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Excerpts

Chapter 1

Grandma’s Wisdom

Each Christmas my grandparents came from Tennessee to celebrate the holidays with us. No one could cook like Grandmother. I loved sitting in the kitchen and talking with her as she baked all of her favorite holiday recipes – especially the Christmas cookies. If I was really good, she’d let me stir the cookie dough and lick the spoon. I will never forget the wonderful aromas and wisdom-filled talks we shared.

When I was old enough to go to school, I met new friends who seemed to know things far beyond anything ever revealed by my parents. One boy told me where babies came from, but his story sounded a little fishy. Why would storks go to all that trouble? A girl revealed to me why boys and girls were different: She secretly whispered that we were different so that girls could wear dresses – but boys had to wear pants. Gosh, I never wanted to wear a dress anyway!

But the most disturbing revelation of all came from my best friend, Buddy – and Buddy never lied to me. Buddy told me that there was no such person as Santa Claus. I couldn’t believe it. Every year Santa had come faithfully to our house on Christmas Eve, leaving me great presents and eating the cookies and drinking the milk I left by the tree.

But Buddy told me that Santa was really my parents. I was shaken to the core. What a terrible Christmas it would be if Santa were really Mom and Dad! So one day after school, as I sat in the kitchen helping Grandmother bake cookies, I got up the nerve to ask her. I knew she wouldn’t lie, and she seemed so old and wise that surely she knew everything – especially about Santa Claus.

“Grandmom, will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?” I ventured.

“If I know the answer, I will,” she replied as she handed me a spoon filled with sugar cookie dough to lick clean.

“Well, my friend Buddy told me that there is no real Santa Claus. He said Santa is just Mom and Dad. Is that true?” I asked, holding my breath for the answer.

“Hmmm.” She paused as she wiped her flour-covered hands on her handmade apron, which was brightly decorated with Christmas trees, stars, presents, and bears – she loved teddy bears. “I can’t answer for sure. I’m really not an expert on Santa Claus. But I suggest that we just wait and see what happens this year. Watch your parents closely; never let them out of your sight. And if presents do appear under the tree and you don’t see your parents put them there, then Santa must be real for you.” Her eyes seemed to have an unusually bright twinkle in them as she turned back toward the oven to take out the next batch of cookies.

Her plan made perfect sense. I plotted to stay up all night on Christmas Eve and watch the tree from the crack under my bedroom door. I had a direct line of vision from my room, and I knew how I could make myself stay awake – I would drink lots of Coke.

Every Christmas Eve our family went to a candlelight service at church that ended at midnight. My grandparents never went with us because it was too late for them; they always retired around 10:00 each evening. As usual, the service was beautiful, but all I could think about was staying awake. I had hidden a few bottles of Coke under my bed to help me. I prayed really hard that God would help me too.

That Christmas I was hoping to get a new bike. I knew my chances were slim, but I still held out hope. Since I had been really good, I felt that just maybe Santa would grant my request.

Walking in the front door at 12:30 a.m. on Christmas Day, I had one thought in mind: Go directly to my room and drink a Coke in order to stay awake. As I walked past the Christmas tree, a quick glance out of the side of my eye brought me to a screeching halt. There, in front of the tree, was the most beautiful red Flyer bike I had ever seen. I was stunned. Apparently, Santa had come while I was at church with my family. I checked the cookies and milk, and sure enough – all that was left of the cookies was a few crumbs, and the milk glass was empty.

I couldn’t believe it. All my doubts about Santa vanished. My bike had training wheels, so I just sat on it for a while, dreaming about riding it down our street in just a few hours. I wanted so badly to tell my grandparents, but Mom insisted I not bother them since they were asleep. In ecstasy, I slipped into bed and said my prayers, remembering to thank God for Santa Claus and my new Ryder bike.

The next morning, I proudly showed my new bike to my grandparents, and I noticed that bright twinkle in Grandmom’s eye again. As our Christmas tradition dictated, we gathered around the living room and read the story of Christ’s birth from the book of Luke. Then each of us shared something we were thankful for: Mom and Dad expressed gratitude to God for blessing them with children; Grandmom and Grandfather thanked God for seeing their grandchildren filled with joy; and me, I just praised God for Santa and my new bike. Gently, Grandmom added, “Remember, the joy of Jesus’ birth is a much greater joy than any present you will ever get under the tree.”

So, for one more year, a child’s innocence had been preserved against the onslaught of a cynical world. True, such a trivial thing means little in the annals of history, but it meant everything to me that night. As a teenager, I finally learned the truth. While the family was away at church, Grandfather had assembled my bike while Grandmom had looked on approvingly, eating cookies and sipping milk. And a few hours later, they sat peering through the crack beneath their bedroom door to witness the surprise and joy of their grandson.

I was shocked that my perfect, God-fearing grandparents had planned and pulled off such a deceitful conspiracy. Yet my shock was only momentary. I recognized their deep love in their desire to see me experience wonder and joy at Christmas. And I had matured to the point of understanding that the gift of God’s love in Jesus truly was the greatest gift of all. And that gift was reflected ever so brightly in Grandmom and Grandfather.