top with boxes of all shapes and sizes. I quickly opened the driver's side door, scrambled inside and kneeled in the front facing the back seat. Reaching back, I pulled off the lid of the top box. Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes 2-10! I looked inside another box: It was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of the other boxes: There were candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries. There was an enormous ham for baking, and canned vegetables and potatoes. There was pudding and Jell-O and cookies, pie filling and flour. There was a whole bag of laundry supplies and cleaning items. And there were five toy trucks and one beautiful little doll. As I drove back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most amazing Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I will never forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.
Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December. And they all hung out at The Big Wheel truck stop.
“If You’re Missing Baby Jesus” by Jean Gietzen.
About a week before Christmas the family bought a new nativity scene. When they unpacked it they found 2 figures of the Baby Jesus. "Someone must have packed this wrong," the mother said, counting out the figures. "We have one Joseph, one Mary, three wise men, three shepherds, two lambs, a donkey, a cow, an angel and two babies. Oh, dear! I suppose some set down at the store is missing a Baby Jesus because we have 2."
"You two run back down to the store and tell the manager that we have an extra Jesus. Tell him to put a sign on the remaining boxes saying that if a set is missing a Baby Jesus, call 7126. "Put on your warm coats, it's freezing cold out there."
The manager of the store copied down mother's message and the next time they were in the store they saw the cardboard sign that read, "If you're missing Baby Jesus, call 7126."
All week long they waited for someone to call. Surely, they thought, someone was missing that important figurine. Each time the phone rang mother would say, "I'll bet that's about Jesus," but it never was. Father tried to explain there are thousands of these scattered over the country and the figurine could be missing from a set in Florida or Texas or California. Those packing mistakes happen all the time. He suggested just put the extra Jesus back in the box and forget about it. "Put Baby Jesus back in the box! What a terrible thing to do said the children." "Surely someone will call," mother said. "We'll just keep the two of them together in the manger until someone calls."
When no call had come by 5:00 on Christmas Eve, mother insisted that father "just run down to the store" to see if there were any sets left. "You can see them right through the window, over on the counter," she said. "If they are all gone, I'll know someone is bound to call tonight." "Run down to the store?" father thundered. "It's 15 below zero out there!"
"Oh, Daddy, we'll go with you," Tommy and Mary began to put on their coats. Father gave a long sigh and headed for the front closet. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered.
Tommy and Mary ran ahead as father reluctantly walked out in the cold. Mary got to the store first and pressed her nose up to the store window. "They're all gone, Daddy," she shouted. "Every set must be sold."
"Hooray," Tommy said "The mystery will now be solved tonight!" Father heard the news still a half block away and immediately turned on his heel and headed back home. When they got back into the house they noticed that mother was gone and so was the extra Baby Jesus figurine. "Someone must have called and she went out to deliver the figurine," my father reasoned, pulling off his boots. "You kids get ready for bed while I wrap mother's present."
Then the phone rang. Father yelled "answer the phone and tell'em we found a home for Jesus." But it was mother calling with instructions for us to come to 205 Chestnut Street immediately, and bring three blankets, a box of cookies and some milk.
"Now what has she gotten us into?" my father groaned as we bundled up again. "205 Chestnut. Why that's across town. Wrap that milk up good in the blankets or it will turn to ice before we get there. Why can't we all just get on with Christmas? It's probably 20 below out there now. The wind is picking up. Of all the crazy things to do on a night like this."
When they got to the house at 205 Chestnut Street it was the darkest one on the block. Only one tiny light burned in the living room and, the moment we set foot on the porch steps, my mother opened the door and shouted, "They're here, Oh thank God you got here, Ray! You kids take those blankets into the living room and wrap up the little ones on the couch. I'll take the milk and cookies."
"Would you mind telling me what is going on, Ethel?" my father asked. "We have just walked through below zero weather with the wind in our faces all the way." "Never mind all that now," my mother interrupted. "There is no heat in this house and this young mother is so upset she doesn't know what to do. Her husband walked out on her and those poor little children will have a very bleak Christmas, so don't you complain. I told her you could fix that oil furnace in a jiffy.
My mother strode off to the kitchen to warm the milk while my brother and I wrapped up the five little children who were huddled together on the couch. The children's mother explained to my father that her husband had run off, taking bedding, clothing, and almost every piece of furniture, but she had been doing all right until the furnace broke down.
