Yes.  I know.  Christmas is over.  My house is a testament to that fact; a shambles, half decorated and half in disarray as I attempt to find the living space underneath all the twinkling lights and garland.  I’ve always loved the way the house sparkles at Christmas when the sun goes down and the trees (yes, I said trees – as in five with two more planned for next year) are lit.  I especially like the way the living room tree looks when I finally have everything wrapped (which is usually Christmas Eve) and nestled beneath its branches, waiting for Christmas Day and the excitement that I’m privileged to see on the faces of my family.

And that brings me to the story I actually want to tell—the story of the best Christmas present ever.  Oh, it wasn’t one that I received; it was one that I gave.  Well, actually two.

When I was in high school, and then in college, I loved to buy Bucilla kits. You remember them … maybe.  The kind that contained pre-printed felt that required a great deal of cutting and an abundance of beads and sequins and ric-rac (now there’s a term I’ve not heard in a while, much less actually used) and you used all of the aforementioned—and the instructions—to create stockings or Christmas ornaments or tree skirts.  I’d been through a good many of the ornaments, making the three little kittens that lost their mittens and Cinderella with her prince, pumpkin coach and fairy godmother, just to mention a few, when I got exceptionally brave and purchased a tree skirt kit. It was the Twelve Days of Christmas and I just knew it would take about as many years to finish it.  But the load at school was light that quarter so there was more time to work on it and I would wag it home with me on the weekends and sew into the wee hours of the morning.  I did so want to finish it before Christmas, though I hadn’t the foggiest idea why.

My mother fell in love with that tree skirt.  Anytime her friends would come to visit I was required to display it for their inspection and approval.  It was a pretty tree skirt, but I wasn’t sure I saw the great attraction she did.  So, as Christmas approached, an idea planted itself in my noggin.  And the night before Christmas, I gently folded the tree skirt, placed it in a box which I wrapped in Christmas paper, and tucked it under the beautifully flocked and ornamented tree that graced our living room.  The next morning, after attacking the gifts left by Santa (yes, he came to visit me every year until I married and moved out of the house—I must have failed to leave a forwarding address), the opening of presents began.  As my mother picked up the box I could see the puzzlement on her face (the tag read “from Santa”) and I’m sure she thought it was some sneaky something concocted by my father.  But as she raised the lid of the box and lifted the tissue paper, I could see her eyes grow wide with astonishment—and then the tears came.

Every year after that, the Twelve Days of Christmas tree skirt graced a table somewhere in the house, and later in the apartment, with a tiny tree perched atop it.  And for many years after that day, my mother would tell everyone the story of the gift she never expected but always treasured.

The other gift came a few years later, and was given to my maternal grandmother, Wa-Wa (which is what you get when you try to teach a toddler to say “Grandmother Rogers”—I mean, come on people … really!?).  In all my years, I had never seen any type of Christmas decorations in her home.  My Grandfather Rogers died before my mother and dad ever married so perhaps she never saw a need or had the desire.  But everyone needs a Christmas tree, so I decided it would be her birthday present, an event that conveniently occurred on December 19.  I found one that was about three feet tall and carefully selected ornaments that I thought were just the right size.  And all the while, my mother is telling me it’s a waste of my time and most definitely my money.  My grandmother didn’t want a tree, she wouldn’t like a tree and didn’t need a tree.  I listened about the way I did all the other times she told me not to do something.

I will admit, her negativity dampened my enthusiasm somewhat and when the day came to present the tree in all its glory, I wasn’t at all certain I had done a good thing.  But when I carried it in, her eyes lit up—one of the few times I ever saw that happen.  We cleaned off the top of the table that sat in front of the window, made the little tree comfortable in its new home, and plugged in the lights.  Then we all went outside to admire it through the window.

If I ever thought she pretended to be pleased so as not to hurt my feelings (something that would have been very foreign to her nature), that fear was dispelled a few days after Christmas.  The woman who cleaned her house had begun removing the decorations in preparation for storing the tree and my grandmother almost had an attack.  Nothing would do but I come back to her house and place each decoration exactly where it had been before.  And every year the tree was stored in the corner of her bedroom, completely decorated and wrapped in dry cleaning plastic, waiting patiently for the next December to arrive.

Now, you may be thinking (if you’ve managed to get this far) that those are rather nice stories but why have I bothered to tell them.  Ah—it is to point out the obvious.  The best Christmas presents—ever—were not those I received, but those I gave.  And the joy that was mine in the giving still warms me to this day.  As we begin a new year, I hope you will continuously look for opportunities to give, for it is only in giving that we truly receive.  And it is only through giving of ourselves that we can make this world a better place.

The post The Best Christmas Present. Ever. appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.