the year the present didn’t come…

This letter was in my local newspaper, The Charleston News and Courier. I loved this story because this Christmas was memorable to her because of what she DIDN’T get… I imagine it would not have made as much of an impression on her had she received exactly what she had asked for…

When I was about 6 or 7, I mailed my Christmas letter to Santa. I wanted a two-wheeler. Nothing else. I had been pretty good that year and thought if I just asked for one thing, got the letter in early, there would be no problem. Financially, however, the year had not been a good one for my father. These were the Ozzie and Harriet days of one income, when mothers didn’t work outside the home, so there was no extra money.

Several weeks later, at dinner, the phone rang. My grandmother answered. Yes, she is right here she motioned to me, “It’s for you Chris, it’s Santa Claus.”Everyone at the table looked up for a second. I took the phone. A voice on the other end of the line asked, “Is this Chris? This is Santa. Got your letter couple of weeks ago and wanted to give you a call.” As my family continued with their dinner, Santa spoke to me for the next few minutes. When I hung up the receiver, I quietly returned to the dinner table. My mother looked at me, “Well … what was that all about?” I told her that Santa explained that I would not be getting a bike for Christmas. I would eventually get one, but not this year. Seemed there were other kids who were supposed to get their bikes last year and didn’t and this would be their year. It was only fair. He asked me if I understood and I told him I did. He said there would be presents. But not the bike.

I felt bad, disappointed, almost wanted to cry, but didn’t. Christmas came and went and before I knew it the school year was about to end for summer vacation. As I was about to leave for the last day of school, my mother instructed me to hurry home after that last class. As I approached the house, I saw my mother standing there with a new bicycle. My new bicycle! I think I rode it every day during the summer months, and fall and into winter, and while I treasured that bike for years to come, I will always remember the Christmas and the bike I didn’t receive.

CHRISTINE EBEL
Charleston, SC

santa’s helper…

I haven’t been putting my thoughts down lately like I should; there’s a lot of reasons and excuses, but I just haven’t felt inspired to the point that I thought what I was writing was worth reading… but go figure, this morning one of those ‘touching stories’ crossed my desk. So these aren’t my thoughts, but they are definitely worth reading. It’s a Christmas story – This one is not as spiritual as some, but nonetheless inspiring – it’s about a woman who knew how to teach. I wish I could have read these BEFORE I had children and filed them away away to call upon as I needed them. Some people just have an insight that is rare and precious.

Here it is:

Santa Claus and Grandma Memories

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, 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: $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!