Those are the only Christmas presents Randy and I clearly remember from our childhood.
I remember that purple dress because it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I wore it to the local spelling bee—and I won. I’ve always believed the confidence came from that dress, the only truly “special” one I ever had. Randy remembers his gloves and socks for a different reason. That was the winter his family had no coal for the stove, so they were burning 2x4s instead. Those boards didn’t burn nearly as hot, and those socks were the only thing keeping his feet warm. The gloves were what he wore while chopping those 2x4s into small enough pieces to fit the stove.
Those Christmases were lean—one or two presents under the tree if we were lucky, and nothing fancy for Christmas dinner.
So when we had children of our own, I swung the pendulum in the complete opposite direction. I wanted the Christmases I saw on TV—the Hallmark kind, the Home Alone kind—with mountains of presents surrounding the tree and a dinner table full of prime rib and all the trimmings.
What I didn’t consider was how those gifts would grow more expensive as the kids grew, or how inflation would turn a once-affordable prime rib into something that required its own payment plan.
The turning point came one day as I listened to Paul Harvey. He said something that hit me like a ton of bricks:
“In giving our children more, we’ve actually given them less.”
In that moment, I realized that all the extra hours we worked—so many of them overtime—had taken time away from the very children we were trying so hard to make Christmas magical for. Were those Hallmark movie moments really worth the moments we missed?
As they got older, the kids started asking for gift cards, and I resisted with everything in me. It felt so impersonal—until I realized that a gift card actually gave four gifts:
one when they opened it,
one when they used it,
one when they enjoyed what they bought,
and one when they sent me the required photo of them wearing or using it.
Four separate moments of joy. Suddenly, it made perfect sense.
So what’s my point in all this?
Well, I think the Grinch said it best in what has become my favorite Christmas quote:
“Maybe Christmas…perhaps…doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more.”
Merry Christmas, my friends—from our house to yours.
And a very Happy New Year, too.