"I been doing washing and ironing for people and cleaning the five and dime," she said. "I saw your number every day there, on those boxes on the counter. "When the furnace went out, that number kept going through my mind, 7162 7162, that is what it said on the box." If a person is missing Jesus, they should call 7162 7162. That's how I knew you were good Christian people, willing to help folks. I figured that maybe you would help me, too. So stopped at the grocery store tonight and I called your miss's. I'm not missing Jesus, mister, because I sure love the Lord. But I am missing heat. I have no
money to fix that furnace.
"Okay, Okay!" said father. "You've come to the right place. Now lets see. You've got a little oil burner over there in the dining room. Shouldn't be too hard to fix. Probably just a clogged flue. I'll look it over, see what it needs."
Mother came into the living room carrying a plate of cookies and warm milk. As she set the cups down on the coffee table, I noticed the figure of Baby Jesus lying in the center of the table. It was the only sign of Christmas in the house. The children stared wide-eyed with wonder at the plate of cookies my mother set before them.
Father finally got the oil burner working but said you need more oil. I'll make a few calls tonight and get some oil. Yes, sir, you came to the right place, father grinned.
On the way home father did not complain about the cold weather and had barely set foot inside the door when he was on the phone.
Ed, hey, how are ya, Ed?" "Yes, Merry Christmas to you, too. Say Ed, we have kind of an unusual situation here I know you've got that pickup truck. Do you still have some oil in that barrel on your truck? You do?
By this time the rest of the family were pulling clothes out of their closets and toys off of their shelves. It was long after their bedtime when they were wrapping gifts. The pickup came. On it were chairs, three lamps, blankets and gifts. Even though it was 30 below, father let them ride along in the back of the truck.
No one ever did call about the missing figure in the nativity set, but as I grow older I realize that it wasn't a packing mistake at all. Jesus saves, that's what HE DOES.
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it-overspending...the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma -- the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.
As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.
On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season, and the true Christmas spirit this year and always.
"The Rifle"
Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their
means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those
who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from
him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from
receiving.
It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and
feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been
enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted so bad that year for
Christmas.
We did the chores early that night for some reason. I
just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. So after
supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the
fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling
sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read
Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up and went
outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I
didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.
Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and
there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said.
"Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight."
I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle
for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly
reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't
think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night
like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet
when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on
and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I
opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know
what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of
the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it
was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could
tell. We never hitched up the big sled unless we were going to haul a big
load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed
up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.
When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and
stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think
we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help
me."
The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted
to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do
would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.
When we had exchanged the sideboards Pa went into the
woodshed and came out with an armload of wood -- the wood I'd spent all
summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all fall sawing into blocks and
splitting. What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I
asked, "what are you doing?"
"You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked.
The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her
husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the
oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what?
"Yeah," I said. "Why?"
"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little
Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're
out of wood, Matt."
That was all he said and then he turned and went back into
the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him.
We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the
horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading,
then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of
bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When
he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a
smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the
little sack?" I asked.
"Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had
gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this
morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be
Christmas without a little candy."
We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in
silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much
by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of
what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to
saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat
and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so
why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of
this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us. It shouldn't have been our
concern.
We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and
unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour
and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice
said, "Who is it?"
"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in
for a bit?"
Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a
blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another
and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that
hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally
lit the lamp.
"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and
set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed
her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took
the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of
the children -- sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully.
She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes
and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted
to say something, but it wouldn't come out.
"We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said,
then he turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring enough in to last for
awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up."
I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in
the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and, much as I hate to admit
it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those
three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there
with tears running down her cheeks and so much gratitude in her heart that
she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy filled my soul
that I'd never known before. I had given at Christmas many times
before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we
were literally saving the lives of these people.
I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids
started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow
Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for
a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you,"
she said. "I know the Lord himself has sent you. The children and I have
been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."
In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the
tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms
before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably
true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I
started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and
me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.
Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I
was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get.
Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would
make sure he got the right sizes.
Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we
stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a
hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed
their pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.
At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The
Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner
tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man
can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll
be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones
around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I
was the youngest. My two older brothers and two older sisters were all
married and had moved away.
Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother
Miles. I don't have to say, "'May the Lord bless you,' I know for
certain that He will."
Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within
and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me
and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have
been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy
that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man
who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square.
Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could
get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that. But on
the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped
in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do. So, Son, I spent the money
for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."
I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood
very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Just then the rifle seemed
very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me
the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three
children. For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split
a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I
felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle
that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.
I remember my first
Christmas party 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.
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 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 though, when I
suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair,
and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's second grade class.
Bobbie 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 we kids knew that Bobbie
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 Bobbie 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
Bobbie." 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 Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it -- Grandma said that Santa always
insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie 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 Bobbie'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 Bobbie.
Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent
shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie 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.
