Of all the stressful parts of Christmas, gift-giving feels particularly fraught. We have tried every possible system, from drawing names and setting price limits to giving experiences instead of things. Over the years, I have let some of the hassles go. I do not send Christmas cards anymore, something I thought I would never miss, but still feel a small pang when the first one arrives. People still send them to me, which feels very Christmasy of them, to give and not get.
This year, we celebrated our little Asheville baby’s first birthday a few days after I had already put up the holiday decorations. He received a mountain of books, blocks, trucks and balls, along with adorable holiday sweaters and corduroy John Johns. And while his bright blue eyes lit up with each offering, the favorite “toy” of all stayed clutched to his chest. I would love to report it was the Baby Einstein singing dog I gave him, but no. It was a cold Diet Coke can. Because of course it was.
Our next stop was breakfast with our five-year-old grandson, who met us at the door nearly bursting with excitement.
“Mimi, you have to open your Christmas present!” he insisted, explaining that it was for now, not later. Inside a big holiday bag was a set of painted wooden blocks, each one decorated with glitter, scraps of fabric and plastic jewels. Clearly a glue gun and a very patient art teacher played a role in creating this little manger scene.
I exclaimed over the angels, shepherds, wise men, Mary, Joseph, and then, when I reached the baby Jesus, his eyes filled with tears.
“Can I kiss him goodbye?” he asked, his voice thick with sorrow.
That is when my heart cracked. I know the rule. You are supposed to give something the receiver wants. But standing in that doorway, watching this little guy struggle with letting go, I realized the real gift was how much he wanted me to love it as much as he did.
Of course, I told him he should keep it for himself, but he shook his head mournfully.
“It is for you, Mimi. I made it just for you,” he said, then leaned down and gave Mother Mary a quick kiss too.
Later, I found myself turning that moment over and over in my mind. Somewhere along the way, we learned how to streamline giving. Between algorithms, wish list apps and other holiday helpers, it has become easier, fairer, faster and more targeted. All good intentions but maybe, in the quest to make gift giving a less painful chore, we have made it more thoughtless instead.
My five-year-old has not learned those lessons yet. He does not know that giving is supposed to be efficient, that you should be able to hand something over without feeling much about it. He made something he thought I would love, put himself into every glittered block, and cared so much about my happiness that letting it go made him cry.
That glitter-covered manger scene makes me smile every time I walk by. Not just because he made it, but because every time I see that tiny baby Jesus wrapped in glued-on fabric, I am reminded of what a gift from the heart looks like.
