Yes Santa Is Real – Read it for yourself

My mom emailed this story to me yesterday and as you can see it is signed Anonymous and I can not prove if it is a true story or not but I just had to share it with you.  I would prefer to believe it is a true story and that this was truly one amazing Grandma that thought quickly on her feet teaching her granddaughter how wonderful it is to give to others.  Funny thing is I can totally imagine my own mother hiding in the bushes with my children and teaching them this very lesson with her passion to teach her grand children to serve, give and love others just as Jesus does.

An Adventure With Grandma

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



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 every-

thing. 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 or 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, 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 re-

lied 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 write, “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 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 tag tucked inside: $19.95.



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